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As the investigation continued apace, with each experienced searcher methodically examining every ledger, account book, and file box in the office, Stokes sat back in his chair and, in a murmur that failed to impinge on Keeble’s utter focus on the searchers, observed to Barnaby and Roscoe, “Telling, don’t you think, that his attention is all for them and not us? ”

Barnaby had been studying Keeble intently. “Thomas Cardwell’s murder isn’t important to him, but what’s in his files assuredly is.”

Roscoe snorted softly in agreement.

It was obvious that, had it not been for the three of them hemming him in, Keeble would have sprung from his chair and accosted the searchers.

Even attempted to beat them off. He was tense and constantly shifted in his chair, his gaze darting from one searcher to another. He started to gnaw on one nail.

Then the tension gripping Keeble abruptly intensified.

Barnaby looked at the searchers and saw Ruth standing clear of the shelves and frowning at a ledger she held open in her hands. Then she looked up, located Montague and Thomas, and walked across to show them what she’d found.

“No,” Keeble whispered. His gaze locked on the trio, he started to shake his head. “No, no…”

Stokes and Barnaby exchanged glances.

Then Thomas said, “Ah. I see.”

Montague was still frowning. “Well, I don’t.”

“You will.” Thomas raised his head and looked toward their corner. “Roscoe? If you would take a look at this and see if it strikes you as it does me? Jordan—you as well. You likely have more knowledge of this sort of caper than we do.”

“No,” Keeble whispered again. He shrank into his chair, his hands clasped tightly to his chest and his arms tucked protectively close.

After noting that reaction, Roscoe rose and walked across to join the growing knot of searchers gathered around Ruth, Montague, and Thomas. Barnaby and Stokes couldn’t see past Roscoe’s shoulders, but everyone seemed to be studying whatever was in the ledger and trading comments and observations.

Then Penelope made some remark that clearly struck a chord with the others and sent her, Ruth, Violet, Rose, and Jordan back to hunting through the shelves.

They found other ledgers and ferried them to Montague, Thomas, and Roscoe.

The group conferred, comparing ledgers, looking from one to the other with increasing excitement in their voices.

Unable to hear the comments clearly, with mounting impatience, Barnaby and Stokes watched and waited.

Finally, Montague, Thomas, Roscoe, and Jordan, with the ladies at their backs, came to stand before Barnaby, Stokes, and the now faintly whimpering Keeble.

After glancing at Keeble, Jordan waved to the shelves crammed with account books. “Most of the accounts held here are innocuous. Small businesses trading day-to-day, month-to-month. Nothing startling or out of the ordinary.”

His expression grave, Montague held up the thick ledger they’d all been studying.

“This account is very different.” Keeble’s answering whimper was audible to all.

Imperturbably, Montague went on, “There are large sums—large by Thomas’s and my standards—coming in from four different sources.

In cash. That money is then expended in one of two ways—either to buy outright and subsequently fund small businesses or to make loans to such businesses. ”

Thomas waved a hand at the shelves. “Many of the businesses for which Keeble does the accounts are connected in one or another way to this central account.”

Roscoe explained, “Those small, entirely legitimate enterprises are either owned by this account and pay all their profits to it, or they have loans from this account and make repayments to it.” His gaze rested on Keeble. “And Keeble takes his cut on every payment.”

“And then,” Jordan said, his tone portentous, “every six months, the funds accumulated within this account are dispersed equally to four closed trusts.”

Barnaby frowned and looked at Montague. “Closed trusts?”

Grimly, Montague nodded. “They’re a style of account where it’s very difficult to trace ownership. Even for Thomas or me. Each closed trust has its own bank account, but tracing the owners, as we did for the accounts linked to Chesterton, will be well-nigh impossible.”

Thomas nodded. “All trails will loop back on themselves and, ultimately, lead nowhere.”

Stokes’s eyes had narrowed as he thought through the implications. Now, he suggested, “Proceeds of crime put to work in a legitimate way?”

Roscoe tipped his head in agreement. “So that subsequently, the returns appear legitimate. That’s what this looks like.

” He transferred his gaze to Keeble, who was now sitting silent and still in the manner of a man dazed.

Roscoe went on, “The one question we can’t answer from this ledger is who the four owners of this enterprise are. The names are in code.”

Along with all there, Stokes returned his attention to Keeble. “Are you willing to give us the code? Or more to the point, the names of the four owners of the enterprise represented by this ledger?”

Keeble boggled at Stokes. After a second, his voice weak, he warbled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stokes sighed. “All right. Let’s revisit the situation.

We now know why you needed to make sure Cardwell didn’t report the gun running to the authorities.

It wasn’t to protect your son or even to protect the social rank you’ve worked all your life to achieve.

You needed to ensure that the police didn’t come here and search through your files to confirm your business wasn’t in some way profiting from Chesterton’s scheme. ”

“As it turns out,” Barnaby said, “you weren’t involved in Chesterton’s scheme. You were involved in something much larger.”

In a censorious tone, Jordan stated, “You killed Thomas Cardwell to ensure that the police never came to your door.”

Keeble looked ashen, but now they’d uncovered his secret, he seemed to be almost resigned. Woodenly, he raised his gaze to Jordan’s face and said, “No. You have it all wrong.”

There was little force behind the words. Nevertheless, Stokes reached into his pocket and drew out the pair of bloodied gloves. “So these gloves,” he said, “that were found in the alley behind Cardwell’s office aren’t yours?”

Keeble shrank back in the chair, his horrified gaze locked on the gloves.

“You see,” Stokes continued, “these gloves are monogrammed. EK—not common initials. And they’re made to measure, too. I’m sure the glover will remember which customer he made these for. They’re relatively new, after all, and his label is sewn inside.”

“We already know,” Penelope said, “that you had these gloves on your hands when you left home on Tuesday morning.”

Keeble blinked at her, then swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t know how they got there.”

“Or whose blood stains them?” Stokes asked skeptically.

Keeble started gnawing on one nail again while slowly shaking his head.

Barnaby leaned back and studied the man, then quietly said, “If I were you, Keeble, I’d start to worry about the police being here”—he tipped his head toward the street—“with uniformed constables at your door, because inevitably, people will talk, and others will hear about that.”

Keeble looked at Barnaby, then as the words sank in, horror—pure horror—seeped into Keeble’s face.

Roscoe pressed. “You killed an innocent man to ensure your crimes—or rather, your role in concealing the proceeds of the untold crimes of your four masters—never came to light. But it has anyway, precisely because you killed Thomas Cardwell.”

Keeble appeared to be mentally reeling. He started swaying slightly, his gaze fixed, unseeing, ahead of him.

“I didn’t mean to.” His voice was barely a whisper, and the company edged closer the better to hear as, tearfully, he looked at Stokes, then Roscoe, and went on, “I thought if Cardwell had learned about the gun running, he’d want to keep quiet about it to protect his brother.

” His gaze lowering, he whispered, “But instead…”

His tone flat but not aggressive, Jordan filled in, “Instead, Thomas told you about the gun running and that he’d sent to an acquaintance to inquire how best to go about informing the authorities in a way that would cast his brother—and your son and Harrison Moubray—in the best possible light. Isn’t that so?”

Keeble suddenly sat upright, startling the onlookers, and all but hissed, “Yes! The silly blighter thought he could pull that off, but…”

When he trailed into silence, Thomas suggested, “But that wasn’t the point, was it? Not for you.”

Keeble made an attempt to gather himself, then he looked around the circle of faces and, as if pleading for understanding, said, “I had to stop him. Don’t you see?”

When no one responded, Keeble went on, “They tricked me into being their man-of-business. I didn’t know they were crooks and villains, not at first. They had funds that needed investing, and I needed the business, and it all seemed so perfect.

It was more than a year before I realized who they were and what they did and where their money was coming from, and by then, it was too late.

I tried to resign as their representative, and they laughed.

They said…” Keeble closed his eyes. “They said the only way to resign from their service was to die! And I believed them! You would have, too.” He swallowed and opened his eyes. “They were very convincing.”

Penelope wasn’t surprised to learn that Keeble’s vanity and his desire for wealth to bolster his social standing had been a weakness ruthless men had seen and exploited.