Page 35 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
An expression of enlightenment breaking across his face, Harrison said, “Oh! I say…”
Similarly, Josh’s expression was one of dawning comprehension—an understanding that was not at all comfortable.
As for Gibson, as the reinterpreted facts slid into place in his mind, he looked increasingly ill.
Deciding it was time to refocus the trio’s minds, Stokes asked, “When did you last meet this Chesterton?”
In a dead tone, Gibson replied, “On Monday night.”
In stunned fashion, Josh nodded. “At the Fox, as usual.”
Harrison hauled in a breath, then said, “We’d actually met him on Sunday evening. That was his usual night to pay us,but this time, he said his shipment had been split, and half of it delayed, and we’d need to come back the next night for our money. So we did—that was Monday night.”
Barnaby caught the glance Stokes shot him, then Stokes looked at the three and asked, “Is it possible that on Sunday night, Thomas followed you to the Fox and saw you speaking with Chesterton?”
When all three frowned, plainly trying to imagine the scene, Barnaby added, “Would you necessarily have seen Thomas if he had?”
Penelope put in, “Was the place crowded?”
“And,” Ruth added, “it’s likely he wore a disguise—like a cap pulled low and an old coat and slouched so he didn’t look as tall.” She caught Gibson’s eyes. “You know how good he was at passing in a crowd.”
Gibson sighed. He looked at his friends, then returned his gaze to Stokes. “The Fox of an evening is always crowded. It has one of the best beers in the area and is on the road between Tilbury and town. You can imagine the clientele, and they’re always jostling and noisy. If Thomas had been there…if he hadn’t wanted us to see him, then we wouldn’t have.” He tipped his head toward Ruth. “As Ruthie said, he had a knack for passing among others unremarked.”
Josh was looking troubled. “We hadn’t imagined anyone would be following us, so we really weren’t looking about at all.”
That was understandable. Taking note of the changes in expressions and attitudes, Barnaby suspected that all three friends were finally realizing that they’d been taken advantage of and that, innocent though it had seemed, their association with Chesterton might have led to a situation that was anything but.
To their credit, all three, now thoroughly sober and serious, didn’t give way to helplessness. Rather, their features firmed, and slowly, they sat straighter, literally stiffening their spines.
Then Harrison shook his shoulders slightly as if throwing off some yoke. He looked at his friends, then at the investigators. “I say, if you need to know what Corny is storing at the warehouse, why can’t we just go and look? I’m the son of the warehouse’s owner. I can’t see any reason why I can’t take you there and demand entrance.”
Josh was nodding. He glanced at Gibson. “Let’s go and see.” He looked at Stokes with resolution in his eyes. “I think we all need to know what Corny is hiding in that warehouse.”
Gibson also nodded. “We do.” He looked at Stokes, then at Barnaby and the others. His gaze was haunted, but determination shone through. “Is there any reason we can’t go to the warehouse right now?”
None of the investigators had any fault to find with that notion.
Everyone rose, and mere minutes later, they were out on the pavement, piling into the carriage and the hackneys Jordan and Gibson hailed.
CHAPTER 8
Consumed by curiosity, Penelope held Barnaby’s hand as, with their expanded group now including Gibson, Harrison, and Josh as well as O’Donnell, Morgan, Walsh, and a bevy of constables Stokes had summoned, they marched up the gravel track leading to the large doors of Harrison’s father’s rather ramshackle warehouse, set back from Brennan Road.
The constabulary had arrived minutes behind them, having been roused to action by a message from Stokes ferried hotfoot to Scotland Yard by a runner he’d dispatched before climbing into the carriage in Falcon Street.
As soon as the reinforcements had joined them, Stokes had led the company up the short track, with Harrison, Gibson, and Josh flanking him and Barnaby, Penelope, Jordan, and Ruth following, with the uniformed police at their backs.
The warehouse was entirely unprepossessing and appeared to have stood for decades. Its planks were worn gray with the weather, and the roof looked decidedly rickety. Interestingly, a thick chain was looped through the large iron handles on the doors, holding them shut, and the chain was secured with an impressively large and heavy padlock.
Beside one door, a rough shack abutted the front wall. As they neared, a beefy man came out of the shack, his eyes narrowing as he took in their numbers. He settled into a wide-legged stance a few paces before the warehouse doors and, politely enough, bobbed his head. “Can I help ye?”
Stokes halted a yard before the man. “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.” He tipped his head toward the warehouse. “You’ll oblige me by opening the doors and showing us what’s inside.”
The man frowned. “I don’t rightly know as I can do that. Pretty sure the master wouldn’t want me to.”
On the words, two even bigger and heavier men came out of the shack. They sauntered closer, but hung back a yard or so behind their mate.
Stokes barely took note of them. Focusing on the first man, Stokes smiled his sharpest, most shark-like smile. “I really don’t care what your master thinks, and”—he gestured to Harrison, standing beside him—“this man is the owner’s representative. In case you don’t know, the owner has a legal right to enter at any time.”
