Page 44 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
The notion piqued Penelope’s interest, but she had no time to further dwell on it as Sir Ulysses came to a halt before them and stated, “I’m Moubray. You’re the Adairs, I take it.”
Barnaby gracefully inclined his head and introduced them and explained their connection to Scotland Yard and Stokes.
Penelope added, “We assist in investigations that require a broader understanding of society.” She shifted her gaze to Mrs. Moubray, and as if reminded, Sir Ulysses gruffly introduced his wife.
Penelope offered her hand, and she and Mrs. Moubray pressed fingers.
Retrieving her hand, Mrs. Moubray waved at the sofa and armchairs. “Please, do sit.”
Penelope sank onto the sofa, and Mrs. Moubray claimed the other end while Barnaby and Sir Ulysses settled in the twin armchairs.
“Now,” Sir Ulysses commanded in a sergeant-major bark, “what’s this about, heh?”
“Somewhat indirectly,” Barnaby replied, “we’re here in relation to the murder of Thomas Cardwell.”
Along with Barnaby, Penelope took in the shocked expressions on the Moubrays’ faces.
A hand rising to her throat, in a horrified whisper, Mrs. Moubray asked, “Gibson’s brother?” She looked at her husband. “You remember, dear. We met Thomas at various school functions. He was a year younger than Gibson, Harrison, and Joseph.”
A frown had taken up residence on Sir Ulysses’s face. Slowly, he nodded. “I thought he—Thomas—was the sensible one.” He looked at Barnaby. “Went into business as an agent, as I recall.”
Barnaby said, “He was killed in his office last Tuesday morning.”
“Good Lord!” Sir Ulysses’s expression darkened. “What is the world coming to?”
“Indeed,” Barnaby went on, “but the reason we’re here is because, entirely unexpectedly, Thomas had stumbled on a gun-running scheme and was in the process of notifying the authorities of it when he was killed.”
“Good gracious!” Mrs. Moubray cast a quick glance at her spouse. “So it wasn’t anything unlawful that Thomas was involved in that got him killed.”
“No.” Penelope noted Mrs. Moubray’s glance and had a fair notion of the reason for it. “If anything, one might argue that Thomas died a hero, for Crown and country as it were.”
Sir Ulysses nodded, but his suspicion was deepening. “His death is certainly regrettable, but I fail to see why the police have sent consultants to notify us of Cardwell’s passing. It’s not as if we had much interaction with the young man.”
“True,” Barnaby said. “However, we’re here because of the gun-running enterprise Thomas uncovered. He stumbled upon it because he’d noticed that his brother, Gibson, was rather more flush with cash than could be readily accounted for.”
Watching Mrs. Moubray, Penelope saw that lady fractionally nod as if Thomas’s observation matched her own, and her interest in Barnaby’s revelations noticeably sharpened.
In an even tone, Barnaby continued, “We’ve now determined that a man by the name of Chesterton had been searching for a place to store crates near Tilbury and, by sheer luck, had approached your son, who at the time was in the company of Gibson Cardwell and Joseph Keeble. Harrison knew of the abandoned warehouse east of Tilbury that you, Sir Ulysses, own, and a deal was struck such that Chesterton paid Harrison for the use of the warehouse and also paid all three—Harrison, Gibson, and Joseph—for keeping silent about said deal.”
Aghast, Mrs. Moubray stared at Barnaby, then switched her gaze, almost pleading, to Penelope. “You—the police—can’t possibly think that Harrison, or Joseph or Gibson, murdered Thomas.”
“No,” Barnaby firmly stated. “The police have established that the three gentlemen were not involved in the killing, and that regarding the gun-running scheme, they were unwitting dupes. They knew nothing about the guns or Chesterton’s scheme, nor were they aware that Thomas had followed them and discovered the source of their recent wealth.”
Sir Ulysses’s cheeks had taken on a purplish hue, and his expression was thunderous. “You’re talking about my warehouse in Brennan Road?”
“Yes,” Barnaby replied and left it at that.
Watching Sir Ulysses’s ire build, Penelope stated, “We came to inform you of the circumstances of your son’s involvement with the gun-running scheme.”
“Also because,” Barnaby put in, “you own the warehouse used to store the guns.”
“And,” Penelope went on, “while the police do not anticipate your or your son’s names being mentioned in open court, it was thought advisable to warn you of the connection, as there is always a risk some news sheet might learn of the association.”
Sir Ulysses’s features had grown progressively stormier. “Damned puppy!” His delivery was just short of a suppressed explosion. “I offered to buy him a commission in my old regiment, but would he take it? No!” He thumped the arm of his chair. “He had to go off and join his friends in living an existence—I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a life—as a ‘gentleman about town.’ Whatever that is!”
Mrs. Moubray had grown decidedly anxious. Shifting forward, she fixed wide eyes on Penelope. “Mrs. Adair, perhaps we should leave the gentlemen to discuss these matters while we take tea in the conservatory.”
Deciding that she would learn more from the observant Mrs. Moubray than she would from her spouse, especially if they were private, Penelope readily agreed. “Thank you. Tea would be most welcome.”
