Page 49 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
Keeble nodded. “Yes, I believe I met him several times during school events.” Unexpectedly, he added, “I’m aware his office is in Broad Street. It would be hard to miss as, being a financier, I’m often in that area.”
“Did you ever interact with Cardwell professionally?” Barnaby asked.
“Oh no!” Keeble smiled and spread his hands. “Well, why would I? As a financier with my own office—and if I do say so myself, I’ve done rather well over the years—I have no reason to engage the services of another man-of-business.”
Barnaby inclined his head in understanding and glanced questioningly at Penelope, but it seemed his wife had learned enough. At least for now.
She smiled at Keeble and rose. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
Springing to his feet, Keeble assured her, “No, no, dear lady. It is I who must be thanking you and your husband for calling and informing me of the current situation. And, of course, of the grave news of Cardwell’s death.” He paused, then shook his head. “Such a waste. He was still so young.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby extended his hand, and Keeble promptly grasped and shook it, the courtesy clearly pleasing the man.
“Come.” Keeble waved them to the door. “I’ll see you out.”
Penelope made an effort to project a patience she didn’t feel while she waited with Barnaby in the drawing room for their coinvestigators to join them.
She’d had Mostyn bring in the tea tray and endeavored to distract herself by pouring cups of tea for herself and Barnabyand sampling Cook’s freshly made scones and her latest batch of blackberry jam.
At last, the front doorbell heralded Stokes’s arrival. He walked in, studied them for a moment, then admitted, “I could do with a scone or two myself.”
Penelope waved him to a chair and poured him a cup of tea while Barnaby passed the scones and jam. “I suppose,” she said, setting down the teapot, “that we should wait for Jordan before sharing our findings.” She glanced toward the door.
“Probably best,” Stokes mumbled around a scone, “unless you want to repeat everything.”
Barnaby caught her gaze and smiled understandingly.
She pulled a face and raised her teacup, then to her relief, the doorbell pealed again.
A second later, Jordan walked into the room. “My apologies. After leaving the Cardwells, I realized I should report to Roscoe, and the traffic wasn’t helpful getting back and forth. However”—Jordan subsided into the armchair Penelope waved him to and, with obvious gratitude, accepted a teacup and saucer and a plate with a scone and a dab of jam—“I’m glad I made the effort. Roscoe had an insight that, I suspect, will prove very helpful, but first.” Jordan eyed Barnaby and Penelope as he raised the scone toward his lips. “What did you two learn?”
“We called on the Moubrays first,” Penelope said, “and that was quite enlightening.”
“Both Moubrays—Sir Ulysses and Mrs. Moubray—were at home and received us,” Barnaby said. “Both seemed genuinely shocked by the news of Thomas Cardwell’s murder.”
“Indeed,” Penelope affirmed. “And Sir Ulysses was even more thunderstruck to learn of Harrison’s connection with the gun-running scheme and the use that his warehouse on Brennan Road?—”
“Which he admitted was his,” Barnaby interjected.
“—had been put to.” Penelope added, “Sir Ulysses served in the army on the Subcontinent, and I suspect he’s one of those military types who find civilian life a touch incomprehensible.”
Barnaby nodded. “That was my reading of the man, too. But in all he said and in his reactions to our revelations, I detected nothing to suggest that he might have been involved in Cardwell’s murder. In truth, I doubt he would have remembered Thomas if his wife hadn’t jogged his memory.”
“I entirely agree,” Penelope said. “Although rather mousy and outwardly retiring, Mrs. Moubray is significantly more observant than one might think. She and I managed a private interlude, and her descriptions of Sir Ulysses and Harrison and, indeed, the other two young men were, I judge, very close to the mark. As Ruth had with Gibson, Mrs. Moubray had noticed Harrison’s recent displays of unexplained wealth. However, she didn’t mention the matter to her husband as she didn’t want to exacerbate the rift between them.”
“Rift?” Stokes asked.
Barnaby explained, “Sir Ulysses had fond hopes that Harrison—the Moubrays’ only son—would follow Sir Ulysses’s footsteps into the army, but Harrison has refused to have any truck with that, opting instead to live the life of a gentleman about town, which endeavor is largely outside Sir Ulysses’s comprehension.”
“I can imagine that.” Jordan glanced at Penelope. “Did the observant Mrs. Moubray have any further light to cast?”
Penelope nodded. “She remembered Keeble, whom she and her husband have met but only through the link between Harrison and Josh. From her comments, I gather Sir Ulysses rather looked down on Keeble as, it seems, Keeble’s father was a merchant. Sir Ulysses had not encouraged Harrison’s friendship with Josh Keeble, but he entertained fewer reservations aboutGibson, given the Cardwells are an old, established gentry family.”
“So,” Stokes dryly remarked, “Sir Ulysses is high in the instep.”
“Palpably so,” Barnaby replied.
“One particular and relevant insight that arises out of that observation,” Penelope said, “is that, as Mrs. Moubray stated, if Sir Ulysses had wanted to speak with Thomas, Sir Ulysses would have summoned Thomas to attend him either at his home or at his club.” Penelope looked at Barnaby, Stokes, and Jordan. “From all we learned about Sir Ulysses, that rings very true.”
