Page 33 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
“Josh—Joseph Keeble.” Harrison frowned. “Is this about Thomas’s murder?”
“Yes,” Stokes replied. “I’m in charge of the investigation into Thomas’s death.” He glanced behind him. “Mr. and Mrs. Adair and Mr. Draper are consultants assisting me.” Stokes returned his gaze to Harrison and, from Harrison’s expression, saw that he’d spotted and recognized Ruth. “And I believe you know Miss Cardwell.”
“Yes, of course.” Harrison seemed slightly flustered. He bobbed a half bow, mostly directed Ruth’s way. “I say, Thomas getting killed is a deuced shocking thing. My condolences, Miss Cardwell.”
Ruth inclined her head. “Thank you, Harrison. I take it Gibson is in?”
When Harrison hesitated and his gaze returned to Stokes, Stokes informed him, “We have a few further questions for Gibson, and it would be helpful if you and Mr. Keeble could join us. If he’s in?”
Harrison nodded as he stepped back to allow them to enter. “Yes. Josh is here, too.” He waved them past him, through a tiny foyer and into the sitting room beyond. “Come in.”
Barnaby followed Stokes into a decent-sized parlor, with the bay window they’d seen from below filling most of the exterior wall. Gray morning light streamed in and illuminated a large, well-worn leather sofa and matching armchair. Low tables at the ends of the sofa and in the center of the space were littered with sporting magazines and similar fashionable periodicals, and a heavy sideboard stood against the side wall.
Gibson Cardwell sat on the sofa, slumped forward and looking rather the worse for wear, although judging by theclearness of his eyes as he raised his gaze to take in the newcomers, his drained expression wasn’t due to drink.
On seeing them, Gibson straightened, then noting the ladies, hurriedly stood. Beside him, another gentleman of similar age, presumably the third of the friends, Joseph—Josh—Keeble, also got to his feet. It appeared that Josh—and possibly Harrison before he came to the door—had been commiserating and comforting Gibson.
Gibson’s gaze had swung from Stokes to Barnaby, then to Penelope and Jordan and, finally, landed on Ruth. His eyes widened. “Ruthie?”
Barnaby glanced at Ruth in time to see her smile rather tightly at her brother. “Good morning, Gibson.” She nodded to Josh. “Joseph.”
For Josh’s benefit, Stokes repeated the introductions and added in explanation, “We simply have a few extra questions for Gibson and would appreciate Mr. Keeble’s and Mr. Moubray’s inputs as well.”
All three gentlemen looked confused and uncertain, but were too well brought up to question Stokes’s authority, let alone deny the likes of Barnaby and Penelope. Instead, all three leapt to rather endearingly organize extra chairs, steering Barnaby, Penelope, Ruth, and Jordan to the oversized sofa and urging Stokes to avail himself of the well-padded armchair while they rushed to fetch straight-backed chairs from the kitchen for themselves.
Subsiding into the armchair, Stokes directed a look at Barnaby that clearly stated,None of these three could possibly be our killer.
Barnaby hid a smile. He had to agree. Gibson Cardwell and his two school friends might be around thirty years old, but they’d lived largely sheltered, gentrified lives, and compared to many others Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes had met—anddoubtless contrary to how the three men saw themselves—they were rather naive and gentle souls.
Once everyone else was seated, the three perched on the wooden chairs and, with every appearance of being entirely willing to assist in any way they could, all three fixed attentive gazes on Stokes, their attitudes highly reminiscent of students attending a tutorial.
Stokes undoubtedly saw that but managed to maintain an impassive mien. He commenced by reiterating that it was their investigation into Thomas Cardwell’s murder that had brought them there. He inclined his head toward Gibson, sitting beyond the end of the sofa to Barnaby’s right. “We spoke at length with Gibson, and we see no reason to suspect him of the crime. At present, what we know of the murder is that some unknown gentleman, wearing a black top hat and a dun-colored coat, was waiting for Thomas at the door to his office when Thomas arrived at eight o’clock on Tuesday morning. Thomas appeared to recognize the man and unlocked the office door and allowed the man to follow him inside. Thomas sat in the chair behind his desk, and the unknown man sat in the chair facing him. We have no idea what was discussed, but at some point, the unknown man seized Thomas’s letter knife from where it lay on the desk and stabbed Thomas through the heart.”
They hadn’t discussed how to broach the matter they wanted to explore, but viewing the three friends’ ashen countenances, Barnaby could appreciate that Stokes’s tack was wiping out any lingering resistance.
Imperturbably, Stokes continued, “The unknown man then left the office via the rear door and the lane at the rear of the premises. We have subsequent sightings of that unknown man, but as of yet, none have been sufficient to identify him.”
Penelope underscored the point. “Not in the slightest.”
Stokes paused to regard the three friends, sitting in a line between his armchair and the sofa’s end, then went on, “What you might not be aware of is that Thomas had learned of Gibson’s new, undisclosed source of funds.”
Watching the three friends closely, Barnaby saw all three faces blank, then each of them blinked and blinked again.
Stokes continued, “Thomas had realized that you, Gibson, were flush with cash these past months, and Thomas was intent on learning who was paying you and for what. Consequently, from the Saturday just past, we believe Thomas was actively investigating your movements. He might well have been following you about.”
The three looked stunned. They glanced at each other in some consternation. Their expressions were open and ridiculously easy to read. All three were involved in whatever the caper was, and they hadn’t expected this and were entirely uncertain how to respond.
No doubt seeing the same, Stokes stated, “In the circumstances, it would be best if you simply told us the answers. Who is paying you and for what?”
All three stared at Stokes, then they shifted to exchange long and meaningful looks with each other.
No one else spoke.
Eventually, after apparently coming to some joint conclusion, still looking at his friends, Harrison shrugged. “I can’t see why we shouldn’t.”
Gibson swallowed. “We promised to keep our lips buttoned, but now someone’s murdered Thomas…”
“Exactly.” Harrison, who to some extent seemed to be the leader, faced the investigators and said, “We’re each getting paid a stipend because we led a gent who had need of a warehouse to one he could use on the cheap.”
