Page 47 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
“His wife does accounts?” Mrs. Cardwell looked surprised.
Jordan nodded. “Usually, she handles the accounts of all the charities she and Roscoe support, but she’s perfectly capable of filling in for me for a time.” He glanced at Ruth. “That’s how I realized that Thomas’s accounts were actually kept by Ruth.”
Gibson’s and Bobby’s expressions conveyed their understanding.
Jordan’s tale had provoked Bobby’s curiosity, and the younger man asked several questions about Jordan leaving his father’s practice and striking out on his own and about what was actually involved in being a man-of-business.
Soon, Gibson joined in, and Jordan got the impression that, while matters were still at an early stage, as all the remaining Cardwells were, apparently, good with figures, the notion was slowly blossoming in all their minds of continuing Thomas’s business with Gibson and Bobby dealing with the clients and Ruth actually keeping the accounts.
Jordan was pleased that he’d managed to shift their thoughts from Thomas’s death, at least for a while.
Shortly after, having cleared the platters, the company rose, and Jordan took his leave of Mrs. Cardwell, Gibson, and Bobby, and Ruth offered to walk him to the door.
They approached the portal, and Jordan slowed, then halted. Turning to Ruth, he said, “We mentioned it earlier, but it bears repeating. Because you were the one who actually kept theaccounts, if whoever killed Thomas realizes that, it’s possible they might view you as a threat as well. Stokes and the Adairs share that concern, so until we have Thomas’s murderer by the heels, please don’t go out alone.”
Stokes had said he would arrange a watch, but Jordan didn’t know if that had actually been done.
Ruth faintly grimaced but reluctantly inclined her head. “Very well. If I need to leave the house, I’ll take one of my brothers or a footman.”
Jordan smiled. “Thank you. That will be a load off my mind.”
His words hung between them, an admission of sorts.
Then he turned to the door. “I’ve just enough time to return to Dolphin Square and report to Roscoe before I convene with the investigators at Albemarle Street.”
Ruth moved past him and opened the door. Then she met his eyes and smiled. “Your employer sounds fascinating and his lady even more intriguing.”
Jordan’s smile deepened. “Perhaps one day, I’ll take you to meet them.”
Ruth held his gaze. “I would like that.”
With a dip of his head, Jordan dragged his eyes from hers and walked out of the door—before he uttered something it was entirely too soon to say.
CHAPTER 10
Later that afternoon, after returning to Albemarle Street and consuming a leisurely luncheon, Barnaby escorted Penelope up the short path that led from the front gate of the Keeble residence to the house’s front door.
The house was one in a line of detached two-story dwellings that filled the north side of Myddleton Square. The square played host to St. Mark’s Church, which faced the western boundary, with the rest of the area within the square’s wrought-iron fence given over to trees and lawns with the occasional stone bench inviting pedestrians to sit and rest in the quiet and shade.
Myddleton Square lay to the west of the Moubrays’ house and was considered to be a desirable address for the upper gentry.
On reaching the black-painted door, Barnaby lifted the knocker and beat a commandingrat-a-tat-tat.
A minute later, the door was opened by a footman. “Yes?”
“The Honorable Mr. Barnaby Adair and Mrs. Adair to see Mr. Keeble.” Barnaby didn’t feel any need to say more, and sure enough, the footman showed them into the drawing room and left them there while he consulted his master.
A quick survey of the room—leather sofa and armchairs with gentlemen’s sporting periodicals scattered on the low table between—found no evidence of a woman’s touch.
Penelope murmured, “Definitely a widower’s house.”
To Barnaby’s eyes, it wasn’t simply a gentlemen-only abode. Every included feature—like the thermidor half full of fat cigars and the well-stocked tantalus by one wall—appeared to signal wealth and the ability to indulge expensive tastes.
Before he could comment, the footman returned and conducted them to Keeble’s study.
With an expression of hopeful curiosity infusing his face, Keeble rose from behind a large ostentatious mahogany desk. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Adair. What brings you to my door?”
Barnaby inclined his head. “Mr. Keeble.”
