Jordan nodded. “I’ll help, but we’ll need to hold back on the identity of the murderer for now.” He met her gaze. “It would be unfair to burden Gibson with the news that it was Keeble, his best friend’s father, who murdered Thomas. And we don’t want any whisper of suspicion to reach Keeble at this point.”
Frowning, Ruth nodded. “You’re right. And there’s no telling what Gibson would do or let fall to Josh between now and tomorrow.”
“Much less what Josh might feel compelled to say or do.” Jordan enclosed her hand between both of his. “So let’s work out what we can tell them—your mother, Bobby, and Gibson—how much of the story we can share without revealing that Keeble is the murderer.”
They sat in the weak sunshine and planned for more than ten minutes, then with their agreed tale firmly fixed in their minds, rose, walked out from beneath the trees to the house, and went in to report to her family.
CHAPTER 14
The next morning, at a few minutes after nine o’clock, Barnaby stood beside Penelope in an alley off White Cross Street. The group intending to support Stokes and his men in searching for Keeble’s motive had agreed to gather in that spot prior to approaching Keeble’s office, which lay opposite the end of the alley on White Cross Street itself.
Keeble had arrived ten minutes before, opened the office door, and gone inside. No one else had appeared, and the office seemed too small to accommodate more than one desk.
Barnaby and Penelope had been joined by Jordan and Ruth, which had been no surprise, as they’d arranged the rendezvous at the steak house the previous day.
What did make Barnaby’s eyes widen was the foursome who suddenly turned in to the alley and, smiling broadly, walked to where they stood.
Penelope, too, stared. “This,” she murmured to Barnaby, “is going to be quite a crowd for that small office to accommodate.”
“Don’t worry,” Roscoe said, bending to buss her cheek. “We’ll leave Mudd and Rawlings outside. They can glower and steer away anyone who finds our activities interesting.”
Miranda clasped fingers and touched cheeks with Penelope. “Jordan told us the whole story, and we want to help.” After greeting Barnaby, she shifted to stand beside Penelope. “And if it’s accounts you have to pore over, the more educated eyes the better.”
Penelope inclined her head. “Very true.” She knew Miranda’s talents in that sphere were equal to her own. “We have no idea how many clients, ledgers, and account books Keeble has in there. Who knows how long our search will take?”
The steady tromp of footsteps neared, then another two couples abruptly turned into the alley.
Amazed to see Montague, Violet, Thomas, and Rose, Barnaby and Penelope laughed.
Taking in the crowd now thronging the narrow alley, the four newcomers looked a trifle sheepish, but assuming his most haughty tones, Thomas declared, “We didn’t feel it was fair that you had all the fun.”
Penelope laughed again, and smiling, Barnaby shook his head. “Only you four would describe the chore of poring over an untold number of ledgers and accounts as fun.”
Most there knew each other well enough to mingle without any introductions, the sole exception being Ruth, who Jordan quickly made known to those she hadn’t previously met.
Then heavy, regimented footsteps approached the alley, and Stokes, backed by O’Donnell, Morgan, and Walsh, turned in to the alley mouth and came to an abrupt halt.
Stokes took in the waiting company, then met Barnaby’s eyes and shook his head. “Keeble won’t know what’s hit him.”
“That, I suspect,” Roscoe said, “will be to your advantage.”
Stokes inclined his head. “One can hope. Now”—he surveyed the crowd—“as to where we are at present.” Briskly, aided by Barnaby, Stokes went over the case against Keeble as it currentlystood and elaborated on what they hoped—and needed—to find in Keeble’s office.
“Without a clear and believable motive, we’re going to be relying solely on the physical evidence,” Stokes said, “and while that’s damning enough in our eyes, any good solicitor is going to protest that even the gloves belong to someone else and Keeble was never anywhere near Thomas Cardwell’s office last Tuesday morning.”
“As Keeble’s appearance in coat and hat is indistinguishable from half the ton’s gentlemen,” Penelope said, “we’re never going to be able to place him at the scene of the crime via any witness.”
Thomas nodded. “So you need to find the evidence that ties everything together—the reason Keeble killed Cardwell—and that will, of necessity, be something weighty and compelling.”
“Exactly.” Stokes glanced at Penelope. “As instructed, we called at Keeble’s house after he’d left and confirmed that there are no ledgers or accounts kept there. We searched his monstrosity of a desk, and the drawers were next to empty. Not even a diary.”
Penelope nodded. “I thought the surface was too neat for it to be a working desk.”
Violet, who served as Penelope’s occasional secretary, smiled at her fondly. “And as to that, you would know.”
Penelope’s lips twitched as she nodded decisively. “Indeed.”
Stokes glanced around the company one last time. “Right, then.” He tipped his head across the street. “Let’s go.” He turned and led the way. “O’Donnell, Morgan, and Walsh—you’re to remain outside and keep a general watch on the place. The rear as well.”
