Keeble shrank back in the chair, his horrified gaze locked on the gloves.
“You see,” Stokes continued, “these gloves are monogrammed. EK—not common initials. And they’re made to measure, too. I’m sure the glover will remember which customer he made these for. They’re relatively new, after all, and his label is sewn inside.”
“We already know,” Penelope said, “that you had these gloves on your hands when you left home on Tuesday morning.”
Keeble blinked at her, then swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t know how they got there.”
“Or whose blood stains them?” Stokes asked skeptically.
Keeble started gnawing on one nail again while slowly shaking his head.
Barnaby leaned back and studied the man, then quietly said, “If I were you, Keeble, I’d start to worry about the police beinghere”—he tipped his head toward the street—“with uniformed constables at your door, because inevitably, people will talk, and others will hear about that.”
Keeble looked at Barnaby, then as the words sank in, horror—pure horror—seeped into Keeble’s face.
Roscoe pressed. “You killed an innocent man to ensure your crimes—or rather, your role in concealing the proceeds of the untold crimes of your four masters—never came to light. But it has anyway, precisely because you killed Thomas Cardwell.”
Keeble appeared to be mentally reeling. He started swaying slightly, his gaze fixed, unseeing, ahead of him. “I didn’t mean to.” His voice was barely a whisper, and the company edged closer the better to hear as, tearfully, he looked at Stokes, then Roscoe, and went on, “I thought if Cardwell had learned about the gun running, he’d want to keep quiet about it to protect his brother.” His gaze lowering, he whispered, “But instead…”
His tone flat but not aggressive, Jordan filled in, “Instead, Thomas told you about the gun running and that he’d sent to an acquaintance to inquire how best to go about informing the authorities in a way that would cast his brother—and your son and Harrison Moubray—in the best possible light. Isn’t that so?”
Keeble suddenly sat upright, startling the onlookers, and all but hissed, “Yes! The silly blighter thought he could pull that off, but…”
When he trailed into silence, Thomas suggested, “But that wasn’t the point, was it? Not for you.”
Keeble made an attempt to gather himself, then he looked around the circle of faces and, as if pleading for understanding, said, “I had to stop him. Don’t you see?”
When no one responded, Keeble went on, “They tricked me into being their man-of-business. I didn’t know they were crooks and villains, not at first. They had funds that needed investing, and I needed the business, and it all seemed so perfect. It wasmore than a year before I realized who they were and what they did and where their money was coming from, and by then, it was too late. I tried to resign as their representative, and they laughed. They said…” Keeble closed his eyes. “They said the only way to resign from their service was to die! And I believed them! You would have, too.” He swallowed and opened his eyes. “They were very convincing.”
Penelope wasn’t surprised to learn that Keeble’s vanity and his desire for wealth to bolster his social standing had been a weakness ruthless men had seen and exploited.
“So I was stuck,” Keeble said. Everyone else in the room remained silent and still and listened as he went on, “And then I learned about the gun running. I told myself that no one else would think to investigate from where the lads were getting their new funds, but then I thought of Thomas and wondered if he might notice, and once I’d thought of that—of someone else knowing and possibly alerting the police—I couldn’t rest until I’d learned if Thomas knew or not. So I went to his office on Tuesday morning, and I didn’t even have to mention the guns—he told me and explained what he intended to do…”
Penelope thought that, in their minds, the entire group stood in Thomas’s office and watched Keeble sitting in escalating panic before the desk.
Morosely, Keeble shook his head. “I tried to steer him away, to suggest we shouldn’t act precipitously, but he told me he’d already made discreet inquiries regarding how to go about it.” Abruptly, Keeble looked up, his expression pleading. “I had to do it. He gave me no choice. He wasn’t going to listen to reason! I had to stop him before he went any further—before he spread the secret any further!” Keeble’s gaze locked on the ledger in Montague’s hands. “If you knew the four men behind that business, you would understand.”
“So tell us who they are,” Barnaby said. “If you want us to understand why you killed Cardwell, why you felt such an overwhelming compulsion to do so, then tell us who you fear.”
Keeble’s eyes rounded, his expression aghast. “I can’t! They’ll kill me!”
“Keeble,” Penelope gently said, drawing his anguished eyes to her. She captured his gaze and held it. “You’re going to hang for Thomas Cardwell’s murder. If, as you claim, your fear of these four men drove you to it, then shouldn’t they pay as well?”
Keeble stared at her and continued to stare as, clearly, her words sank in.
They were all holding their breaths when the office door opened.
The entire company turned, surprised and prepared to be annoyed at the interruption.
Grim-faced, Walsh stepped inside, turned, and held the door wide as Morgan manhandled a rough-looking man into the office. A second scrawny, disreputable specimen followed, propelled inside by O’Donnell.
Mudd and Rawlings brought up the rear, and Rawlings closed the door.
Mudd dipped his head at the pair struggling in O’Donnell’s and Morgan’s grips. “Saw them eyeing the front of the place, then they headed around the back and checked along there before coming around to the front again.”
“We saw they were lugging this.” Rawlings held up a large battered canvas bag and grinned. “All the goods one needs to set a place alight.”
Stokes and Barnaby rose.
