Page 69 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
“We’re hoping,” Barnaby said, “that informants on the ground will help us verify where both men were over the critical period.”
“That,” Stokes declared, glancing at his fellow investigators, “has to be the first task on our revised list—confirming the whereabouts of Sir Ulysses and Keeble Senior between seven-thirty and eight-thirty on Tuesday morning.”
Brisk footsteps in the hall ended with a rap on the door, and when Barnaby called, “Come,” Mostyn walked in. The majordomo halted and, to Barnaby, reported, “One of the lads—Julian—is here with information regarding your recent inquiry.”
Jordan blinked. “That was quick.”
Barnaby smiled. “Our network can be surprisingly effective.” He nodded to Mostyn. “Send Julian in.”
Mostyn retreated and, mere seconds later, ushered in a young lad of about thirteen. He was dressed neatly enough and, by his cap, presently grasped tightly in his hands, was one of the errand boys who haunted the city’s streets, looking to serve those who wished to send messages faster than the penny post.
Smiling, Barnaby leaned forward and beckoned the lad closer. “Julian. Mostyn says you have news?”
Clearly overawed by the company, Julian shuffled a trifle closer and stiffly bowed. Then he fixed his bright eyes on Barnaby’s encouraging face and said in a rush, “That cove you wanted to know about—Sir Ulysses. He always takes a stroll around the streets every morning. Regular as clockwork, he is. I live not far away, and I often see him of a morning. I was curious, so I took note—as you always say as might be helpful. I know he leaves his house at seven-forty-five on the dot, then he goes across to Regent’s Square and walks around it, always clockwise, and he looks at the trees. He walks slowly all the way around, then he returns to his house, and he’s going in the door at eight-thirty. Every day, even Sundays, unless it’s raining cats and dogs. You could set your watch by him—he’s as good as listening to the bells.”
Stokes was busy jotting. “And Sir Ulysses—how do you know the man you see every morning is him?”
“That head o’ hair,” Julian replied. “And he struts like an old military man, and he lives in a house halfway down Frederick Street.”
Stokes nodded. “And Sir Ulysses was definitely out walking his usual route on Tuesday last?”
“Yessir.” Julian bobbed his head. “It was fine all the mornings this week, and I know he was there because I’d’venoticed if he wasn’t, if you take my meaning.” Julian paused, then said, “I know I saw him every morning this past week, if that helps?”
Stokes grinned, raised his gaze to Julian’s face, and nodded. “It does, yes. Thank you. You’ve done excellently well.”
Julian’s chest puffed up, and his smile grew wide.
Barnaby smiled approvingly. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Julian.” He tipped his head toward Mostyn, who had waited by the door. “Go with Mostyn, and he’ll give you your reward. You’ve earned it.”
Thoroughly chuffed, Julian bowed again, then turned and went to Mostyn, who ushered the boy out and shut the door.
Deeply impressed, Jordan turned to Barnaby. “Your Lads’ Network is inspired. I’m definitely stealing the idea.”
Barnaby laughed. “By all means.”
Penelope looked at Stokes. “It seems Sir Ulysses is struck off our list.”
Barnaby leaned back against the sofa. “That means our trail of evidence leaves us looking at Keeble Senior as the murderer.”
Stokes grunted. “Agreed.” He looked around the circle of faces. “Now how can we prove it? Knowing he could have committed the murder isn’t enough. We need evidence that he did.”
The company fell silent, everyone going over what they knew and what they didn’t.
Eventually, Stokes said, “We can see if the barman and barmaid of the Fox can identify Keeble as the second man who followed Chesterton on Monday night.”
Barnaby nodded. “That’s one point in the chain of events that we should make every effort to nail down.”
“Keeble had to have learned about the guns,” Jordan said, “or the rest—killing Thomas—doesn’t make sense.”
Penelope shifted on the sofa. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Given Keeble’s social ambitions, I’ll eat my best bonnet if he doesn’t attend the church in Myddleton Square. He’s so careful of his image, he’s sure to be at the service.”
“The rest of the square,” Barnaby said, “well, at least beneath the trees, is more or less open ground.” He looked at Stokes. “If we can get the barman and barmaid up from the Fox, we should be able to set up a viewing.” Imagining it, he arched his brows. “Most likely at the conclusion of the service when the congregation files slowly out of the church.”
Stokes nodded. “I’ll send Morgan and Walsh to use their best efforts to bring the barman and barmaid up to town. Assuming they succeed—and as it’s Sunday and the Fox will be shut, there’s a decent chance they will—we can arrange to have the pair there, at the right time and in position to view Keeble as he exits the church.”
Jordan had been mulling over something. He looked up and said, “The killer must have—or have had—a dun-colored coat and a black top hat.”
Penelope perked up. “An excellent point!” Bright-eyed, she regarded Jordan. “I propose that, tomorrow morning, once Keeble leaves his house for the church”—she shifted her gaze to Ruth and smiled encouragingly—“Ruth, Jordan, and I should call at the Keeble residence and ask his staff about his wardrobe.”
