Page 78 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
From a few people behind Stokes, Roscoe said, “Rawlings and Mudd will join your men, Stokes. Neither has any head for figures.”
“Good with our fists, good with our eyes,” Mudd rumbled. “We’ll keep watch, too.”
Stokes dipped his head in agreement and continued across the street.
White Cross Street was not as close to the financial hub of the City as Broad Street, and overall, Keeble’s office was considerably less impressive than Thomas’s. That said, the row of shops and offices in which Keeble’s office was located was neat and respectable and altogether unremarkable.
Penelope, who was trailing Barnaby, who, in turn, was following Stokes, poked Barnaby’s arm. “There’s not much of a sign. Just his name in small letters on the glass of the door.”
“True.” Barnaby considered the façade. “For someone so desperate to be recognized, that’s strangely self-effacing.”
Keeble’s office was wider than Thomas’s, with a larger bay window facing the street, but on entering the premises through the single door located to the left of the window, Barnaby saw that Keeble’s workplace was less deep. However, the ceiling was significantly higher, and the number of ledgers, account books, and file boxes stacked on shelves that rose all the way to that elevated ceiling was nothing short of daunting. Barnaby darted a glance at Penelope, at his shoulder, and saw her grimace at the sight.
Keeble had been sitting behind a decent-sized and predictably ostentatious desk. “Empire-style,” Penelope whispered. “Shades of Napoleon.”
To Barnaby’s eyes, there were other touches of wealth readily detectable in the quality of the two client chairs set before the desk and the lamps and implements Keeble had artfully displayed on the desk and on the deep windowsill.
At the tinkling of the bell above the door, Keeble had looked up with a welcoming smile, but on taking in Stokes andthose who followed him inside, Keeble slowly rose, his features shifting as he tried to decide on the most appropriate reaction.
Barnaby thought he saw a flicker of fear pass through Keeble’s eyes.
Then Keeble plastered on a polite but faintly surprised expression and inquired, “Yes, Inspector?” Keeble’s gaze shifted to the stream of people coming in through his door, and his eyes fractionally widened. “What can I do for you…and your friends?”
Stokes glanced back and confirmed that Roscoe, bringing up the rear of their company, had closed the door and flipped the small sign on it to Closed.
Stokes returned his gaze to Keeble. “Earnest Keeble,” Stokes intoned in his most formal voice, “I’m here to arrest you for the murder of Thomas Cardwell.”
Keeble’s face drained of all color.
To Barnaby’s eyes, the reaction was as good as a confession. Keeble didn’t look surprised, shocked, or confused. Instead, he looked…frightened. Shaken and deeply scared.
Stokes rolled on, “The Crown will attest that on the morning of Tuesday last, you were waiting for Cardwell when he arrived at his office, that you accompanied him inside and subsequently seized his letter knife and stabbed him through the heart. You left him dead and exited the office through the rear door.”
While Stokes had been speaking, Keeble’s attention had wandered to the people now filling his office. Most, he didn’t recognize and didn’t know why they were there, but the situation of having a well-heeled audience jolted him back into his usual persona. As soon as Stokes paused, Keeble blustered, “What nonsense! That’s ridiculous!” He glimpsed Ruth, standing beside Penelope, and faltered for a second, but then he spread his hands and, with increasing fervor, protested, “Why on earth would I kill Thomas Cardwell?”
Stokes bestowed on Keeble his most shark-like smile. “That, Keeble, is what we’re here to find out.”
Stokes glanced at the others, then shifted his gaze to the walls—to the ledgers, account books, and file boxes. “Have at it.”
Penelope, Ruth, Jordan, and Miranda put their heads together, and a second later, they were joined by Violet, Montague, Thomas, and Rose. While they planned how best to tackle the task before them, Stokes, Barnaby, and Roscoe circled the desk, dragged chairs around, and corralled Keeble into one corner.
All but pushed into his chair, Keeble spluttered, “This is an outrage!” But his gaze was fixed on those advancing on his records, determination in their faces.
Noting that, Stokes grunted and sat in the chair directly opposite Keeble. “The thing is, Keeble, we know you did it. What we’ve yet to understand is why.”
From his position in the chair on Stokes’s right, Roscoe suggested, “It would be best all around—for you as well as us—if you simply told us why you killed Cardwell.”
Watching Penelope direct the searchers, Barnaby added, “It would certainly be less fraught all around.” He returned his gaze to Keeble and met the man’s bulging eyes. “They will find it, you know. When it comes to accounts—of all stripes—the collective knowledge in this room is second to none.”
Keeble looked faintly horrified, but no matter how Stokes, Barnaby, and Roscoe framed their questions, Keeble refused to engage. Indeed, he appeared almost paralyzed as he watched the ruthlessly thorough inspection of his files unfold.
They tried subtle threats as well as encouragement, but increasingly, Keeble barely heard them. He sat with his gaze locked on the searchers as if praying they wouldn’t find what they were looking for and, at the same time, terrified they would.
As the investigation continued apace, with each experienced searcher methodically examining every ledger, account book, and file box in the office, Stokes sat back in his chair and, in a murmur that failed to impinge on Keeble’s utter focus on the searchers, observed to Barnaby and Roscoe, “Telling, don’t you think, that his attention is all for them and not us?”
Barnaby had been studying Keeble intently. “Thomas Cardwell’s murder isn’t important to him, but what’s in his files assuredly is.”
Roscoe snorted softly in agreement.
