Page 17 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
Seeing Jordan, Gelman straightened from his slouch. “No activity of any sort over the way. Morgan’s inside. He relieved Walsh.” Gelman tipped his head. “Anything at Hemingways’?”
“No. As I expected, our visit there was a waste of time, at least as far as the investigation goes.”
Gelman followed Jordan’s gaze to the office opposite. “So what now?”
“Now…” Jordan debated, then decided and headed for the curb. “I want to take another look at Cardwell’s ledgers.”
Morgan saw them coming and unlocked the door and let them in.
After advising the constable of the outcome of their jaunt to Battersea, Jordan added, “I just want to take another look at the ledgers.”
Leaving Morgan and Gelman standing at the window and looking out at the street, Jordan crossed to the shelves and drew out one of the Hemingways’ ledgers he’d examined earlier. He carried the account book to the round table, set the book down, and opened it at random. He placed his palms on the table, on either side of the open book, and leaned on his straightened arms, hanging over the pages displayed.
His eyes immediately scanned the figures, his mind adding and checking, but he knew the arithmetic wasn’t the source of his niggle. There was nothing wrong with the numbers or totals. With conscious effort, he forced his mind from its obsession and drew his focus back, away from the details, seeing the page more generally…
The layout was intensely familiar, so what was wrong, odd, strange?
The obvious reached out and, metaphorically, slapped him in the face.
He huffed and straightened, continuing to stare at the page.
Once he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it nor understand how he had missed it in the first place.
With a sense of achievement, he shut the ledger and returned it to the shelf, then walked around the office, pulling ledger after ledger from its place and checking each before replacing it.
Every single ledger was in the same hand.
All of Thomas Cardwell’s accounts were kept by one person, and that person wasn’t Thomas Cardwell.
Of that, Jordan was now supremely sure.
He returned to where Morgan and Gelman were quietly chatting and nodded to Morgan. “We’ll leave you to your watch.”
Morgan grimaced. “Ah, well—the company’s been nice.”
Gelman aimed a salute at the constable and followed Jordan out of the door.
Jordan paused on the pavement, then looked at the bakery. “There first, I think.”
Gelman kept pace as Jordan crossed the road. “What are we doing?”
“Buying food, to start with.”
“Food? Why? We going on a picnic?”
“No,” Jordan replied. “But Miranda always takes food when she visits a house that’s suffered a bereavement.” He paused, then added, “I’m not entirely sure why, so don’t ask.”
Jordan bought a large fresh loaf at the bakery, then went to the shop two doors down and selected a small wheel of country cheddar. He spotted a lined picnic basket with napkins on one shelf and bought that as well, along with jars of raspberry jam and honey. After settling his purchases in the basket and covering them with the napkins, he set off with Gelman for the corner that would take them to Finsbury Circus.
Just around the corner, they passed a vintner’s, and a bottle in the window caught Jordan’s eye. Leaving the basket with Gelman outside, Jordan went in and emerged several minutes later with a bottle of sherry.
“That should do it.” He slid the bottle in alongside the bread and cheese, then with Gelman shaking his head at him, Jordan headed for the Cardwell house.
CHAPTER 5
When they reached Finsbury Circus, at Jordan’s direction, Gelman melted into the trees and bushes in the central park to keep watch just in case anyone had followed them.
Given what he’d realized, Jordan was, in truth, concerned that, at some point, someone might take a less than benign interest in the occupants of Number 29.
