Page 4 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
Both remained deeply puzzled and shook their heads.
Ruth directed a frown at Jordan and Gelman. “Thomas never mentioned any dealings with Neville Roscoe.”
Suspicion was, once more, back in her eyes.
“It was Hemingways’ Linens,” Jordan said. “Roscoe has a large contract with them.”
“Ah. I see.” Ruth relaxed somewhat, which told Jordan that she did, indeed, know her brother’s clients.
Gelman shifted and glanced at Jordan. “So what now? Want me to fetch a bobby?”
Jordan considered the situation—in all its puzzling aspects—and shook his head. “Given Cardwell contacted us, this might be more than the local police can handle.” He looked at Ruth and Bobby. “We’ll arrange for Scotland Yard to be notified.” With a wave, he encouraged the pair to the door. “Until they send someone to take charge, Gelman will remain on guard to ensure nothing is touched or tampered with.”
Gelman inclined his head and stepped back against the wall.
Jordan had to physically crowd Ruth Cardwell to get her moving, but underneath her outward façade, she was shocked, shaken, and grief was quickly rising, and when Bobby took her arm, although patently reluctant to leave their dead brother, she went with Bobby to the door.
Jordan followed. “Your address?” When Ruth glanced blankly at him, he added, “The police will want it.”
Rather numbly, she said, “Number twenty-nine, Finsbury Circus. Just south of East Street.”
That was a pleasant area populated by the gentry.
Jordan nodded. “I’ll pass that on.”
He got the Cardwells out of the office and onto the pavement.
Bobby drew in a deeper breath and looked at Jordan. “It’s not far. We always just walk.”
Jordan watched as Ruth took firmer hold of Bobby’s arm, and together, walking slowly with their heads bowed, they set off for Finsbury Circus.
Once they’d turned down a side street and passed out of sight, Jordan hailed a passing hackney and ordered the jarvey to make for Dolphin Square with all speed.
CHAPTER 2
On returning to the mansion that dominated the north side of Dolphin Square, Jordan went straight to Roscoe’s office.
As usual, the door was open, and Jordan strode inside.
Roscoe was lounging behind his desk and discussing something with Mudd, who was standing to one side of the mahogany expanse.
Both men glanced expectantly at Jordan. At the sight of his grim expression, Roscoe sat up, and Mudd came to attention.
“What’s happened?” Roscoe demanded.
Jordan halted before the desk. He nodded to Mudd, then reported, “Cardwell’s dead. Murdered. Stabbed with his own letter knife just before we got there.” Briefly, Jordan described the scene as he and Gelman had found it.
“So this brother,” Mudd said. “Could he have done it?”
On the journey back, Jordan had pondered that at length. “Unlikely. He was badly shaken, and frankly, I don’t think he would have the spine for it.”
“You left Gelman on guard?” Roscoe clarified.
Jordan nodded. “Given that Cardwell wrote that he’d found evidence of some nefarious activity that needed to be broughtto the authorities’ attention—and by that, I assume he meant authorities higher than the local police—and then, before we can speak with him, he’s murdered, I thought you’d want to handle this by going directly to those higher authorities.”
Roscoe inclined his head. “Good decision. I agree this calls for involvement at a more elevated level.” He tapped his pen on the blotter while he thought, then he looked at Mudd. “Go to Scotland Yard and speak with Stokes. Specifically Stokes and no one else. Tell him all that Jordan’s told us and that I’ve sent Jordan to wait for him at Albemarle Street.”
Mudd saluted, turned, and left.
