Page 14 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
Accurately reading the expression, Stokes declared, “Regardless of how unlikely it seems, we have to eliminate the linen supplier as the source of Thomas’s concern.”
With that, they all had to agree.
They reached the office and went inside. Jordan and Penelope hunted through the business ledgers and soon located the set for Hemingways’ Linens, then they sat at the round table and rapidly scanned the entries.
Penelope shut the ledger she’d studied and looked at Barnaby and Stokes. “Everything seems to be above board with their day-to-day accounts.”
Jordan closed the ledger he’d examined. “Likewise with their capital investments and major expenses. I can’t see any sign of financial stress in the business.” He, too, looked at Stokes and Barnaby. “Nothing to excite any suspicion of nefarious activities.”
“Maybe so,” Stokes said, “but given the connection to Roscoe, we still need to investigate the firm. It’s possible the activity Cardwell stumbled upon was not financial, at least not directly. Not something in the books but something he became aware of by some other route.” Stokes pulled a face. “It’s a stretch, but it’s possible someone let fall something in Cardwell’s hearing, and it led him to his disquieting discovery.”
Jordan sighed. “I have to agree there’s a chance, so I assume we’re heading to Battersea.”
“Is that where Hemingways’ is?” Penelope got to her feet.
Jordan nodded. “On the river, not far from Vauxhall Gardens. The company that manages the booths in the gardens is another client of theirs.” He rose, collected the ledgers, carried them to the shelves, and slid them back into their proper places.
About to follow Stokes and Penelope out of the office, Barnaby noted a faintly puzzled expression on Jordan’s face. “What is it?”
Jordan focused on him, then shook his head. “Something’s niggling at my brain—as if I’ve seen something but not yet realized what it is I’ve seen—but the harder I try to think of what it is, the further into the fog it slides.”
“Ah.” Barnaby smiled. “That sort of feeling. Stop thinking about it, and it’ll suddenly pop into your mind, crystal clear.”
Jordan nodded. “Sound advice,” he said and followed Barnaby out to the street.
CHAPTER 4
They took the Adairs’ carriage and traveled in comfort to Hemingways’ Linens, which was located in buildings that hugged the east bank of the Thames just north of Gunners Stairs.
As Barnaby followed Stokes and Jordan onto the pavement, then paused to hand Penelope down, he took stock of the business’s façade. It appeared to support Jordan’s assertion that Hemingways’ was a well-run enterprise. The site stretched along the river, facilitating access to the water, and black-painted wrought-iron railings separated the long, low buildings from the pavement.
Steam gushed in clouds from the rear of one of the three brick buildings, and in the forecourt before the central building, several wagons were being loaded with packages of folded linens ferried from inside a warehouse-like section by porters using handcarts.
Jordan glanced at Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope and tipped his head toward the central building. “This way.”
He led them through the main gates, which had been set wide to admit the wagons. From the gravel forecourt, a paved path led to what was plainly the business’s main door.
Jordan opened it and walked inside, and Stokes, Penelope, and Barnaby followed.
They found themselves in a small well-lit foyer. Pictures apparently depicting the business over the years hung on the cream-painted walls. Two doors, presently shut, were set into the wall facing them, and another two, also shut, were on their right.
An opening in the wall on the left connected the foyer with a small office, and a young man appeared at the counter between. “Can I help you?”
Jordan looked at Stokes, who stepped to the counter and declared, “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard. We need to speak with…” Stokes rolled an eye at Jordan.
“Mr. Hemingway,” Jordan supplied. “Actually, both Mr. Hemingways, junior as well as senior.”
The clerk was studying Jordan. “You’re Roscoe’s man.”
Jordan nodded. “But today, I’m here helping the police. Nothing to do with the Dolphin Court account.”
The clerk looked relieved, yet still a trifle uncertain. “I’ll see if I can find the Hemingways for you.”
Jordan added, “Tell them Roscoe would appreciate them assisting the police.”
The comment seemed to reassure the clerk, and he departed through another door that presumably led to the business’s inner workings.
Not two minutes later, one of the doors in the rear wall opened, and an older man of average height with a shock of white hair, beetling brows, and a craggy yet well-worn face strode through, followed by a gust of warm, moist air that carried the faintest hint of lavender. The man wore a coarse white linen shirt and thick trousers held up by suspenders. His expression faintly curious, he halted and nodded at Jordan.“Mr. Draper.” His sharp gaze shifted to Stokes. “You’re the inspector?”
