Page 20 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
He paused on the porch, sighed, then started down the steps. In pensive mood, he walked across the carriageway and into the park.
Gelman had been watching and was waiting by a bench. “Anything useful?”
“As matters transpired, yes. You saw the two who arrived—Bobby and the other man?”
Gelman nodded. “I could hear them going at each other from here.”
“Turns out,” Jordan said, “that the other is an older brother. Older than Thomas, but, I think, younger than Miss Cardwell.”
“Huh! That’s a turn-up.”
“It is, indeed.” Jordan glanced back at the prim façade of Number 29. Ruth was safe enough with her brothers in the house. He turned to Gelman. “There’s no need for you to remain on watch here, and Stokes’s men have the office covered. You may as well head back to Dolphin Square. If anyone asks, I’ll be home later. First, I need to report to Albemarle Street.”
Gelman nodded, and they set off to walk back to Broad Street, keeping an eye out for an available hackney.
If it had been just himself working on the case, Jordan would have been in two minds over what he should share with the police, but the investigators had invited him in as a full member of their team, and one thing his years working alongside Roscoe had taught him was that teams got the best results when there were no secrets between the members.
Jordan knew what was required of him and accepted that the best he could do for the Cardwells was to convey his newfound knowledge promptly and in as clear a manner as possible. That would serve Ruth Cardwell best, given it was the most direct route to gaining justice for Thomas. Of that, Jordan entertained not a single doubt.
He and Gelman found an idling hackney on Broad Street and climbed aboard, giving the jarvey the Albemarle Street address. Jordan would alight there and leave Gelman to travel on to Dolphin Square while Jordan informed the investigators of what he’d unexpectedly learned.
It was close to six-thirty by the time Jordan reached Albemarle Street, but given the importance of the information he had to impart, he didn’t think the Adairs would mind the interruption, and it wouldn’t take long to explain what he’d discovered.
He swiftly climbed the steps to the porch and rapped the knocker. The door was opened by the butler, who instantly recognized him and waved him inside. The butler assured Jordan that his master and mistress were available, along with Inspector Stokes, who was also there, then firmly ushered Jordan into the drawing room.
Jordan stepped over the threshold, and the sight that met his eyes—a family situation even more surprising than the one he’d recently witnessed—brought him up short.
Seated back to back on the floor before the fireplace, each with their legs stretched out before them, Stokes and Adair were being assaulted by a platoon of small and very noisy children. While a young boy and girl, both about four years old and entirely sure of themselves, led the charge, flinging themselves at the seated men, a younger boy, perhaps a year old, rendered assistance, mainly by falling over Barnaby’s long legs. The rambunctious trio were supported by a tot still crawling, yet plainly intent on being a part of the game.
Completing the picture of domestic bliss, the black-and-white spaniel puppy bounced around the fringes of the group, adding his yaps to the general melee. Stokes and Adair were laughing unrestrainedly and allowing themselves to be tickled unmercifully by the children, who squealed with joy at their fathers’ contortions.
Penelope was perched on one sofa, and another dark-haired lady—Jordan assumed she was Mrs. Stokes—sat on the other. Both wore somewhat besotted expressions as they watched their families cavort on the rug.
The ladies heard the door shut behind Jordan and looked up.
Penelope smiled warmly. “Jordan! Welcome. Please ignore the rabble and do come in.”
She waved him forward and, to the other lady, explained, “This is the gentleman we mentioned—the one Roscoe has delegated to assist us.” To Jordan, Penelope added, “This is Griselda, Stokes’s wife.”
Jordan smiled at Mrs. Stokes and half bowed. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
Griselda smiled. “And I’m delighted to meet you, Jordan. But please, just Griselda, at least in this house.”
By then, Stokes and Barnaby had realized Jordan was there and were endeavoring to calm their offspring. In doing so, they drew the children’s attention to the newcomer, and abruptly deserting their sires, the small group converged on Jordan.
Courtesy of having shared a house with Roscoe and Miranda’s now rather older brood, Jordan was unperturbed. He smiled and crouched so that he didn’t tower over the tots. “Hello.” He met their bright eyes. “I’ve come to speak with your parents, but what are your names?”
“I’m Oliver Adair,” the oldest boy proudly declared.
“And I’m Miss Megan Stokes,” the little girl offered in a manner that suggested that being a Miss trumped being just Oliver.
“And this is my younger brother, Pip.” Oliver drew the toddler to him, more or less in a headlock, which the younger boy seemed to find intensely funny as he chortled with glee.
The girl bent to hug the crawling child. “My little brother is Oswald, but he doesn’t really talk yet.”
“Our dog is called Roger,” Oliver stated. “We got him from my grandfather’s kennels, and he’s supposed to be a gun dog, but Roger doesn’t like guns.”
Jordan nodded sagely. “Most dogs don’t. They have to be trained, probably lots, before they become used to the noise.”
