Page 2

A dark-haired man in a neat suit lay sprawled on his back, with blood seeping through his waistcoat from where the hilt of a letter knife protruded from his chest. With a sinking feeling, Jordan recognized Thomas Cardwell.

Cardwell’s eyes were wide open, and his expression was one of surprise and shock.

Judging by the position of the desk chair, Cardwell had been sitting in it when he was attacked and had subsequently fallen off to one side.

Jordan and Gelman both softly swore, and Jordan crouched and set his fingers to Cardwell’s neck to check for a pulse. There was none, but from the warmth of Cardwell’s skin and the still-oozing blood, he’d been dead for mere minutes.

Absorbing that fact, Jordan raised his gaze to the unknown younger man.

The man rushed to declare, “I only just got here! I arrived a bare minute before you two.”

Gelman stepped back to stand against the wall closer to the door. “No signs of a fight that I can see.”

Jordan returned his gaze to the body, then he straightened and looked more closely at the other man. Jordan suspected he knew the answer even though he asked, “Who are you?”

The younger man was having trouble breathing. “I… I’m his brother.” He hauled in a tight breath. “Thomas’s younger brother. Bobby Cardwell.”

The resemblance Jordan had observed borne out, he asked, “Why are you here?”

“I came to speak with him.” Bobby’s eyes were drawn once more to his brother’s corpse. “I got here just before you two, and I found him”—Bobby swallowed and gestured wildly—“like that!”

“He was already dead?” Jordan glanced around the area. As Gelman had said, there was no sign of any struggle.

“Yes!” Bobby calmed a fraction. “I checked, like you did. He was already gone.”

The door opened, drawing the three men’s attention.

A lady somewhere in her thirties carrying an armful of ledgers came bustling inside.

She was of average height, slender but with well-formed curves filling out the dark-blue jacket and full skirt of her outfit.

Her sable hair was gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck, and her black bonnet framed an oval face with large periwinkle-blue eyes, a straight nose, and a determined chin.

She set the ledgers on the round table and blinked at Jordan and Gelman.

Her lush, blush-pink lips formed a silent “Oh.”

Then her gaze passed on to Bobby, with his pale face and stunned expression, and puzzled concern infused her features.

“Bobby? What are you doing here?” Her gaze flitted back to Jordan and Gelman.

“Where’s Thomas?” When no one immediately answered, she focused on Bobby and, frowning, started for him. “What’s wrong?”

Both Jordan and Gelman shifted, their instinctive impulse being to block the lady’s sight of the slain man, but unsure who she was, both hesitated.

Then she neared Bobby, and he drew in a shuddering breath and pointed down behind the desk. “He’s dead!” He gulped and almost on a sob continued, “Oh God, Ruthie! Thomas is dead!”

“Wha—” The lady’s exclamation cut off as she reached Bobby and, with her gaze, followed his pointing finger. Her face drained of all color—every last vestige—then she made an inarticulate sound, pushed Bobby aside, crouched by the body, and as Jordan had, searched for a pulse.

When she found no trace, she slowly rocked back on her heels. Her hand rose to her throat. “Oh Lord. Who…?” Then her gaze snapped to Jordan and Gelman, and she rose. Her eyes full of suspicion, she demanded, “Who are you?”

Calmly, Jordan replied, “We came to keep an appointment Cardwell made. He invited us to call.”

Her eyes narrowing, she tipped up her chin and declared, “I know all my brother’s clients, and he didn’t mention meeting any new ones.”

So she was Cardwell’s sister. His older sister, Jordan suspected. Keen to see what she would make of it, he drew Cardwell’s letter from his pocket and held it out.

Ruth Cardwell seized the letter and read it.

Bobby had recovered somewhat and gathered his wits enough to say, “It’s true, Ruthie. They arrived just after I did.”

Watching a frown of even greater puzzlement invest Ruth’s face and deducing that she had no more notion of what had prompted her brother to write the letter than Jordan did, he reached over and filched the sheet back.

She frowned vaguely, but let him have it.

Bobby went on, “I got here just a minute or so before them and found Thomas”—Bobby’s breath hitched—“like that.” He looked at Jordan and Gelman and, unprompted, went on, “I came in, and I couldn’t see him.

I looked around, then called his name as I came to the desk…

” His memory rolled on, and his complexion lost what little color it had regained.

Jordan merely nodded and focused on Ruth Cardwell. Although white-faced and clearly deeply shocked, she appeared more in command of her faculties than Bobby. “When does Thomas normally unlock his door?”

“Eight o’clock, on the dot.” Ruth glanced at Jordan, but then her gaze returned to the body of her brother.

In a quiet voice, Bobby added, “He always said it was important for his clients that he was punctual.”

Jordan nodded, but his attention was on Ruth Cardwell’s face. She was staring at the body, sorrow filling her large eyes, but she was biting her lip, and even though grief was already etching her features, there was an element of concern in her expression that Jordan couldn’t quite reconcile.

“Is the letter knife his?” he asked.

She nodded. “It was usually lying on his desk.” She glanced at the desk and pointed at the top-right corner of the blotter. “Just there. He always kept it there.”

Jordan studied brother and sister. “Thomas had met me through the business of one of his clients. He knew I work for Neville Roscoe.”

Both Ruth’s and Bobby’s eyes widened. As Jordan had anticipated, even these innocents knew of Roscoe at least by name and reputation.

He went on, “Thomas sent Roscoe that letter asking for advice about some particular activity he’d uncovered that he, Thomas, believed needed to be brought to the authorities’ attention.

” Jordan arched a brow at Ruth and Bobby.

“Do either of you know why your brother appealed to Roscoe for advice?”

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 facade, 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.