Page 29

T hey all arrived at Scotland Yard bright and early the next morning. Jordan was just approaching the steps when Barnaby and Penelope drew up in their carriage, and Stokes strode up a moment later.

“I set things in motion yesterday evening,” Stokes informed them. “Chesterton should already be languishing in the interrogation room, so we can head straight downstairs.”

They did and walked into the bare interrogation room with its single glaring lamp to find Chesterton sitting at the rectangular table, staring morosely at his clasped hands. Quiet and watchful, O’Donnell and Morgan stood unobtrusively against the wall behind Chesterton’s chair.

As they filed into the room, Chesterton raised his gaze and watched them claim the chairs on the table’s opposite side. Judging by the expression in his eyes, he was curious as to what they wanted with him and also a trifle wary.

Once the four of them had settled, Stokes looked directly at Chesterton and stated, “We’re interested in learning from where you got the funds to pay for the guns.”

Tellingly, Chesterton’s eyes widened. He waited, but when all four investigators simply stared back and said nothing more, he ducked his head and mumbled, “All a part of the arrangements.”

“Arrangements with whom?” Barnaby asked, his tone flat.

Chesterton wrestled with his answer and eventually offered, “The bods who thought it was a good idea.”

Sourness colored his voice.

Stokes shifted tacks. “Obviously, you have backers. Don’t you think they’ll grow concerned when they learn you’ve been nicked?”

Jordan elaborated, “Concerned about what you know and what you might tell us?”

“Sadly,” Barnaby observed, “accidents do happen in Newgate.”

As if helpfully clarifying the point, Penelope said, “That’s where you’ll be heading shortly.”

The look in Chesterton’s eyes confirmed that he was genuinely worried.

His expression suggested he was tempted to reveal the names, but after several moments of considering his options, he shook his head.

“I can’t—I won’t. It’s not worth my head.

If you don’t go after them, they’ll know I never told you anything, and they’ll let me be, so thank you all the same, but I’ll take my chances. ”

Jordan sighed. “I was hoping we wouldn’t need to do this the hard way.”

“Heh?” Alarmed, Chesterton reared back. He looked at Stokes, then glanced at O’Donnell and Morgan. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“First,” Stokes said, “I should mention that yesterday, Constable Morgan”—he tipped his head Morgan’s way—“checked the address you gave when you were formally taken into custody.” Stokes caught Chesterton’s gaze.

“Consequently, we know that the flat in Lambert Street is, in fact, your current home.”

Chesterton was plainly wondering if he should have given a false address. “So?”

“So,” Jordan said, “now, we’ll go there and turn the place upside down until we find your account book.”

Chesterton’s eyes slowly widened, his growing apprehension clear.

Jordan nodded. “Just so. Of course you’ve kept a reckoning, because when dealing with the likes of your backers, you knew you would need to be able to answer for every single pound.

I imagine there’ll be a register of the payments made to you, and even if you used a bank—and considering the amounts that must have been involved, I would wager you did—there’ll be a record, a trail if you will, that those who know about such things will be able to follow all the way to your backers. ”

Stokes smiled in anticipation. “And then we’ll have them as well as you.” He arched his brows at Chesterton and mildly asked, “Sure you don’t want to get in our good books by giving us their names and saving us the legwork?”

Chesterton’s eyes had narrowed on Jordan and Stokes. He studied them for several long minutes, then said, “You’re having me on. I was told it’s really hard to trace payments made through a bank, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll keep my trap shut and take my chances.”

Jordan beamed. “Thank you.”

Confused, Chesterton blinked at him. “What for?”

“For telling us that somewhere, there’s a bank account in your name,” Jordan said, “and that we’ll find the account details hidden somewhere in your rooms. Once we find those details—and trust me, we’ll find them—we’ll be able to do as I said and follow the trail to your masters.”

Still smiling, Stokes pushed back his chair and rose. “On that note, Chesterton, allow us to bid you a good day.”

Caught between disbelief and fear, Chesterton watched them file out of the room.

Stokes paused in the doorway and looked at O’Donnell. “Take him back to the cells.” Stokes transferred his gaze to Morgan. “Meanwhile, you can fetch Walsh and join us in the foyer.”

Both sergeant and constable snapped off salutes, and Stokes followed the others into the corridor and on toward the stairs.

Once in the foyer, Stokes went to the front desk and returned with a large, old-fashioned key.

Barnaby eyed the key. “I think Lambert Street runs south from Whitechapel.”

“That’s what Morgan said.” Stokes turned as Morgan and Walsh came striding up.

Both saluted, and Morgan hopefully inquired, “You wanted us, guv?”

Constable Morgan was one who liked to be doing.

“Indeed,” Stokes said. “I want the pair of you to go down to the Fox—that pub on the Tilbury Road where Chesterton and the three gentlemen used to meet. We need to find evidence that Thomas Cardwell was there last Sunday night. He might have been in disguise, but I can’t imagine it was all that good.

See what the staff can tell you—if any of them remember a bloke who could have been Cardwell and, most especially, if anyone happened to notice Cardwell following Chesterton when Chesterton left. ”

“The staff must know Chesterton,” Barnaby pointed out. “By all accounts, he’s been a regular there for at least the past few months.”

“The three gentlemen are also regulars, even more so than Chesterton,” Penelope said, “so the staff will definitely remember them. As for Chesterton, all you need to mention is that shock of carroty-red hair. The staff are sure to remember that.”

Morgan grinned and saluted again, this time to the entire group. “Right you are, sirs, ma’am. We’ll head down there immediately. They should be just opening up when we arrive, and that’s a good time to chat, before they get too busy.”

Stokes grinned. “You’re the expert.” He tipped his head toward the street. “Off you go.”

With jaunty nods, the pair strode for the doors.

Stokes turned to the others. He weighed the heavy old key in his palm, then slid it into his pocket. “Right, then. Let’s head to Lambert Street and see what we can find.”

Half an hour later, Stokes used the old key to open the door of Chesterton’s flat above a bakery on Lambert Street.

The scent of freshly baked bread permeated the space as the four investigators walked into the small parlor and looked around.

“There.” Jordan tipped his head at a simple desk set between two windows. He walked across and drew out the wooden chair set before it. “I’ll search here, but he might have had the sense to hide his account book in some unlikely place.”

“I’ll help with the desk.” Penelope dragged a second chair over to the side of the desk before one window. “The light’s better here.”

Stokes humphed. “I suppose that leaves Barnaby and me to search all the unlikely places.”

When the two already pulling out the drawers of the desk made no comment, Stokes exchanged a wry look with Barnaby, and together, they moved to examine the few other pieces of furniture in the room.

Penelope helped Jordan gather all the notebooks and loose sheets stuffed into the desk drawers and poked into the double row of pigeonholes above it. They piled their finds on the blotter, amassing a considerable stack.

Once they’d gathered every last shred of paper, Jordan studied the pile. “Right. Let’s have at it.”

“You take half”—Penelope suited the action to the words and divided the pile roughly in two—“and I’ll take the rest.”

They started by examining the notebooks.

“Household accounts,” Penelope declared in a somewhat intrigued tone. “I’m surprised a single gentleman keeps track.”

Jordan threw her a smile. “Not all gentlemen are hedonists with no interest in what they spend their blunt on.”

She huffed to indicate she doubted that and laid the account book aside.

Jordan paused to stare at the discarded notebook, then said, “It’s wise to check the back of the book. Sometimes, sensitive accounts are hidden by using the book in reverse.”

Penelope dutifully retrieved Chesterton’s household accounts and flicked to the pages at the end of the small volume. Then she gave vent to an excited sound, turned the notebook upside down, and peered more closely at the page.

Jordan was watching her. “What is it?”

“I believe we’ve struck gold.” She stared at the figures for a moment more, then handed him the notebook. “What do you think?”

Jordan set aside the notebook he’d been perusing and eagerly took the one she offered.

He quickly scanned the entries, then flipped further on in the book.

After a minute during which she kept her eyes on his face and held her breath, he smiled, raised his gaze, and met her eyes.

“This is it! Well done!” He swiveled on the chair and called, “Stokes. Adair!” The pair had vanished into the bedroom. “We think we have it.”

Stokes came striding out. “That was quick.”

Jordan waggled his head. “If you think about it, Chesterton must have needed to access this account frequently.” He waved the notebook.

“The first entry is dated more than two years ago, and”—he flicked through the pages, studying the neat script—“the financial activity seems to have been reasonably constant.” He kept flipping pages, then finally stopped at one.

“This is the end of the record—Chesterton’s most recent withdrawal.

Judging by its size, it’s most likely the payment for the latest consignment of guns. ”