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O n 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 brought to 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.

Jordan frowned. “Albemarle Street…” Then he remembered. “Ah.” His expression cleared. “The Adairs.”

“Exactly. Number twenty-four, Albemarle Street.” Roscoe continued, “I don’t have a clue as to what Cardwell found, but he reached out to us, and we didn’t get there in time.

It appears that Cardwell tried to do the right thing and paid a heavy price for it.

He deserves the best brains on his case, and indubitably, that means the Adairs. ”

Jordan couldn’t agree more.

After a moment of thinking, Roscoe said, “Take the letter and go to the Adairs. When Stokes arrives, tell them all you know and then go with them. Follow the investigation. By all means, tell them that’s by my order, but I doubt they’ll argue.

They’ll recognize the value in having your expertise to call on.

From our point of view, I want to know what got Cardwell killed.

” Roscoe met Jordan’s gaze. “Until this case is solved, you’re relieved of all other duties. ”

When Jordan allowed his uncertainty to show, Roscoe smiled and added, “I know you’re protective of your books, but in this instance, for the next week or so, Miranda can keep an eye on things while you concentrate on seeing justice done for Thomas Cardwell.”

In Jordan’s mind, the fleeting image of Miranda working on his accounts—and he knew very well she was more than capable of managing for a few weeks—was, to his surprise, supplanted by a vision of Ruth Cardwell and the sorrow and uncertainty that had filled her face.

There was something there—something more troubling—and to Jordan’s surprise, he wanted to help her resolve whatever the problem was.

“Right,” he heard himself say. He refocused on Roscoe and snapped off a salute. “I’ll head for Albemarle Street.”

“And,” Roscoe said as Jordan made for the door, “keep Gelman with you. Use him for guard duty or whatever other tasks seem appropriate. The experience will stand him in good stead.”

Jordan glanced back. “Will do.” With that, he quit the room and headed for the stairs. He went out of the front door, strode to the street, and cast about to find another hackney, as Mudd had commandeered his.

It was past ten o’clock when Jordan reached Albemarle Street. He had the jarvey let him out on Piccadilly at the end of the street and, after paying the man, started strolling up the pavement toward Number 24.

At that time of day, there were a goodly number of people around, both staff from the town houses lining the street as well as their masters and mistresses setting out for the day.

With his well-cut coat and conservative attire, Jordan raised no eyebrows, and few took note of him as he strode along.

Looking ahead, he saw a small procession walking down from the far end of the street.

A tall, elegant gentleman in hat and coat was walking beside a petite lady in a fashionable purple redingote and matching bonnet, who was ushering two young boys before her.

One young lad was managing a hoop, while the other, rather younger and not so steady on his feet, was attempting to lead a black-and-white spaniel on a leash.

In reality, the lady was the one restraining the dog, which, given the beast’s exuberance, was just as well. As a further precaution, an attentive nursemaid and a watchful footman followed close behind the group, ready to lend assistance if required.

Jordan smiled at the sight. Over recent years, courtesy of Roscoe and Miranda’s brood, he’d grown accustomed to having young children around and secretly enjoyed the unexpected amusement he derived from their antics.

Nevertheless, not knowing how the Adairs viewed their family and, therefore, uncertain of his welcome, he slowed his pace so he approached the steps leading up to the door of Number 24 just as the door opened and the children and dog were ushered inside.

Pausing on the porch after ushering Penelope and the children through the doorway, Barnaby Adair saw Jordan halt at the foot of the steps.

Barnaby recognized Jordan instantly and inclined his head to him, then waved the maid and footman—who had also seen Jordan approach and hung back—into the house.

Once the pair had slipped past, Barnaby gestured to Jordan to join him. When Jordan did, Barnaby offered his hand. “It’s been some time since we last met.”

“Indeed.” Jordan gripped the proffered hand and shook it. “I wasn’t sure you would recognize me.”

Barnaby smiled. “I rarely forget useful people.”

Jordan grinned.

Penelope stuck her head outside, clearly wondering what had delayed her spouse. She saw Jordan, and her face lit. She bustled out and gave him her hand. “Mr. Draper.” As he straightened from his bow, she eagerly went on, “Dare I take it that Roscoe sent you?”

“He did.” Jordan glanced at Barnaby, then returned his gaze to Penelope. “A man has been murdered, and I’ve been directed to wait with you until Stokes arrives.”

“Excellent!” Penelope’s expression grew even more delighted.

“Well,” she corrected herself, “not about a man being murdered, but do come in.” She beckoned Jordan and Barnaby inside.

“The children and dog have been suitably exercised and have retired for naps upstairs, so we can settle in the drawing room, and while we wait for Stokes, you can tell us all.”

Faced with the prospect of having to repeat his information twice, Jordan was relieved when, virtually as soon as they’d sat—him on one long sofa and Barnaby and Penelope on the sofa opposite—the doorbell pealed, and seconds later, the drawing room door opened, and Inspector Basil Stokes strode in.

Jordan got to his feet, and after Jordan had shaken hands with Stokes, who also remembered him, they all sat, and at Stokes’s instruction to “Start at the beginning,” Jordan commenced, “Yesterday, in the late afternoon, a letter was delivered to Roscoe at Dolphin Square.”

He drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to Stokes. Stokes unfolded the single sheet, read it, then huffed and passed the letter to Barnaby, who scanned it and handed it to Penelope.

“As you can see,” Jordan went on, “the request was for advice on how to contact the authorities about some nefarious scheme Cardwell had uncovered. Roscoe sent me and another of his men, Gelman, to meet with Cardwell this morning, but when we arrived, we found Cardwell stabbed with his own letter knife and already dead.”

“What time did you get there?” Stokes asked, already taking notes.

“Eight-thirty,” Jordan replied. “More or less on the dot.”

“Was there anyone else there?” Barnaby asked.

Jordan nodded. “Cardwell’s younger brother, Bobby, was standing over the body, staring down at it and, it seemed, in deep shock. Neither Gelman nor I believe he was the killer—once you meet him, you’ll think the same—and by his account, he arrived only a minute or so before us.”

Stokes paused, then instructed, “Start from the moment you walked into Cardwell’s office. What did you see?”

Jordan dutifully described the scene and what they’d observed and said and heard, all the way to ushering Ruth and Bobby Cardwell out of the office and leaving Gelman on guard before heading to Roscoe to report.

Stokes pulled a small face. “I would have preferred you’d come straight to the Yard, but…as it is, we haven’t wasted much time.”

“And Gelman is on guard,” Barnaby mildly observed.

“Indeed.” Penelope flourished the letter she’d continued to study. “It’s really most vexing of Cardwell to have given no clue at all as to who is behind these nefarious activities or what they are.”

Stokes waggled his fingers, and Barnaby took the letter from Penelope and returned it to Stokes, then Barnaby asked Jordan, “Did you know Cardwell?”

“Not well,” Jordan replied. “We were acquainted through having to negotiate the contract for supplying linen to Roscoe’s clubs. Cardwell was the agent for the linen suppliers.”

“So,” Stokes observed, “not a deep or close acquaintance.”

“But”—Penelope fixed her dark gaze on Jordan’s face—“you would have formed an opinion about Cardwell, at least as far as his duties as an agent went. So what did you think of him?”