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Stokes had halted by Jordan’s side. He nodded at the notebook. “What else can you make from it?”

“Give me a moment.” Jordan settled to carefully scan page by page through the entries.

Penelope exchanged an impatient look with Barnaby, who smiled at her.

Stokes settled his weight evenly on his feet, and they waited.

“All right,” Jordan eventually said. He glanced up and met their eyes. “There’s a pattern. Three people—or, I should say, three separate bank accounts—are regularly paying amounts into this account.”

“Are the amounts of the order one would expect for a gun-running enterprise?” Stokes asked.

“Oh yes,” Jordan stated. “There’s no doubt about that.

” He paused to study several pages, then said, “For instance, over the past three months, there’s been more than ten thousand pounds moved in, and Chesterton’s taken virtually all of it out in cash.

” He glanced at Stokes. “As you might imagine, illegal sellers always want their payments in cash. Likewise the drivers of the drays transporting the guns from Enfield to the warehouse and from the warehouse to the ship.”

“If this has been going on for more than two years, then previously, Chesterton must have been using somewhere else to store the guns,” Barnaby pointed out.

“It’s likely,” Jordan said, “that prior to recent months, he wasn’t using Tilbury at all but some other port.

Harwich or Bristol or even Manchester. I suspect a wise gun runner will change his routes frequently, and by this account”—he waved the notebook—“Chesterton’s succeeded in his chosen profession for at least two years. ”

“What about money returning?” Penelope asked. “From the sales of the guns, presumably to Chesterton, who, one assumes, would then repay his backers their initial investment plus a healthy amount of interest.”

Jordan shook his head. “That’s not done via this account. In fact, I’d be surprised if all such payments weren’t made solely in cash, possibly via the smuggling ship’s captain to Chesterton and, from him, directly to his backers, and there’ll be no accounting kept of them anywhere.”

Barnaby grunted. “Making it far more difficult to prove the backers are profiting from this scheme.”

“Exactly.” Jordan held up the notebook. “With this, we’re essentially looking at only half the business—the outgoing expenses, not the incoming return.”

Stokes tipped his head at the notebook. “So which bank is this account held in?”

Jordan flipped to the first page and squinted. “There’s a scribbled name at the top of the page, but it’s smudged.” When Penelope waggled her fingers before him, he surrendered the notebook. “I think it says Moreton’s.”

Penelope had drawn a small magnifying glass from her reticule. Through it, she examined the scribble. “Yes. It’s Moreton’s.” She glanced at Barnaby. “That’s one of the larger private banks, isn’t it?”

Barnaby nodded. “It used to be a public bank, but recently shifted to private clients only.” Eyes narrowing, he paused, then said, “I wonder if using such an august institution was Chesterton’s idea.”

“Or,” Penelope added, her eyes gleaming behind her spectacles, “was Moreton’s the bank his backers preferred to use?”

“Because they have accounts there, too?” Jordan considered the point, then shrugged.

“Could be.” He glanced at the notebook, still open to one page, and amended, “Could very well be.” He looked at the others.

“Moving money solely within one bank makes the transfers much easier and, theoretically at least, means there’s only one record in one bank of any of the transactions.

” He pointed at the notebook. “The only reason Chesterton had to keep his own account is because he deals entirely with cash payments.”

Stokes nodded in understanding. “So from the backers’ point of view, there’s only one record, and I can imagine wealthy, powerful gentlemen feeling much safer if that single record was kept within an institution such as Moreton’s.”

“Indeed.” Barnaby was smiling. “However, having only one bank also means that we have only one bank manager to convince to give us those wealthy gentlemen’s names.”

Jordan frowned. “Given the bank is Moreton’s, that might not be an easy task.”

Barnaby’s smile deepened. “Luckily, we have resources we can call on for assistance.” He glanced at Stokes. “I suggest that, before heading to Moreton’s, we consult Montague. He may have—is very likely to have—connections that will smooth our way.”

Penelope was quick to state her approval of that plan, and Stokes readily agreed.

Studying the others’ faces, Jordan grinned. “I’ve only sighted Montague on a few occasions, always at a distance, but he’s a legend in my field, and learning at the feet of such wisdom should never be disdained.”

Penelope laughed.

Grinning, Stokes reached out and took the vital notebook. “To Chapel Court, then. Let’s see what the great man says.”

Over the years, Montague, sometimes with the aid of his wife, Violet, had assisted Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope with various investigations. On entering Montague’s chambers, they were met by his longtime head clerk, Mr. Slocum.

“Good morning, Slocum.” Barnaby smiled at the dapper, earnest man who stood behind his raised desk on the other side of the waist-high barrier that divided the foyer from the area where Montague’s clerks and juniors labored. “Is Mr. Montague available?”

“Mr. Adair. Mrs. Adair. And Inspector Stokes.” Slocum bowed, cast a curious glance at Jordan, then, his expression bright, Slocum stated, “If you’ll wait here, I’ll check, but I daresay Mr. Montague will wish to see you immediately.”

Slocum hurried down a short corridor, tapped on the door at the far end, then whisked through, only to reappear moments later, his smile even more firmly entrenched, and with Montague himself at his back. Slocum hurried to open the gate in the barrier and wave them through.

Montague was waiting to greet them, an expectant expression on his face.

He held out his hand to Barnaby. “Dare I hope you come with a problem, preferably knotty, with which I can assist?” Releasing Barnaby’s hand, he grasped Stokes’s.

“I have to inform you that compiling the same accounts year after year, however satisfactory the profit, does grow somewhat dull.”

Stokes grinned and waved at Jordan. “We’ve brought you an admirer.”

Jordan blushed faintly and grasped the hand Montague offered. “Jordan Draper. I’m Roscoe’s man-of-business.”

“Indeed?” Montague looked intrigued. “I’ve always wondered how he manages, but if you work solely for him…?”

Jordan nodded. “I do.”

“Then that would explain it.” Montague’s eyes twinkled. “I’m well aware of the broad scope of your master’s empire.”

It was Jordan’s turn to grin.

“And last but certainly not least”—Montague turned to Penelope, took both her offered hands in his, leaned in, and bussed her cheek—“how are you, my dear? Violet’s out shopping—she’ll be desolated to have missed you.”

“As I am over missing her.” Penelope smiled. “Do remember to tell her I said so.”

“Of course. Of course.” Montague looked from her to Barnaby, then to Stokes and Jordan. “But come into my office and tell me your tale and how I might assist.”

He ushered them down the corridor to the pleasant office at its end.

Once they were settled in the comfortable chairs arranged before the desk, Montague resumed his seat behind it and looked at them hopefully. “So, do tell.”

At Stokes’s nod, Barnaby briefly outlined the critical details of Thomas Cardwell’s murder, from his letter to Roscoe to the finding of his body.

“Cardwell?” Montague frowned. “A younger practitioner, I think, but from memory, he’s quite well thought of in the profession.”

“That fits with what we’ve heard from others,” Stokes said.

“So it’s perhaps unsurprising that we’ve found no evidence of any nefarious activities among his clients.

That caused us to cast our net wider, and the long and the short of it is that we now believe Cardwell stumbled upon a gun-running scheme.

That was the nefarious activity to which he referred.

Consequently, we captured the gun runner himself, along with the latest batch of guns.

However, the description of the unknown gentleman who we believe killed Cardwell in no way matches the gun runner, Chesterton. ”

“A gentleman, heh?” Montague glanced at Penelope as if asking if this was the point where his expertise came into play.

She obligingly explained, “While Chesterton could not be the unknown gentleman, we realized that he must have backers.” She glanced at Stokes. “When we questioned him, he more or less confirmed their existence.”

Montague was nodding. “Given Chesterton’s station, it’s hard to see where he could have got the money otherwise. Guns are not cheap, and illegal wares are even more expensive.”

“Exactly,” Stokes said. “Consequently, we searched Chesterton’s rooms and found his account book. With Jordan’s help, we established that Chesterton used a bank account for receiving his backers’ funds. Given the sums involved, that’s hardly surprising.”

Stokes drew Chesterton’s notebook from his pocket and held it out to Jordan. “Best you explain what you found.”

Jordan took the small book, rose, and circled the desk to stand beside Montague, who promptly perched a pair of pince-nez on his nose.

After opening the notebook, Jordan flattened it on Montague’s blotter. “If you look at the entries here”—he pointed—“and here, you can see that the same three bank accounts regularly feed funds into this account.”

Intrigued, Montague picked up the notebook and studied the figures more closely.

“If you look backward and forward in time,” Jordan continued, “you’ll see that every time payments are made, they’re always from those same three accounts, and every time such payments are made, each of the three accounts pays a similar amount into Chesterton’s account.”