Page 5

“Right,” Morgan said. “So according to the baker, Cardwell seemed to recognize the gentleman. They shook hands, then Cardwell opened his door, and they went inside.”

“Description of this gentleman?” Stokes demanded.

Morgan grimaced. “Not all that helpful. The baker labeled the man as a gentleman because he was wearing one of those long dun-colored coats that are all the rage.” Morgan nodded at Barnaby.

“Like Mr. Adair here. The baker says the man was of average-ish height, perhaps a touch shorter than Cardwell, who was medium tall. The man was wearing a black top hat, just like other gentlemen favor. Other than that, the baker said the man was just a gentleman, the sort you pass by on the pavements around here all the time.”

Stokes sighed. “Well, at least we’ve got that much, for which, apparently, we’re supposed to be grateful.”

Gelman shifted and offered, “The baker had to return to baking and his oven, so he didn’t see what happened over here until he came out into his shop again later.”

Morgan went on, “He was away for at least twenty minutes, he says, so when he returned to the front of the shop, it would’ve been a few minutes before eight-thirty. At that time, he glanced over here and saw the younger Mr. Cardwell?—”

“That would be Bobby,” Gelman put in.

Morgan nodded. “Seems like. The baker said as this younger Cardwell went in, and then just a minute or so later, he saw you and him”—Morgan nodded at Jordan and pointed at Gelman—“arrive and go inside. Then about five minutes later, our baker saw Miss Cardwell come along with ledgers in her arms and go in.”

Stokes had been busily scribbling. “Oh, for such an accurate and knowledgeable witness to every murder.” He glanced at Morgan. “I take it this baker is sure who he saw?”

“He said he knows the Cardwells well,” Morgan replied. “Apparently, Cardwell has had this office for years, and all three of the Cardwells he saw this morning buy buns and cakes and bread from him, so he’s sure.”

“Blessed be,” Stokes murmured, jotting that down. Then he looked at Morgan and grimaced. “I take it our wonderful baker didn’t see the gentleman who met Cardwell on the doorstep leave.”

Morgan shook his head. “He mentioned that he hadn’t seen the man come out, but then he was off tending his oven for those twenty minutes.”

“He did wonder if the man had left the back way,” Gelman added. “If so, he wouldn’t have seen him anyway.”

Penelope, along with Barnaby, Stokes, Jordan, and even Findlay, stared at Gelman.

“The back way?” Stokes turned to look at the narrow panel set into the wall at the rear-right corner of the office. “I thought that was a closet.”

O’Donnell, who had returned from his own canvassing and was standing with Walsh by the front door, listening to Morgan’s report, stated, “We looked, sir. It is a closet.”

Findlay beat everyone else to the panel and opened it.

Looking past Findlay, Penelope saw a gentleman’s brown coat hanging on a hook.

Findlay huffed. “Looks like Cardwell’s coat.”

Jordan was standing beside Findlay. “There’s a draft.” Jordan reached past the coat and gently pushed on the panel at the closet’s rear. The panel swung away on hinges, revealing a narrow corridor beyond.

“Stand back,” Stokes ordered, and when Findlay and Jordan complied, Stokes stepped forward and slid sideways into the “closet,” past the hanging coat and on into the corridor beyond.

Penelope leapt to follow. Unimpeded by the narrowness, she trailed Stokes along the corridor and into a small storeroom-cum-kitchen at the rear of the building.

A single solid wooden door was set into the rear wall. A large bolt could secure it, but was presently drawn back. Stokes reached out a hand and pushed the door, and it swung slightly open.

Stokes grunted. “Left swinging, not even properly closed.”

“That would be the source of the draft. It seems our murderer left in a rush.” Penelope crowded behind Stokes as Barnaby, followed by O’Donnell, Morgan, and Jordan, shuffled into the limited space. “What’s beyond the door?”

The answer was a narrow lane that ran along the rear of the buildings on that side of the street.

Penelope stepped back and let the men exit into the lane.

She watched from the doorway as Stokes, Barnaby, O’Donnell, Morgan, and Jordan looked around.

After glancing back and forth along the largely empty lane, she suggested, “The murderer saw Cardwell hang up his coat, and I suspect the panel at the rear of the closet space was normally left wide open. Why would Cardwell shut it?”

“It wasn’t latched when I pushed it open,” Jordan said. “It swung freely.”

“So after killing Cardwell,” Stokes said, his expression grim, “the murderer didn’t want to risk being seen on the street, leaving the scene of the crime.”

“He came out this way,” Barnaby concluded, “and unless we’re very lucky, he wouldn’t have been seen by anyone.”

Stokes grunted in resigned agreement. “O’Donnell. Morgan. Take Walsh and Gelman and knock on the rear doors of the premises along this lane to either side and see what you can turn up.”

O’Donnell and Morgan snapped off salutes, and Penelope turned and led the others back along the corridor to the office.

When, after Stokes had sent Walsh and Gelman to help O’Donnell and Morgan, Barnaby, Stokes, and Jordan rejoined her, she was standing at the round table at the front of the office, busily flicking through the ledgers stacked upon it.

“Anything there?” Stokes inquired.

She shook her head. “Nothing obvious in these, but as I understand it”—she glanced questioningly at Jordan—“these weren’t here when Cardwell was killed.”

Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, Jordan confirmed, “They weren’t. Ruth Cardwell, the sister, brought them when she arrived.”

“So they’re likely not linked to Cardwell’s death.” Penelope shut the topmost ledger and patted the cover approvingly. “They’re very neat.”

While they’d been in the lane, two of Findlay’s men had arrived with a stretcher, and Findlay had directed them in placing the body upon the canvas and covering it decently with a sheet.

Now, the men hoisted the stretcher and made for the door. His black bag in one hand, Findlay followed, dipping his head to those at the table as he passed.

With Stokes, Barnaby, and Jordan, Penelope watched in silence as Thomas Cardwell’s remains were ferried away.

Once the small procession had departed, Jordan exhaled. “The senseless ending of a life.”

Stokes glanced at Jordan, then gently said, “There will have been some sense to the killing—there always is. It’s up to us to learn what that was—why someone thought Thomas Cardwell had to be killed—and that will lead us to his murderer.”

“Indeed.” Barnaby had been studying the shelves of account ledgers. “To that end, what can you tell us of Cardwell’s business?”

Jordan grimaced. “This is purely from what I gathered through my limited interaction with him, so it might not be the full sum of it. I understood the bulk of his business lay in acting as a financial manager, in the same way a man-of-business does, for small- and medium-sized enterprises. For instance, the linen supplier that was the reason I met Cardwell is a long-established medium-sized business, but I sensed they were among Cardwell’s larger clients.

Most would have been smaller than that—shopkeepers and the like.

” Jordan nodded through the window. “You might even find the baker was a client.”

Penelope nodded. “So Cardwell got to know you and Roscoe because of the linen supplier’s contract.

” She turned a questioning gaze on Jordan.

“If we accept that Cardwell had uncovered some nefarious undertaking that he felt he had to bring to the attention of the authorities, why did he turn to Roscoe for advice?”

“Had he and Roscoe met?” Stokes asked.

Jordan shook his head. “Cardwell had only met me and Rawlings. I handled the negotiations, and Rawlings was there as either he or Mudd usually are.”

Barnaby’s gaze had remained on Jordan. “So why did Cardwell contact Roscoe? Could it have been because Cardwell’s concerns arose from the linen supply business, and therefore, Cardwell felt Roscoe would want to know?”

Jordan thought about that for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

“I seriously doubt Hemingways’ Linens would give rise to concerns about nefarious activities.

They are simply not that sort of business.

They’re family owned and operated and very well run.

” He paused, then added, “My only guess as to why Cardwell chose to contact Roscoe is that, as we all know, Roscoe’s reputation is legendary.

He’s widely known for running his gambling businesses with an iron fist and insisting every last little part of them is entirely legal.

For those like Cardwell, with no real experience of the underworld, Roscoe figures as an authority on how to successfully walk the difficult line between criminality and legality. ”

Understanding the point, Penelope added, “They see Roscoe as knowing how to deal with criminals on the one hand and the authorities at all levels on the other.”

Jordan nodded. “Just so.”

Stokes grunted. “All right. That’s a believable explanation. So what’s our next move?”

“It should be noted,” Penelope said, “that courtesy of our observant baker, the window for the time of death has narrowed even further. The baker saw Cardwell and the unknown gentleman go into Cardwell’s office at eight o’clock on the dot.”

Barnaby nodded. “And Jordan and Gelman arrived at eight-thirty to find Cardwell dead.” He looked at Stokes. “Half an hour is a very short period.”

Stokes grunted. “Long enough, apparently.”

Footsteps heralded the return of Stokes’s men and Gelman.

They filed into the office, and smiling, Constable Walsh, younger than the other three and plainly eager to prove his worth, saluted and brightly reported, “Found one sighting, sir. A maid tossing slops into the lane at the far end.” He tipped his head toward the north.

“Said she saw a gentleman coming up along the lane. According to her, this would be about twenty or so minutes past the hour. She couldn’t be more exact, but she was sure it was before eight-thirty.

She said the geezer was just an average gentleman, black top hat and the latest fashionable coat, nothing else to remark about him, but she was surprised to see a gentleman in the lane, so she took note.

She said he had his head down and seemed in a hurry. ”

Walsh grimaced slightly. “She turned back to her door before he reached her, so she didn’t see any more detail than that.”

Stokes sighed but tipped his head. “Even so, good work. At least we now know in which direction he went.”

Barnaby concluded, “So our murderer met Cardwell on the street, came in through the front door, spent perhaps fifteen minutes in discussion with Cardwell, then killed him and left via the back door and the lane.”

Stokes looked at everyone, then returned his gaze to Barnaby. “He has to be our murderer.”

Penelope stated, “Unless there’s some reason our unknown gentleman left by the rear door, and someone else, unseen by anyone, whipped in and stabbed Cardwell…” She looked around the circle of faces. “I admit I just can’t see that.”

No one else could, either.

Stokes tapped his pencil on his closed notebook, then shoved the book into his pocket. “Right, then. We have what seem to be sightings of our murderer, but sadly, the description we have thus far fits half the gentlemen in town.”