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“ R egarding the reason Cardwell was murdered,” Barnaby said, “the one real clue we have is the letter he sent to Roscoe.”

Stokes obligingly drew out the letter and read it aloud.

He looked at Jordan. “We’ve already discussed why Cardwell might have chosen to appeal to Roscoe, and you feel it’s more to do with Roscoe’s reputation and assumed knowledge about dealing with the authorities rather than because of some specific issue with the one business Cardwell represented that Roscoe has a contract with. ”

Jordan nodded. “The more I think of it, the surer I am of that. I truly doubt there’s anything nefarious going on at Hemingways’ Linens.”

Stokes inclined his head. “Be that as it may, we need to check on that business. However, before we start chasing hares, we should call on the Cardwells. I want to meet this younger brother. We need to be sure we’re not overlooking something there.

He might not be our unknown man, but Bobby Cardwell might yet know something pertinent about why his brother was killed. ”

“Well,” Penelope put in, “we don’t actually know that Bobby didn’t meet the unknown man here—whether before or after Thomas was murdered.”

Along with the other two men, Barnaby pondered that scenario and had to admit that his wife was correct. Thinking further along those lines, he suggested, “Could Thomas’s murder, possibly in front of Bobby, have been intended as a warning to Bobby?”

Penelope opened her eyes wide. “At this stage, who can say?”

“Which only underscores our need to interview the Cardwells.” Stokes looked at Jordan. “Did you get the address?”

“Twenty-nine Finsbury Circus,” Jordan supplied. “Ruth Cardwell said the house is just south of East Street.”

“If you’re free,” Penelope said, addressing Jordan, “I think you should come with us to pave our way.”

Jordan smiled fleetingly. “My orders are to do whatever I can to help solve this case, so consider me at your service.”

Stokes dispatched O’Donnell to check that the rear door was bolted, and when the sergeant returned, they left the office and gathered on the pavement outside.

Stokes locked the office door, then turned to Walsh and handed him the key.

“I want you to remain on guard here and watch for anyone who might be interested in the contents of Cardwell’s office.

It’s also possible we might need to return and retrieve something from inside.

Try not to be too obvious—amble up and down the street as if you’re just a bobby on the beat, but keep this place in sight.

If anyone turns up to see Cardwell, take their name and direction.

I’ll send someone to relieve you later.”

Walsh pocketed the key and saluted. “Right, guv.”

Stokes looked at Morgan and O’Donnell. “You two can search for any other sightings of our unknown man. We know he came out of the rear lane at the northern end. See if you can pick up a trail around there.” Stokes glanced at Penelope and Barnaby, who were chatting with their coachman. “Give us an hour, then meet back here.”

“Aye, guv.” Both men saluted.

Jordan turned to Gelman. “It might be useful if you follow us to the Cardwells, but hang back and see if anyone shows an interest in our doings.”

Gelman nodded. “Will do.”

Having overheard, Stokes inclined his head approvingly. “Good thinking.” He looked at Jordan. “Are you familiar with this area?”

Jordan nodded. “Finsbury Circus is only a few minutes’ walk away.” He tipped his head down the street. “This way.”

Assured that the distance wasn’t enough to be bothered with their carriage, Barnaby and Penelope joined them, and Jordan led their group of four—with Gelman trailing unobtrusively behind—south along Broad Street, then turned right at the next intersection, and a block later, they were crossing a street and entering East Street, one of the four short streets that gave entry to the inner circle of Finsbury Circus.

Barnaby took note of the surroundings. The area was distinctly well-to-do, and the Circus itself exuded an air of quiet, stable gentility.

The circle of neat, well-kept terrace houses was divided into quadrants by four short streets, unimaginatively named North, South, East, and West Streets, with a cobbled circular carriageway sweeping around the pavements before the houses.

In the center of the area, protected from the carriageway by an iron-railing fence, a circular park played host to mature trees, well-tended shrubbery, neat gravel paths, and manicured lawns.

Barnaby thought it likely that the majority of the families in the terrace houses had been occupants since the terraces were built more than twenty years before.

It was that sort of neighborhood. An air of respectable prosperity blanketed the locality.

As they approached Number 29, Penelope glanced back toward Broad Street. “Cardwell didn’t have far to walk to his office.”

“No surprise, then,” Stokes said, “that he could be so punctual and regular in his habits. Easy to know what time to leave home so as to be at the office door at bang on eight o’clock.”

Stokes paused in front of the three steps leading up to the porch of Number 29. The knocker on the door was already swathed in black crepe. Stokes sighed, glanced at the others, then mounted the steps and knocked firmly on the door.

A minute passed, then the door was opened by a sad-looking maid. She hiccupped. “Y-Yes?”

Stokes introduced them. “We appreciate that this is a difficult time, but we need to speak with the family. All of them.”

Penelope stepped up beside Stokes. “We wouldn’t intrude if it wasn’t important. I’m sure everyone here wants the police to catch whoever killed Mr. Cardwell.”

The maid’s eyes had widened, and plainly recognizing Penelope’s station, she bobbed a curtsy and opened the door wider. “Yes, ma’am. If you’ll step into the drawing room, I’ll tell the mistress you’re here.”

They allowed the puffy-eyed maid to usher them into a well-appointed drawing room, then the girl whisked off, and they heard her footsteps hurrying up the stairs.

As Penelope drew in her skirts and sat on the sofa, she looked at Jordan. “She said mistress, not master. Is Cardwell Senior still alive?”

“I don’t know.” Jordan glanced around as if searching for some hint and not finding anything. “He might have passed already.”

“We’ll have to ask.” Stokes drew out his notebook.

Several minutes passed before heavy footsteps came slowly down the stairs.

They got to their feet as a lady of thirty or so, presumably Ruth Cardwell, helped an older woman, transparently bowed down with grief, into the room.

Ruth’s gaze swept their group and landed on Jordan. Her lips tightened, and she nodded fractionally, then helped her mother to the chair beside the hearth.

Mrs. Cardwell was a faded beauty, her dark hair now streaked with gray, and the lines in her soft face were made more prominent by obvious grief.

Her large eyes were darkly shadowed, and she’d obviously been weeping, but her lips were set, and, Penelope judged, she’d already reached the stage of wanting justice for her slain son.

After settling the older woman, Ruth Cardwell straightened. Pressing her palms together, she moved to the chair opposite her mother’s and faced them. “Good afternoon. We understand you need to speak with us. We’ll try to answer your questions as best we can.”

While outwardly, Ruth appeared calm and in control, Penelope noted her fingers twisting tight and the slight—very slight—quaver in her voice. Ruth was putting on a brave face as women of her station always did.

Gravely, Stokes inclined his head. “Thank you, Miss Cardwell.” He bowed to the older lady.

“Mrs. Cardwell. We would like to offer our condolences on the family’s recent tragic loss.

We truly appreciate you giving us your time at this difficult juncture.

I’m Inspector Stokes from Scotland Yard.

Mr. and Mrs. Adair”—he gestured at Barnaby and Penelope—“are here as official consultants. They are called in to support the force on cases in which their insights are likely to help in solving the crime. As I believe you’re already aware, Mr. Draper was called in for advice by Mr. Cardwell—Mr. Thomas Cardwell, the deceased—and is also assisting the police in an advisory capacity. ”

Penelope noted that Ruth’s gaze had returned to Jordan, and she’d paid particular attention to his reason for being there.

Quickly approaching footsteps drew all eyes to the open doorway. Looking distinctly pallid and not a little disheveled, a younger gentleman paused on the threshold and stared at them. Then he swallowed and croaked, “I’m Robert Cardwell. I found the body—Thomas’s body.”

Stokes inclined his head. “Please join us, Mr. Cardwell. We need to speak with you.”

Ruth waved vaguely. “Please, sit, and we’ll endeavor to answer your questions.”

Swiftly assessing the younger Mr. Cardwell, Penelope judged him to be in his mid-twenties. He came in and chose to sit, rather gingerly, on a straight-backed chair a yard from the one Stokes had claimed and opposite where Jordan was seated.

Stokes caught Penelope’s eyes, and she accepted the unvoiced invitation to open the questioning. She fixed her gaze on Mrs. Cardwell. “Our first questions relate to the composition of your family. Is Mr. Cardwell, your husband, still with you?”

“No.” Mrs. Cardwell’s voice was hoarse, and she gripped a damp handkerchief in one tight fist. “My husband passed on more than ten years ago.” Her gaze drifted to Ruth, then diverted to Bobby.

“It’s just the four of us who live here now.

Me, Ruthie, Thomas, and Bobby.” Her voice hitched, then in fading tones, she added, “Just the three of us now…”