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T hey took the Adairs’ carriage and traveled in comfort to Hemingways’ Linens, which was located in buildings that hugged the east bank of the Thames just north of Gunners Stairs.

As Barnaby followed Stokes and Jordan onto the pavement, then paused to hand Penelope down, he took stock of the business’s facade.

It appeared to support Jordan’s assertion that Hemingways’ was a well-run enterprise.

The site stretched along the river, facilitating access to the water, and black-painted wrought-iron railings separated the long, low buildings from the pavement.

Steam gushed in clouds from the rear of one of the three brick buildings, and in the forecourt before the central building, several wagons were being loaded with packages of folded linens ferried from inside a warehouse-like section by porters using handcarts.

Jordan glanced at Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope and tipped his head toward the central building. “This way.”

He led them through the main gates, which had been set wide to admit the wagons. From the gravel forecourt, a paved path led to what was plainly the business’s main door.

Jordan opened it and walked inside, and Stokes, Penelope, and Barnaby followed.

They found themselves in a small well-lit foyer. Pictures apparently depicting the business over the years hung on the cream-painted walls. Two doors, presently shut, were set into the wall facing them, and another two, also shut, were on their right.

An opening in the wall on the left connected the foyer with a small office, and a young man appeared at the counter between. “Can I help you?”

Jordan looked at Stokes, who stepped to the counter and declared, “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard. We need to speak with…” Stokes rolled an eye at Jordan.

“Mr. Hemingway,” Jordan supplied. “Actually, both Mr. Hemingways, junior as well as senior.”

The clerk was studying Jordan. “You’re Roscoe’s man.”

Jordan nodded. “But today, I’m here helping the police. Nothing to do with the Dolphin Court account.”

The clerk looked relieved, yet still a trifle uncertain. “I’ll see if I can find the Hemingways for you.”

Jordan added, “Tell them Roscoe would appreciate them assisting the police.”

The comment seemed to reassure the clerk, and he departed through another door that presumably led to the business’s inner workings.

Not two minutes later, one of the doors in the rear wall opened, and an older man of average height with a shock of white hair, beetling brows, and a craggy yet well-worn face strode through, followed by a gust of warm, moist air that carried the faintest hint of lavender.

The man wore a coarse white linen shirt and thick trousers held up by suspenders.

His expression faintly curious, he halted and nodded at Jordan.

“Mr. Draper.” His sharp gaze shifted to Stokes. “You’re the inspector?”

Stokes introduced himself and added his usual explanation of Barnaby and Penelope’s presence. “I take it you’re Mr. Hemingway Senior, owner of this business?”

“I am.”

Stokes continued, “We’d like to speak with you about Thomas Cardwell.”

“Cardwell?” The surprise on the man’s face was entirely genuine. “A good man. We’ve never had any difficulties with him. Does his job well and doesn’t charge the earth.”

A second, younger man came rushing through the door and, at sight of them, abruptly halted. That this was Hemingway Junior barely needed to be said. The resemblance to his father was marked.

“There you are. All right with the steam, then?” Hemingway Senior asked.

His son nodded. “Just a stuck valve. It’s working now.”

“Good. Well”—Hemingway Senior waved at Stokes and the others—“seems these people want to ask us about Cardwell.”

“Thomas?” The puzzlement on the younger Hemingway’s face was plain. “Why?”

“I haven’t yet heard.” Hemingway Senior’s gaze shifted to the counter behind which the young clerk, who had returned, now stood. “Whatever it is, I suggest we go to the office and hear about it there.”

Stokes, who had also noticed the clerk’s return and his keen attention, agreed. “That might be best.”

“This way.” The older Hemingway turned to a door in the right-hand wall, opened it, and led the way into the bowels of the building.

Stokes followed Hemingway Senior, and Hemingway Junior fell in beside Jordan at the rear of their small procession.

In the middle, Barnaby and Penelope, neither of whom had ever been inside a linen supplier’s premises, looked about with avid interest. The area through which they were led was given over to the sorting and packing of freshly laundered linens of all types.

Women in neat aprons stood at long benches and flicked and folded and stacked, while men, also wearing clean bib aprons, shifted the stacks onto sturdy carts and ferried them to another area where they were packaged in brown paper and tied with different colored tapes.

“Presumably, the color of the tapes identifies different orders,” Penelope whispered.

Barnaby was taking in the ambiance. “Everyone here seems quite content.” Although the workers’ hands were constantly busy, there was laughter and conversation being traded back and forth. He also didn’t see any unnecessary activity. “It all seems very smoothly run.”

“Very sensibly organized,” Penelope agreed. “Now I think of it, I recall hearing that many of the senior hostesses—those who host massive events during the Season—as well as Almacks get their linens from Hemingways’.”

Behind them, the younger Hemingway had been quietly quizzing Jordan regarding any difficulties with the Dolphin Court account, and Jordan had reassured him, reiterating that the reason they were there had nothing to do with Roscoe’s clearly highly valued contract.

They progressed through several packing stations and eventually reached an office tucked into the corner of the building.

Its one wide window looked out over the river and admitted a stream of soft diffuse light.

The Hemingways quickly organized chairs for their visitors, then Hemingway Senior sat in the large chair behind the massive desk, and his son claimed the chair that was plainly his usual seat behind his sire’s right shoulder.

“Now.” Clasping his hands on his blotter, Hemingway Senior fixed an almost challenging gaze on Stokes. “What’s this about Cardwell, heh?”

Stokes paused, then said, “I’m sorry to have to inform you, sir, that Thomas Cardwell was murdered this morning.”

“Murdered?” The depth of shock on both Hemingways’ faces was impossible to manufacture. “Where?” the older Hemingway asked.

“In his office.” Stokes paused while the Hemingways digested that.

It was the younger Hemingway who, with a frown forming on his face, asked, “But why are you here?” He grimaced and added, “I’m sure you’re not visiting all of Thomas’s clients to inform them of his death, and we haven’t seen him since last quarter day, when he came in to go over our accounts.”

Stokes studied father and son, then said, “Yesterday, Cardwell sent a note to Roscoe, asking for advice on how best to bring certain nefarious activities he’d uncovered to the authorities’ attention.

That’s what led to Mr. Draper’s involvement.

Unsurprisingly, London’s gambling king wishes to know why someone asking him for advice should, soon afterward, wind up dead.

That connection also explains why we’re here, as Hemingways’ is the only business Cardwell represented with a contract with Roscoe’s enterprises. ”

From both men’s expressions, it was plain they were following the links and were beginning to realize that they and their enterprise were under suspicion. Before they could grow too defensive, Barnaby asked, “Has Cardwell visited in the past few weeks?”

Both men shook their heads.

The younger added, “As I said, he hasn’t been here since…well, it would be around the beginning of January. We weren’t due to see him again until after the end of this month.”

“What about the usual reports?” Jordan asked. “All up to date?”

The younger Hemingway nodded. “He did them at the close of the year, and we finalized everything when he came in January.”

His father nodded. “We signed off then. Cardwell was always prompt with everything. He never let anything slide.”

Jordan caught Stokes’s eye. “That’s what I would have expected of an agent as careful as Thomas appears to have been.”

The older Hemingway nodded. “Aye, he was that—careful and precise. He’ll be missed and not just by us.” He glanced at his son. “I suppose we’ll have to find someone else, now.”

The younger Hemingway didn’t look enthused.

The father returned his gaze to Stokes. “I don’t see what more we can tell you, Inspector. We know nothing about nefarious activities and would challenge anyone to find anything amiss with our practices.”

The last was said with a hint of rising ire.

Jordan stepped in to say, “We’ve looked through your accounts—the ledgers Cardwell kept on the business—and found nothing whatsoever amiss or in any way suspicious.”

Hemingway Senior responded, “That’s because there’s nothing to be found.”

Stokes inclined his head. “This visit is purely because Cardwell left no clue as to which of—or, indeed, whether any of—his clients’ businesses were involved in what he uncovered.”

“We had to check, you see,” Penelope put in. “To convince ourselves that there isn’t any problem here and that we need to look elsewhere.”

The Hemingways exchanged a long look, then Hemingway Senior returned his attention to them.

His gaze shrewd, he eyed them for several seconds, then stated, “Our business is an open book, at least to the authorities. In our line of work, supplying goods to finicky and demanding customers, you can’t get away with doing anything underhanded.

Our reputation is one we’ve worked for years to build, and we’re not about to risk damaging that.

If you need to see anything more of our enterprise, by all means, feel free to wander about and look. ”