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“May we?” Penelope leaned forward, her eagerness on full display. For Barnaby’s money, that had more to do with her innate curiosity than the case at hand.

The younger Hemingway responded to her appeal. “I’ll be happy to take you around and explain anything you wish to know.”

“Excellent!” Penelope came to her feet, bringing all the men to theirs. Smiling, she held out her hand to Hemingway Senior. “Thank you, Mr. Hemingway, for being so understanding. I’m sure there’s nothing untoward for me to see, but I would like to better understand how you do what you do.”

Not even Hemingway Senior was immune to Penelope’s charm. He gruffly assured her that she was welcome to explore as she wished.

With Penelope and Hemingway Junior making for the door, Stokes seized the opportunity to tell Hemingway Senior, “I believe the rest of us have seen enough to conclude that the reason Cardwell contacted Roscoe did not arise from anything to do with Hemingways’ Linens.”

Appeased, the older Hemingway accompanied them to his door.

He would have walked them back to the foyer, but Barnaby caught sight of Penelope and Hemingway Junior already deep in the packaging area.

Barnaby tipped his head in their direction and, to Hemingway, said, “We’d better keep them in sight. ”

Stokes had also spotted the pair. He humphed and said to Hemingway, “We might have to step in and rescue your son.”

Hemingway barked a laugh, nodded, and waved them on.

With Jordan and Stokes, Barnaby had to step smartly around tables and benches and dance around carts to catch up with his wife.

Once they had, Jordan and Stokes slowed to amble a few paces behind.

Resuming his customary position at Penelope’s side, Barnaby quickly grasped that she wasn’t merely satisfying her curiosity, nor was she solely focused on exhausting all possibility that Hemingways’ Linens had any association with nefarious activities.

Listening to her artful questions, he realized that she was, in fact, interviewing Hemingway as a potential employer for the graduates of the Foundling House.

He should, he acknowledged, have expected that. His wife was nothing if not opportunistic when it came to arranging employment for the foundlings.

It took rather longer than they’d expected to complete their circuit of the Hemingways’ business, and when they finally returned to the forecourt, even Stokes was ready to take an oath that there was nothing even remotely nefarious there.

They parted from Hemingway Junior with smiles all around and made their way back to the waiting carriage.

After directing Phelps to return to Mayfair, Barnaby climbed into the carriage and settled beside Penelope. Once the carriage was rolling, he glanced at the others’ faces and observed, “It would have been too easy if Cardwell’s concern had, in fact, stemmed from Hemingways’ Linens.”

Penelope hummed, then stated, “Murder is rarely so straightforward.”

Stokes glanced at Jordan. “So now we have to hunt for something else Cardwell recently learned that disturbed him to the extent that he contacted Roscoe for advice.” Stokes paused, then ventured, “Nefarious activities. Could Cardwell have inflated some minor matter to that level?”

Instantly, Jordan shook his head. “I only met him three times, yet from what I saw on those occasions, I feel confident in stating that he was a well-grounded man. He knew his business and was naturally cautious and not given to overstatement.” He met Stokes’s gaze.

“Everything I saw of him inclines me to believe that calling whatever he discovered ‘nefarious’ is more likely to be an understatement than unwarranted hyperbole.”

Stokes grimaced. “I have to admit I’ve yet to meet a successful man-of-business who isn’t inherently cautious.”

Quietly, Barnaby stated, “Added to that, there’s the inescapable fact that Cardwell is now dead.”

Jordan returned to Broad Street and Thomas Cardwell’s office, first because he’d left Gelman on guard there, lurking inconspicuously and keeping an eye on the premises from the opposite side of the street, and also because that niggling inkling that he’d overlooked something in the ledgers had only intensified.

He found Gelman in an alcove beside the bakery.

Seeing Jordan, Gelman straightened from his slouch. “No activity of any sort over the way. Morgan’s inside. He relieved Walsh.” Gelman tipped his head. “Anything at Hemingways’?”

“No. As I expected, our visit there was a waste of time, at least as far as the investigation goes.”

Gelman followed Jordan’s gaze to the office opposite. “So what now?”

“Now…” Jordan debated, then decided and headed for the curb. “I want to take another look at Cardwell’s ledgers.”

Morgan saw them coming and unlocked the door and let them in.

After advising the constable of the outcome of their jaunt to Battersea, Jordan added, “I just want to take another look at the ledgers.”

Leaving Morgan and Gelman standing at the window and looking out at the street, Jordan crossed to the shelves and drew out one of the Hemingways’ ledgers he’d examined earlier.

He carried the account book to the round table, set the book down, and opened it at random.

He placed his palms on the table, on either side of the open book, and leaned on his straightened arms, hanging over the pages displayed.

His eyes immediately scanned the figures, his mind adding and checking, but he knew the arithmetic wasn’t the source of his niggle.

There was nothing wrong with the numbers or totals.

With conscious effort, he forced his mind from its obsession and drew his focus back, away from the details, seeing the page more generally…

The layout was intensely familiar, so what was wrong, odd, strange?

The obvious reached out and, metaphorically, slapped him in the face.

He huffed and straightened, continuing to stare at the page.

Once he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it nor understand how he had missed it in the first place.

With a sense of achievement, he shut the ledger and returned it to the shelf, then walked around the office, pulling ledger after ledger from its place and checking each before replacing it.

Every single ledger was in the same hand.

All of Thomas Cardwell’s accounts were kept by one person, and that person wasn’t Thomas Cardwell.

Of that, Jordan was now supremely sure.

He returned to where Morgan and Gelman were quietly chatting and nodded to Morgan. “We’ll leave you to your watch.”

Morgan grimaced. “Ah, well—the company’s been nice.”

Gelman aimed a salute at the constable and followed Jordan out of the door.

Jordan paused on the pavement, then looked at the bakery. “There first, I think.”

Gelman kept pace as Jordan crossed the road. “What are we doing?”

“Buying food, to start with.”

“Food? Why? We going on a picnic?”

“No,” Jordan replied. “But Miranda always takes food when she visits a house that’s suffered a bereavement.” He paused, then added, “I’m not entirely sure why, so don’t ask.”

Jordan bought a large fresh loaf at the bakery, then went to the shop two doors down and selected a small wheel of country cheddar.

He spotted a lined picnic basket with napkins on one shelf and bought that as well, along with jars of raspberry jam and honey.

After settling his purchases in the basket and covering them with the napkins, he set off with Gelman for the corner that would take them to Finsbury Circus.

Just around the corner, they passed a vintner’s, and a bottle in the window caught Jordan’s eye. Leaving the basket with Gelman outside, Jordan went in and emerged several minutes later with a bottle of sherry.

“That should do it.” He slid the bottle in alongside the bread and cheese, then with Gelman shaking his head at him, Jordan headed for the Cardwell house.