Page 1 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
CHAPTER 1
MARCH 1, 1841. DOLPHIN SQUARE, LONDON
Jordan Draper’s life revolved around figures; numbers were life blood to him. As the third son of a provincial man-of-business, he’d been exposed to the calculus of various types of enterprises from an early age. Consequently, it had surprised no one when, after completing grammar school, he’d taken to the business of accounts and estate management like a duck to water.
Then, utterly unexpectedly, for excellent and, indeed, commendable reasons, a scion of his father’s premier client family, the Delbraiths, who held the dukedom of Ridgware, elected to leave behind his life of dissolute comfort to become, of all things, London’s gambling king. The absurdity and the challenge appealed to Jordan, and he followed Neville Roscoe to London, becoming Roscoe’s man-of-business and, in all things managerial, Roscoe’s right-hand man. As such, Jordan watched over all the accounts pertaining to Roscoe’s vast entrepreneurial empire.
Despite there being more than a decade between them in age, Jordan and Roscoe had always got on. They understood each other at a level that meant that, in any situation, Jordan instinctively knew what Roscoe would want done. Over theyears, the day-to-day excitements and never-ending challenges had ensured Jordan remained engaged and involved in the constantly evolving business that fell under Roscoe’s hand. That invariably, Roscoe stood on the side of justice and fairness made Jordan’s work considerably easier than might have been supposed.
Now, decades after Roscoe’s arrival in London, the authorities were entirely content to have the upper stratum of gambling establishments in the town firmly under Roscoe’s control.
With his position at Roscoe’s side assured and all running smoothly, Jordan found that his life had grown pleasant and comfortable, but rather less exciting and challenging.
There were times he wasn’t entirely sure if that was for the good.
On the first afternoon of March, toward the end of a rather dreary day, seated behind the desk in the accounts office in Roscoe’s sprawling mansion in Dolphin Square, Jordan was finalizing the last of the day’s correspondence when Mudd, one of Roscoe’s bodyguards, tapped on the open door.
“Boss wants to see you in his office,” Mudd rumbled.
Jordan nodded, tucked his pencil behind his right ear, and pushed back his chair. “Any clue as to why?”
Mudd stepped back and waited for Jordan to join him in the corridor. “Some letter that just came. Seems it’s a mite puzzling.”
Intrigued, Jordan walked beside Mudd, a hefty ex-bruiser closer to Roscoe’s age than Jordan’s and also one of the trusted few who made up Roscoe’s inner circle, down the elegantly appointed corridor to Roscoe’s large office.
The door stood open, and Jordan and Mudd walked in to find Roscoe, a dark-haired, elegantly handsome gentleman whose face testified to his aristocratic lineage, sitting behind his largemahogany desk and faintly frowning at the sheet of paper he held in one hand.
Leaning on one of Roscoe’s broad shoulders and also avidly scrutinizing the letter was Lady Miranda, Roscoe’s wife.
Another man, even taller and heavier than Mudd, stood before the curtained windows, attempting to look inconspicuous and failing. As Jordan crossed the thick carpet toward the desk, he grinned and tipped his head to Rawlings, another of the inner circle.
Both Roscoe and Miranda looked up as Jordan neared.
Miranda straightened and smiled, the gesture warming her pretty face.
Jordan smiled back, then met Roscoe’s eyes, which continued to hold a frown. “You wanted me?”
Roscoe’s gaze returned to the letter. “Remember Thomas Cardwell, Hemingway’s man-of-business?”
Jordan nodded. “We dealt with him in negotiating the Hemingways’ contract.”
Hemingways’ Linens supplied the linens to all of Roscoe’s various clubs. As far as Jordan was aware, the firm had always been reliable with no issues at all.
“Correct.” Roscoe held out the letter. “This just arrived, and I’m not sure what to make of it. What do you think?”
Jordan took the letter and quickly scanned the neat, businesslike script.
Thomas Cardwell had written:
Dear Sir,
I’ve stumbled upon a nefarious activity that I believe needs to be brought to the attention of the authorities. However, the situation is sensitive, and I have no connections in that sphere and do not know how to proceed. I am hoping that you might advise me as to what the best approach would be. I will be in my office from eight in the morning tomorrow or will willinglytravel to Dolphin Square should you or one of your advisors be available to discuss the matter.
Yours sincerely, Thomas Cardwell.
“Nefarious?” Jordan could see why Roscoe was puzzled. “He could have been a trifle more forthcoming.”
“Indeed. That was my immediate reaction,” Roscoe confessed. “What on earth could Cardwell have stumbled upon?”
