Page 15 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
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. Inthe 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.”
