Page 2 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
Still studying the scant lines, Jordan offered, “I assume labeling the situation ‘sensitive’ means this discovery involves one of his clients.”
“Possibly,” Miranda said, “but who’s to know?”
“Only one way to find out.” Jordan looked at Roscoe. “Do you want me to go to his office tomorrow and learn what this is about?”
Roscoe considered the question, then glanced at Mudd and Rawlings. “Have we heard anything about Hemingways’ recently?”
Both large men shook their heads.
“Not a peep,” Mudd confirmed. “Far as we know, they’re carrying on as usual with no dramas.”
Roscoe tapped one long finger on his blotter, then returned his gaze to Jordan. “One never can tell. Best you go and see Cardwell and find out what he’s uncovered.”
Miranda added, “We don’t want to suddenly discover the clubs are short on linens. And”—she caught Roscoe’s eye—“just in case there’s more to this than meets the eye at first glance, you might take Gelman with you.”
Gelman was in training to eventually assist Mudd and Rawlings with their duties.
Rawlings was quick to support Miranda’s suggestion. “The lad needs to get out and about and learn more of what the business covers.”
Mudd tacked on, “What he might be called on to do. He needs experience if he’s to step up to our level one day.”
Struggling to rein in his grin, Roscoe nodded to Jordan. “Yes, take Gelman with you. It won’t hurt for him to be put to wider use.”
Jordan folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “Gelman and I will head over to Cardwell’s first thing tomorrow.”
At eight o’clock the following morning, accompanied by John Gelman, Jordan left the big white mansion on the north side of Dolphin Square, hailed an idling hackney, and set off to cross London to Thomas Cardwell’s office in Broad Street, just north of the Bank of England.
Gelman was an average-sized man in his mid-thirties, perennially neatly and quietly dressed and keen to prove himself worthy of inclusion in Roscoe’s innermost circle. Like Mudd and Rawlings, he’d been a guard at one of Roscoe’s clubs and had shown himself to be a sensible man who understood the value of restraint and of using common sense to defuse fraught situations. He could be intimidating when required but also knew when to stand back and let the promise of his presence do the talking. Unlike Mudd and Rawlings, who with their crooked noses and cauliflower ears bore the signs of their previous lives in their faces, Gelman possessed an unremarkable appearance, which made him an excellent choice for this excursion.
In common with all of Roscoe’s men, Gelman wasn’t a natural chatterer, and Jordan spent the journey to Broad Street mentally constructing possible scenarios to account for Thomas Cardwell’s appeal.
The hackney drew up opposite Cardwell’s office. With muted eagerness, Jordan opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. Gelman followed and paid the jarvey.
When the carriage drew away, Jordan remained on the pavement and studied the three-story building across the street. It was typical of the area, having a wide façade with a central door that would give access to stairs leading to the apartments on the upper floors. The ground floor played host to two offices, each reached by doors flanking and at right angles to the central door, which was set back a yard or so from the pavement so that the three doors formed a rectangular alcove. Both offices had wide bow windows fronting the street, and above the window on the right, a discreet gold-lettered sign declared it to be the premises of Thom. Cardwell, Business Agent.
Jordan stepped onto the cobbles and, with Gelman at his shoulder, crossed to the opposite pavement and led the way to Cardwell’s door. Given it was half past eight, Jordan was unsurprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it and walked into a neat and welcoming office.
Three comfortable chairs arranged about a round table occupied the area closer to the window, while farther back, a wide solid desk sat squarely across the rear of the room. The three interior walls were lined with shelves holding account ledgers and books about accounting practices.
In one sweeping glance, Jordan took all of that in and found nothing out of place.
The sight that jarred him and brought him to a halt two paces beyond the door was the younger gentleman with his pale, slack-jawed face and horror-struck expression who was standing stock-still behind the desk and staring downward in utter shock.
Slowly, as if the movement required great effort, the younger man dragged his gaze from its fixation, looked at Jordanand Gelman, and, ashen-faced, stammered, “I… I didn’t…” He swallowed and blurted, almost on a wail, “I didn’t do it!”
Freed by the sound, Jordan swiftly went forward.
Gelman closed the door and followed.
They rounded the desk and halted, looking down at a sight that explained the gentleman’s distress.
A dark-haired man in a neat suit lay sprawled on his back, with blood seeping through his waistcoat from where the hilt of a letter knife protruded from his chest. With a sinking feeling, Jordan recognized Thomas Cardwell. Cardwell’s eyes were wide open, and his expression was one of surprise and shock. Judging by the position of the desk chair, Cardwell had been sitting in it when he was attacked and had subsequently fallen off to one side.
Jordan and Gelman both softly swore, and Jordan crouched and set his fingers to Cardwell’s neck to check for a pulse. There was none, but from the warmth of Cardwell’s skin and the still-oozing blood, he’d been dead for mere minutes.
Absorbing that fact, Jordan raised his gaze to the unknown younger man.
The man rushed to declare, “I only just got here! I arrived a bare minute before you two.”
