He pulled away from her. “I’d like nothing better.”
Striding into the sitting room, Jackson took up a post at the hearth, facing the wounded man. “I am Chief Inspector Jackson Forge, Mr. Coleman, so you need not fear any harm while you are under my roof. How about you tell us your story? We would like to help you, but we must have all the facts in order to do so.”
Mr. Coleman bobbed his head, the cup that Kit’d offered him clinking against the saucer. “It all started a few months back, when I looked into some numbers that didn’t add up. I’m an accountant, you see, at Willis, Percival & Company.”
“At least that part of Carky’s story was correct.” Kit smirked. “Go on, Mr. Coleman.”
“Like I said, numbers weren’t adding up, so I went to my superior, Mr. Blade, who told me not to pay such matters any mind. He had things under control. So, I trusted him—which was my mistake.” His head dropped, and for a moment nothing but the tick of the clock and clap of horse hooves outside filled the air.
“What happened?” Jackson prodded.
Mr. Coleman inhaled deeply. “In my spare time—before and after hours, mind, for I am no shirker—I came in early and stayed late in my office. I’m working on a number puzzle I intend to sell to newspapers once I perfect it, a weekly or even daily feature. It’s sure to be a most challenging diversion for those who enjoy enigmas.”
A number puzzle? Jackson retrieved the paper Kit had given him from his pocket. As busy as he’d been, he’d not had a spare moment to run it over to the Foreign Office or the cryptologists, which may have been a blessing of Providence. “Is that what this is about?”
Coleman pulled the torn slip from his fingers, brows furrowing as he studied it. “Yes. Yes, indeed. This is mine.” He glanced up. “Where did you find it?”
“I found it,” Kit said. “At your flat.”
“Ahh. Deuced careless of me.” He crumpled the paper into a ball. “At any rate, I was working on this puzzle late one evening when I ran out of ledger paper. Normally I ask Mr. Blade for a fresh pad from the cabinet in his office, but he’d already gone. So, I…well.” His wide mouth flattened, and he gave a little shake of his head. “I ought not admit it, but I am rather handy with a letter opener and a piece of wire.”
Jackson cocked his head. What other secrets did this man have squirreled away? “You are a picklock, sir?”
“An amateur, of sorts.” He took a great gulp of his tea. “But that is neither here nor there. The point is, while rummaging about for fresh paper, I discovered a ledger tucked away where it ought not to have been. Naturally, I glanced into it, and what I saw surprised me. The numbers on the pages were the exact figures missing from the book I’d been working on. Had Mr. Blade given me the wrong book? I couldn’t imagine it would be anything else, so I confronted him about it the next day.”
Jackson whistled low as he strolled over to where Kit sat and perched on the arm of her chair. “That didn’t go well, I imagine.”
“It did not. Mr. Blade threatened that if I didn’t keep quiet about the whole thing, he’d terminate me immediately and make sure I didn’t work as an accountant ever again. I did as he said, for a while; but then it dawned on me that should Mr. Percival or Mr. Willis find out about the phantom ledger, I could be blamed as an accomplice, or worse, Mr. Blade might blame me altogether.” He set down his teacup, still half-full, wincing from the movement to his arm. “I didn’t want any trouble, and I most certainly did not want to go to gaol, so I thought to get the jump on the situation and copy that ledger. That way Mr. Blade wouldn’t notice anything missing and I would have hard evidence to bring to Mr. Percival and Mr. Willis.”
Kit set down her own cup and whumped back to the chair, brushing against Jackson in the process. “How did you manage that? Surely Mr. Blade didn’t hide the ledger in the same place.”
“He didn’t. And it took quite some skill to crack the code on that safe—er—I mean, well, you see, numbers are my thing. I hope you won’t think ill of me.”
Jackson stifled a guffaw. “My wife and I have discovered, Mr. Coleman, that in the pursuit of justice, sometimes one must wade into the murky waters that separate right from wrong.” He glanced down at Kit—only to find her big blue eyes smiling up at his.
“I’m afraid,” Mr. Coleman murmured, “Mr. Blade didn’t merely wade, but dove headfirst into the wrong side of the criminal ocean.”
Jackson jerked his head towards the man, senses heightened. Clearly there was more to the story than a simple skimming operation. “How so?”
Lifting his good arm, Mr. Coleman rubbed the back of his neck. “Late one night I was returning the ledger when I heard a key in the lock of Mr. Blade’s door. I slammed the safe shut and secreted myself in the paper cabinet—which was quite a feat of contortion, I tell you. But while there, I overheard Mr. Blade conversing with some rough sort of men, or more like they were conversing with him…and they threatened him with more than the loss of his job. They threatened his very life if he didn’tpay up,whatever that meant.” Dropping his hand, he shrugged one shoulder. “They promised him a death of a most horrible kind. That’s when I decided it might be best if I disappeared for a while. Come back later when Mr. Blade had paid whatever debt he owed. So, I took what I had and ran.”
Jackson ground his teeth. This little job Kit had taken on was turning into quite the monster.
“What are you thinking?” Kit rubbed his arm.
Ignoring her touch, he rose and paced in front of the tea table. “Do you still have that copy of the ledger, Mr. Coleman?”
He patted the pocket on his waistcoat. “I keep it on me at all times. I still don’t wish to answer for Mr. Blade’s wrongdoings.”
“You needn’t worry about that anymore,” Kit cut in. “Mr. Blade is dead.”
“What?” Mr. Coleman deflated against the cushions, face draining of colour. “I can scarce believe it.”
“It appears your Mr. Blade was in league with someone else.” Stopping his pacing, Jackson faced Kit. “Carky Smathers?”
She shook her head. “If I still know anything of Carky, she is a gun for hire, nothing more.”
“Then what deep pockets hired her?” He turned back to the skinny man on the sofa. “Think hard, Mr. Coleman. Were any names mentioned that night you listened in?”
