Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,98
made the place unbearably hot. But in the dead of winter, on a day in which the temperature hovered near freezing, the heat, which smelled of burnt oil and molten metal, was only stifling and no worse.
The noises, however, could drive a man to distraction: the grinding, clashing, screeching, and above all, the thunderous clangs of plates being riveted both manually and by steam riveters. Perspiring workers, their faces darkened with soot, swarmed like bees around large, unfinished boilers. They glanced up as Lord Ingram, Mr. Bloom, and Mrs. Watson walked by, accompanied by Mr. Fogerty, but their attention quickly returned to their tasks.
Lord Ingram’s natural father had been one of the country’s wealthiest, most successful bankers. His banks had made—and continued to make—numerous industrial loans for the construction and modernization of factories. Consequently the banks had, at their disposal, individuals capable of judging whether that money had been put to good use.
Mr. Bloom, a rail-thin man with a large mustache, was one such highly regarded individual. Lord Ingram noticed that whereas his and Mrs. Watson’s eyes were quickly drawn to the hive-like activity, Mr. Bloom perused the physical assets, from the shed building itself, to the vertiginous pyramidal framework surrounding each steam riveting machine.
During the inspection, his few questions quickly revealed Mr. Fogerty’s ignorance of the factory’s prior incarnation. His subsequent request for documents and photographs only made the latter more discomfited.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t given anything of the sort,” answered the foreman, mopping his face with a large handkerchief. “The place when Mr. Sullivan entrusted it to me was fresh and spanking. Awful pretty. It never occurred to me to ask how it was before.”
Mr. Bloom made no comment. He didn’t say anything until they were in a carriage, driving away, and then he asked to see the rough estimate Mrs. Watson had brought, of the cost of renovating and refurbishing this particular factory.
He studied the one-page summary, written in Holmes’s hand, for long minutes, so long that Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson looked at each other several times, Mrs. Watson’s expression growing more tense with each iteration.
“How accurate do you consider this estimate, Mrs. Watson?” asked Mr. Bloom at last, his voice disconcertingly quiet.
Mrs. Watson swallowed. “I’ll admit that of the three people involved in its preparation, there is not a single professional accountant. But we can trace every one of the major payments used to arrive at this sum. If anything, I’d say we’ve been conservative in our approximation.”
Mr. Bloom was again silent. Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson exchanged another look and asked no questions.
They took a quick luncheon at the railway inn across the street from the station. And it was only after the plates had been cleared that Mr. Bloom said, “It behooves me to be prudent before making pronouncements. May I examine the accounts myself after we return to London?”
Lord Ingram felt his heartbeat suspend. What pronouncements? “I will need to obtain permission from Mrs. Treadles but I believe that will be readily granted. In fact, I will send a cable now, so that you may see the accounts as soon as possible.”
Before he could rise, Mrs. Watson, her face drawn, asked, “Mr. Bloom, I know you don’t wish to rush to judgment. But surely, you have some ideas now. Some very concrete ideas.”
Beneath the table, Lord Ingram’s nails dug into the palm of his hand.
“I do,” answered Mr. Bloom, frowning. “And unfortunately, if I must speak at the moment, I will say that at most two thirds of the money supposedly spent on this factory actually went into it. Likely only a half.”
* * *
“No,” said Mrs. Coltrane decisively. “The locks on the exterior doors of number 33 were changed after the previous tenants left. They’d been there for years and there was no telling how many copies of the keys might be lying about; it was safer to change the locks.”
She and Charlotte sat in her small office in the basement of 31 Cold Street, where Charlotte had just received the item she had officially come for, Mr. Longstead’s appointment book, freshly returned by Scotland Yard. “What about the letting agent? I assume you had one for number 33 to find new tenants?”
“We did have one. After the previous tenants left, maintenance work was done—a thorough cleaning of the flues, a changing of the wallpapers, etc. It was during that period Miss Longstead discovered the attic and fell in love.
“When the work on number 33 was nearly finished, she asked Mr.