“Thank you, Gasthorpe.” Christian opened the missive with the small knife on Gasthorpe’s salver; while the majordomo retreated, he unfolded the note and read, then looked up. “I sent to Montague earlier to ask how many different regular payments were made into the company’s accounts. The answer is fourteen, which matches the number of hells.”
“Twelve hells in London, and one each in Cambridge and Oxford.” Tristan raised his brows. “Anything else?”
Christian nodded. “Montague confirms that those fourteen regular payments—the profits from the hells—account for the entire income of the Orient Trading Company. It appears that once established, as all the hells now are, each hell runs its own books for upkeep and all day-to-day running costs. What appeared in the fourteen property ledgers we found were the initial costs to set up each hell—the furniture, decorating, salaries, and so on for a time, until the hell could pay its way. Subsequently, all profits were paid into the three company accounts. Those fourteen hells form the sum total of the company’s assets—there’s nothing else within the company we need consider.”
“Nothing else?” Letitia muttered. “I would have thought fourteen gambling hells was quite enough.” She looked around the group. “Did anyone learn anything about this sale Randall was organizing?”
“I heard rumors, whispers, and so did Jack,” Tony reported. “But neither of us could unearth anything definite.”
Tristan nodded. “I found much the same—the prospect of a sale of fourteen highly profitable hells has naturally caused ripples in the murky pond of the underworld, but while my contacts had caught w
hispers, including some names, none move in the right circles to have heard anything certain.”
The London underworld was Christian’s arena, as all his colleagues knew. He thought, then said, “There are only so many operators who could aspire to buy such a portfolio of properties. I doubt any of the others would band together, so that leaves us with Edson, Plummer, Netherwell, Gammon, Curtin, Croxton, and of course Roscoe.”
Tony’s, Jack’s, and Tristan’s contacts had mentioned all the above except for Gammon and Croxton.
“No hint who the leading bidder might be?” Dalziel asked.
Tristan shook his head. “No one even seemed sure that a sale had as yet been agreed upon.”
Christian glanced at Dalziel. “There’s a wealth of suspects in that list alone. Together with the others—Trowbridge, Swithin, any disgruntled managers, employees, or patrons—we have a plethora of potential murderers.”
“All of which suggests,” Letitia acerbically said, “that selling the holdings of the Orient Trading Company with all possible speed, so I can wash my hands of this entire business, is the most sensible thing to do.”
All the men looked at her.
Leaving it to Christian to, very mildly, say, “Actually, no. All we’ve learned argues for extreme caution, and that you should avoid any mention, however slight, of any intention to sell until we catch Randall’s murderer.”
She looked at him, harassed frustration plain in her face. “Why?” She delivered the single word with a level of dramatic force only a Vaux could command.
“Because,” he replied, clinging to his mild, unchallenging tone, “as things stand, it remains very likely that Randall’s move to sell was what provided the motive for his murder.”
For a long moment she held his gaze, then she pulled a face. “Very well.” Her tension left her. “So what now?”
“Now,” Dalziel said, “we need to learn, definitively and absolutely, if Randall had chosen a buyer. If his negotiations had proceeded to the point where he’d made a decision, and even perhaps taken the first steps toward formalizing the sale.”
“Trowbridge and Swithin both made it clear Randall was the primary active agent when it came to running the company, and Montague confirmed that,” Christian reminded them. “So the fact they don’t know any details about a pending sale doesn’t mean it hadn’t progressed to the point that Randall had shaken hands on a deal.”
“If he had,” Tony said, “then given the hells and their profits, I’d place the bidder who missed out at the top of my suspect list.”
“Possibly,” Christian replied. “But I know who to ask for definite information, at least as to who the interested parties were and how far the sale had progressed.”
Dalziel cocked a brow at him. “Gallagher?”
Christian nodded.
“If you’re going to visit Gallagher,” Tristan said, “you’ll need someone to watch your back. I’ll come, too.”
“And as two is always better than one,” Tony quipped, “so will I.”
Letitia frowned and tried to catch Christian’s eye.
But he was looking at Tony and nodding. “Tonight, then. Let’s meet here at eight.”
Tristan and Tony agreed. “Eight,” Tony said as the men all stood. “Ready for an evening in the stews.”
“What did Torrington mean—an evening in the stews?”