“There are decisions to be made for which Mr. Arbuthnot and myself have neither the legal power nor the professional knowledge.” He glanced around to make sure none of the three young ledger clerks were within earshot, and moved a step closer. “We are at our wits' end to know what to do next, or how to put people off any longer without their guessing that something is most seriously amiss. Business is most competitive, sir. Others will seize the chance to profit from our indecision.” His face grew pinker and he bit his lip. “Do you think that he could have been kidnapped, sir?”

It was not among the possibilities that had occurred to Monk.

“It would be a most extreme step,” he replied, watching the young man's face. He saw nothing in it but fear and sympathy. If he knew anything more, he was an actor to rival Henry living and had missed a career on the stage.

“Then he must have been taken ill,” the clerk said with concern. “And is even now lying in some hospital, unable to contact us. He would never wittingly leave us in this way.” He grew even pinker. “Nor his family either, of course! That I need hardly say.” His expression indicated he knew he should have said it to begin with.

“Does he have business rivals who might think to profit if he were out of the way?” Monk asked, casting his eye discreetly around the tidy, well-furnished room with its desks and shelves of books and files of ledgers. The winter sun came in through high, narrow windows. He still thought a domestic answer more likely.

“Oh yes, sir,” the clerk replied with assurance. “Mr. Stonefield is most successful, sir. A rare gift he has for knowing what will sell, and for precisely how much. Made a profit where quite a few others would have burned their fingers… and did!” There was a lift of pride in his voice, then as he looked at Monk, a sudden anxiety. “But always strictly honest!” he added, regarding Monk gravely to make sure he understood that.