The gash above Elias’s eye healed slowly, forming a jagged scar that pulled at his skin. It was a constant, visible testament to Cromwell’s ruthlessness, a mark he now carried everywhere. Barnaby, still shaken by the ambush, was less eager to rush into danger, but his resolve to expose Cromwell had hardened. The cryptic whisper, “mind the ghost in the books,” replayed in Elias’s mind. He knew it referred to Silas’s hidden ledgers, but the thug’s gesture toward Cromwell’s office suggested there was more to uncover *within* Cromwell’s own records.
Elias focused his attention on Arthur Penwright, the timber appraiser. It had always puzzled Elias how Penwright, a man known for his meticulous, if pompous, adherence to standards, could have certified Cromwell’s shoddy lumber. The numbers in Silas’s hidden ledger clearly showed the discrepancies, yet Penwright’s official reports were spotless.
“He lives on Sycamore Street,” Barnaby offered one morning, having quietly done some digging. “A small house, but always impeccably kept. He prides himself on his reputation, you know.”
Elias nodded. That pride was a weakness, a lever he could use.
He found Penwright in his study, surrounded by stacks of official-looking documents and framed certificates of accreditation. The room smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old leather. Penwright, a portly man with a neatly trimmed beard, looked up from a document, startled by Elias’s unannounced arrival.
“Mr. Finch!” Penwright exclaimed, adjusting his spectacles. His voice was thick with affected civility. “To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?”
Elias stepped further into the room, his scarred face grim. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I’m here about Cromwell, Mr. Penwright. And the timber you’ve been certifying for him.”
Penwright’s face stiffened. A faint tremor ran through his hands, which he quickly clasped behind his back. “I assure you, Mr. Finch, all my appraisals for Mr. Cromwell’s company have been conducted with the utmost professional integrity. Every beam, every plank, meets federal specifications.”
“Do they?” Elias challenged, his voice low and steady. He pulled a worn copy of Silas’s true ledger from his coat, its pages barely visible. He didn’t show it to Penwright, but its presence was a silent threat. “Because I have reason to believe you’ve been signing off on substandard lumber for federal contracts.”
Penwright paled, his composure cracking. He began to stammer. “That’s… that’s an outrageous accusation, sir! My reputation is beyond reproach!”
“Your reputation, or Cromwell’s money?” Elias pressed, stepping closer. The scar above his eye pulled at his skin, making his gaze feel intense. “Men’s lives depend on those bridges holding, Penwright. Children play near those barracks. Do you want their deaths on your conscience?”
Penwright recoiled, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “I… I simply process the reports I’m given. The timber is inspected by Cromwell’s own men first.”
“But *you* sign the final certification,” Elias countered. “Your name, your seal. And my information suggests those timbers are rotten.”
Penwright wrung his hands. His meticulously kept study suddenly felt suffocating. He coughed, a dry, nervous sound.
“It’s not that simple, Mr. Finch,” Penwright whispered, his pompous demeanor completely gone. He sank into an armchair, his bulk seeming to deflate. “Cromwell… Cromwell is a dangerous man.”
“I know that,” Elias said, his voice devoid of sympathy. “What does he have on you, Penwright?”
The appraiser looked up, his eyes wide and fearful. He swallowed hard, then began to speak in a rush, as if unable to hold the secret any longer.
“He knows about the funds,” Penwright confessed, his voice trembling. “From the federal procurement office, back in ’58. A small ‘discrepancy,’ a reallocation of funds for ‘administrative purposes.’ He somehow found out. He has the proof, Mr. Finch.”
Elias watched him, a cold sense of confirmation settling in his gut. Penwright wasn’t a willing participant; he was a desperate, compromised tool.
“What proof?” Elias asked.
“Letters. Bank drafts. My own signed requisitions,” Penwright whimpered. “He collects such things. Keeps them… secure.”
“And the inspection reports?” Elias pressed. “The real ones. Not the ones you sign.”
Penwright nodded, burying his face in his hands. “He makes me. He sends me drafted reports with the ‘correct’ findings. But the *actual* reports, the ones my men and I file after a true inspection… he collects those. Every last one. Locks them away. Says they’re for ‘auditing purposes’ but I know better.”
Penwright looked up, his eyes pleading. “He keeps them in his personal safe, Mr. Finch. In his office at the main headquarters. The thick, cast-iron one. Nobody else has the combination. Not even his most trusted men. He keeps everything truly damning there.”
He was terrified, a man trapped by his own past mistakes and Cromwell’s predatory cunning. Cromwell not only had dirt on Penwright but also kept the original, damning evidence—the true inspection reports—locked away, safe from prying eyes. This was Twist 5.
“So the forged reports are what you sign,” Elias clarified, his voice flat. “But the originals, proving the timber is unsound, are locked in Cromwell’s safe.”
Penwright nodded miserably. “Yes. He says it’s for ‘safekeeping,’ so no one can tamper with them. But it’s blackmail, Mr. Finch. Pure and simple.”
Elias stood there, taking in the full scope of the revelation. This confirmed the specific nature of the fraud and the extent of Cromwell’s control. The “ghost in the books” now had a physical location beyond Silas’s secret ledger. Cromwell’s personal safe held the key, the irrefutable evidence that could expose him. But breaking into Cromwell’s impenetrable office and safe seemed an impossible task. The pain from his still-healing scar pulsed in rhythm with the new, daunting challenge before him. He had more proof than ever, but accessing it meant risking everything he had left.
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