Page 41 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
Relieved by how well the evening had gone, with their hands sunk in their pockets, Barnaby and Stokes strolled slowly down the track to where the Adair carriage with Phelps up top waited in the street.
Barnaby glanced at Stokes. “Chesterton has absolutely no idea who Thomas Cardwell is.”
Stokes grunted, but didn’t disagree. Several paces on, he offered, “Chesterton has no idea, but someone connected with this not-so-little enterprise might have realized the threat Cardwell posed. And no, I don’t know how, but before we go much farther, we need to find some concrete evidence that Cardwell did, indeed, follow his brother to the Fox on Sunday night and that, after seeing Chesterton with Gibson, Thomas followed Chesterton here, to the warehouse.”
His gaze on the ground before his feet, Barnaby nodded. “If Cardwell never made it here and never saw the guns, then the gun running wasn’t the reason he turned to Roscoe for help.”
“Exactly.” Stokes grimaced. “As much as I don’t want to think it, there’s a chance that Cardwell’s reason for contacting Roscoe was something else. However, arguing against that, if ever there was a reason for someone of Cardwell’s limited experience to consult Roscoe over how to alert the authorities to a nefarious activity, then this caper surely fits the bill.”
Barnaby huffed. “Nefarious activity. Cardwell was right in labeling it that.”
CHAPTER 9
When the investigators gathered the following morning in Albemarle Street, together with Jordan and Ruth, Penelope found herself hanging on Barnaby’s and Stokes’s every word as they described the events of the previous night.
She hadn’t heard the details before. She’d been sound asleep when Barnaby had returned, and this morning, given that they expected to be out for most of the day, they’d devoted their breakfast hours to the children.
Stokes ended the recitation with the unexpectedly glum admission, “However, when I mentioned Thomas and his death, Chesterton plainly had no idea who I was talking about.”
Barnaby glanced at Ruth. “He truly didn’t seem to know who Thomas was.”
“Let alone how Thomas’s death led us to him and the warehouse,” Stokes said. “Chesterton couldn’t figure out how we’d rumbled his scheme. He was genuinely puzzled and confused.”
“Well, then.” Penelope sat straighter and looked at Ruth and Jordan. “I, for one, am keen to view Chesterton for myself and try my hand at teasing more information from him.”
Everyone was of similar mind, and in short order, Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes were in the carriage and rolling over the cobbles, with Jordan and Ruth following in a hackney.
They arrived at Scotland Yard and congregated in the foyer while Stokes arranged to have Chesterton brought up from the cells to one of the ground-floor interview rooms. Once Chesterton had been installed, Stokes returned and escorted their small group through the corridors to a door toward the end of one wing. Stokes opened the door and led them in.
Penelope followed, eager to get her first view of Chesterton. Her gaze fell on the ruddy-faced man in a rumpled suit who was seated in the lone chair on the opposite side of the simple table. The man’s features were fleshy, and his suit was made of plaid in a bilious shade of mustard.
Her eyes widening, Penelope stared as she trailed Stokes to the line of chairs set along the table’s nearer side. Stokes and Barnaby had described Chesterton as being in early middle age, stocky and solidly built, and he was definitely all that, but what neither had mentioned was Chesterton’s shock of wiry carroty-red hair.
Bountiful orange curls, thick and dense, covered his head, and it was instantly apparent that no hat could ever be made to sit securely upon such a springy cushion.
Chesterton had been sitting slumped, his gaze on his manacled hands, but as they entered, he heaved a sigh and glanced up and was clearly surprised to see Penelope and, behind her, Barnaby, Ruth, and Jordan.
As they all filed in and claimed seats, Chesterton sat back and stared. Once they’d settled, a puzzled frown in his eyes, he asked, “What’s all this, then?”
Stokes replied, “The Yard has several consultants assisting us with this case.” He then proceeded to read out the charges the Crown intended bringing against Chesterton, namely gunrunning and smuggling. Stokes fixed Chesterton with a direct look. “We caught you red-handed with the guns and, what’s more, attempting to move them on. We also have your accomplices in the cells, and they’ve informed us that they’re willing to trade information for leniency.”
Chesterton made a sound of disgust, but from his expression, it was clear he didn’t doubt Stokes’s assertion.
“Now,” Stokes continued, “as to the reason for our consultants being present this morning, they’re here because the brother of one of your unsuspecting dupes—the three you paid to keep quiet about you using the warehouse—was murdered on Tuesday morning, and our information is that the killing happened shortly after he—the brother—followed you from the Fox to the warehouse and, apparently, discovered what you were storing there. It seems the brother worked out what you were doing and planned to take steps to bring the matter to the authorities’ attention.”
Chesterton’s confusion had only grown as he attempted to follow Stokes’s reasoning. “You think that the brother was murdered because he’d learned about the guns?” He frowned. “But…by whom?”
Stokes looked at him pointedly. “We were assuming by you.”
Chesterton’s jaw dropped, then he snapped it shut and blustered, “Me? I don’t even know who this geezer is! How could I have killed him?”
Barnaby asked, “You didn’t see him following you from the Fox or, later, slipping inside the warehouse and finding the guns and think to follow him home?”
“No!” Chesterton paused, then grudgingly added, “I had no idea anyone had followed me back to the warehouse. I didn’t have a clue that anyone who shouldn’t have known had learned about the guns.” He stared at them as if trying to force them to believe him, then his face cleared. “Well, obviously, I hadno clue, because if I had, I would have moved the guns straightaway, and I wouldn’t have walked so blindly into your trap last evening, would I?”
Studying Chesterton, Barnaby said, “You might have left the guns where they were if you thought you’d killed the man before he’d had a chance to pass on the information.”
Chesterton swore beneath his breath. “You’ve got that wrong—I never even knew someone had rumbled my patch.”
