Page 23 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
Standing behind the constable, Jordan rolled his eyes. As Roscoe’s righthand man, he was reasonably well-known among the more experienced members of the force and, given few knew the truth of London’s gambling king, consequently distrusted.
Hiding a smile, Stokes nodded. “I was. Thank you, Constable. Mr. Draper is, indeed, here to assist me.”
Still looking uncertain, the constable saluted and backed away, allowing Jordan to enter.
He shook his head and walked in. “Good morning. Having already run the gauntlet, I’m hoping the irritation will be worth it.”
Penelope and Barnaby smiled, and Stokes assured Jordan, “Your timing is perfect. We just got word that both Cardwells have been brought in and placed in separate interview rooms. Idecided it wouldn’t hurt for each to see that the other had also been brought in, but they weren’t close enough or in sight of each other for long enough to communicate, even via signal.”
“I see.” Jordan picked up a straight-backed chair from against the wall and set it beside Penelope’s.
He sat as Stokes went on, “We were just discussing whom to interview first. You’ve spoken with both. What’s your inclination?”
Jordan tipped his head this way, then that, clearly weighing up the prospects, then decisively stated, “Bobby. He’s the younger and much less sure of himself.”
Penelope nodded. “That was my thinking, too.”
Jordan went on, “That’s not to say that I think Gibson is genuinely all that confident, but he’s of an age where he’ll feel obliged to put on an arrogant face and bluster, deny, and stonewall. Bobby won’t. He’ll buckle immediately, and we’ll get much more out of him without having to play a heavy hand. With any luck, what he tells us will give us pointers on how to approach Gibson.”
“A sound analysis,” Barnaby said. “I concur.”
“Right, then. Our way forward is clear.” Stokes rose, and the other three got to their feet. “Let’s have at them.”
Barnaby, Penelope, and Jordan allowed Stokes to lead the way. They followed him down the main stairs, then around to a second set of stairs descending into the basement.
As he went down the second flight, speaking over his shoulder, Stokes told Jordan, “I’d originally thought to use one of the upstairs interview rooms, the ones we use to interview witnesses rather than perpetrators. But O’Donnell reported that Gibson Cardwell had already got high on his horse over being invited to speak with us, so I thought a touch of reality in less salubrious surrounds might help temper his protests.”
“One can but hope,” Jordan returned.
“And in order not to show favoritism to either brother,” Stokes added, “we put Bobby Cardwell down here as well.”
The belowground area was a warren of corridors. Stokes led them along one, then turned a corner and halted before a plain wooden door. Walsh stood beside it. He nodded to Stokes. “Morgan’s inside, and O’Donnell’s with the other one.” Walsh tipped his head along the corridor. “In the last room along there.”
“Good work,” Stokes said. “Did Bobby give you any trouble?”
“No,” Walsh reported. “It was almost as if he was expecting our invitation. I was more concerned about the sister. She wanted to come along as well. It took all of Morgan’s charm to make her see sense. Well, that and the young bloke was obviously squirming. I think it was more the latter that swayed her, truth be told.”
Stokes’s lips quirked. “Very likely.” He glanced at Penelope, Barnaby, and Jordan. “Ready?”
When they nodded, Stokes opened the door and led the way into a room that proved to be a spartan space enclosed by four bare walls. A single rectangular table sat in the middle of the floor with a single lamp hanging above it and emitting surprisingly strong light. The better to view the suspect’s face, Penelope assumed.
Morgan had been sitting with his back to the door but rose as they entered. He nodded to Stokes and stepped back from the table to take up a stance to one side of the door.
Extra chairs had been brought in so the four of them could sit on the nearer side of the table while Bobby Cardwell sat alone on the opposite side. As Penelope claimed the chair beside the one Stokes commandeered, she thought that Bobby already looked distinctly uncomfortable, even browbeaten, and ready to tell all simply so he could leave the oppressive place.
Once their company of four had entered, Morgan shut the door.
Having watched them come in and sit, Bobby continued to stare at them with some trepidation. Before Stokes could say a word, Bobby, his voice subdued but clear, stated, “I didn’t kill him.” He drew in a tight breath. “We argued and even fought a bit, but…” His gaze switched to Jordan. “You heard what Ruthie said. Thomas was the one who held us all together. We all knew that, no matter what we said. It was always just words. Words! We never even came to blows, not since we were children.” His gaze had fallen to the table, to his clasped hands and clenched fingers. “Killing Thomas…why would anyone want to do that? He was the good one. Without him…” He exhaled, and his voice quavered as he said, “I don’t know how we’ll all cope.”
The sentiment and the emotion investing the words were patently sincere.
Stokes glanced at Penelope and Barnaby, sitting beyond her, then looked at Bobby’s downbent head. “If you tell us the truth, all of what you know about that morning, that’s arguably the best way you can help your family and gain justice for Thomas.”
Bobby raised his gaze, looked at Stokes, and simply asked, “What do you want to know?”
“Start with when you left the house,” Stokes suggested. “What time was that?”
“I’m not sure. I just made up my mind that I wanted to speak with Thomas, so I set off—no, wait! I heard the bells pealing for eight when I opened the front door.”
