Page 61 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
Winter’s gaze narrowed, and he seemed to draw back.
Imperturbably, Stokes continued, “With regard to this case, Roscoe has delegated Mr. Draper to assist with our investigation. Now”—Stokes glanced at Mann—“as to our case and the evidence we hold…”
Mann took over. “We have a gun runner and smuggler, one Cornelius Chesterton, in custody. We caught him in the act of transporting illegally acquired guns to Tilbury Dock.” Mann met Winter’s darkening gaze. “You will, no doubt, be interested to learn that Chesterton refused to name his backers.”
“Well, then.” Winter, who had paled slightly on hearing of Chesterton’s arrest, resumed his belligerent attitude and flung a challenging glare at Stokes. “Again, why am I here? I have no idea who this Chesterton is and no connection with him.”
Stokes smiled, and the tenor of the gesture had Winter easing back in his chair. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Winter swallowed. “There is no evidence. You can’t possibly tie me to Chesterton.”
“What about,” Stokes asked, “the money you and your two coconspirators paid into Chesterton’s account to fund his purchases of the guns?”
Winter almost asked, “What of it?” but caught himself just in time. He blinked twice, then ventured, “There’s no evidence…”
“Only there is.” Barnaby leaned forward. “Chesterton had to keep a running account for his own purposes. We found that, and from it, learned the account numbers of the bank accounts that paid Chesterton the funds to run the gun-smuggling enterprise.”
“Someone,” Penelope said, “had told Chesterton that tracing the owners of bank accounts from the account numbers—in effect, via the banks themselves—wasn’t possible.” She smiled tightly at Winter. “But in thinking that, that someone erred.”
“You see,” Stokes said, “the banks themselves have reputations to uphold and operating licenses to protect. When Moreton’s was shown the evidence that certain account holders had been using their Moreton’s accounts to fund a treasonous scheme, the bank was quick to provide us with the names of the three account holders involved.”
Stokes had placed Chesterton’s notebook and the signed statement from Forbes on the table. Now, he opened the notebook, found one of the relevant pages, and set it, open, on the table, facing Winter. “This is Chesterton’s running account.” Stokes pointed to three specific lines. “These three entries show payments into Chesterton’s bank account, held in Moreton’s, from three other accounts also held in Moreton’s. One of those three account numbers is…” Stokes picked up the notebook and rattled off, “Six-seven-two-three-five-seven-two.”
Stokes set down the notebook and picked up Forbes’s statement. “And this is a signed statement from the manager of Moreton’s bank, listing the owner of that account as”—Stokes looked at Winter—“you.”
Winter stared at Stokes. On the table, his hands gripped tight.
After a moment of silence, Stokes sat back and asked, “Regarding the charges brought against you, do you have anything to say?”
Winter’s earlier angry color had faded entirely. Pale and plainly out of his depth, he stared at the damning evidence resting on the table before Stokes and wrestled with his options in a situation he’d never thought he would face.
Eventually, Penelope took pity on him. “Trust me, Winter, it will go much better for your family—especially your sons and daughter—if you stop trying to cling to the façade of innocence and, instead, confess and assist the police.”
Winter had glanced up at her mention of his family, and her comment about his children clearly struck home. After staring at her for a moment more, he slowly straightened, then he drew in a long breath and looked at Stokes. “What more do you want to know?”
Stokes, with Barnaby assisting, led Winter through the details of the scheme, including how it came about.
“That was purely by chance,” Winter explained. “Chesterton came seeking backers at a race meeting in Doncaster. He fell in with us, and after realizing we might be open to the idea, he explained how his scheme would work. He’d already put together a crew of disgruntled workers at the gun factory who were ready to supply him with guns. For a price, of course, but it was easy to see that massive profits could be made by selling the guns overseas.”
“Purely out of interest,” Mann said, “did Chesterton tell you how the workers got the guns out of the factory?”
Winter paused, lightly frowning as he dredged his memories. “He said that there was always a pile of guns set aside as faulty. Those were the guns the workers were proposing to supply Chesterton with, I suppose on the grounds that they’d be least missed. He didn’t say how they would get them out of the factory, but the impression we got was that they’d be smuggled out one by one, under men’s coats, that sort of thing.”
Jotting in his file, Mann nodded. “I assume that’s the reason for the irregular gaps between Chesterton’s runs. He had to wait for the factory workers to smuggle out enough guns to make a run worthwhile.”
Glum and deflated, Winter shrugged. “I suppose so. That just seemed to be the way it worked.”
Now leaning back in his chair, Stokes asked, “So what happened with Cardwell?”
Winter looked at Stokes, and his brow slowly furrowed. Eventually, he asked, “Who?”
Watching Winter, Penelope nearly groaned.He doesn’t have a clue who Thomas is.
Confirming that, still frowning in an apparent effort to recall the connection and failing, Winter shook his head. “I don’t know any Cardwell. Where does he fit into this?” He looked from Stokes to Barnaby and Penelope. “If he was a part of Chesterton’s organization, then we—the three of us who supplied the funds—never met anyone but Chesterton himself. Everyone felt it was safer that way.”
While answering their questions regarding the scheme, Winter’s defensive façade had fallen, and his expression had grown increasingly easy to read.
It was obvious he truly knew nothing of any Cardwell.
