Page 34

A fter parting from Montague and Thomas in Leadenhall Street, Barnaby beckoned to Phelps, who’d trailed them with the carriage.

After the carriage drew up beside them, Barnaby handed Penelope up and, with Jordan and Stokes, followed her in, and as instructed, Phelps set the horses for Scotland Yard.

Once they arrived, Stokes left Barnaby, Penelope, and Jordan in his office and, taking the evidence of Forbes’s list and Chesterton’s account book, strode off to beard the Commissioner.

While they waited, Barnaby, Penelope, and Jordan reviewed the facts of the case as they knew them to that point and discussed which questions would best serve their cause in the upcoming interrogations.

Ten minutes after he’d headed off, Stokes returned with a smile of triumph wreathing his face. “Success! I’ve permission to bring in all three gentlemen. The Commissioner agrees we’ve evidence enough to hold them. I’m off to organize the arrests.”

“Don’t forget,” Penelope said, “to do your best to make the arrests simultaneous.”

Stokes paused in the doorway to add, “I’ll also arrange that they don’t see each other. Best to keep each of them guessing as to whether the others are speaking with us as well.”

With that, he headed for the stairs.

“Well,” Barnaby said, “it seems that we’ll shortly be interviewing Winter, Huxtable, and Haverstock.” He looked at the other two. “So what do we know about each gentleman? I know all three are family men.”

“As I recall,” Penelope added, her tone disapproving, “they all have young children.”

“They’re what?” Jordan asked. “In their late thirties?”

“Something like that,” Barnaby said. “More pertinently, all three hail from minor branches of long-established aristocratic families. None are close to any major title, but their arrests are sure to cause a stir.”

Somewhat less than half an hour later, Stokes came back, an even greater smile splitting his face. “We have Winter downstairs, and Huxtable and Haverstock are on their way.”

“That was quick!” Penelope sat up and eagerly asked, “Can we start with Winter?”

Stokes grinned. “I can’t see why not.” As she, Barnaby, and Jordan rose and joined Stokes in the doorway, he added, “Incidentally, you’ll be meeting Inspector Mann. I’m handing the gun-running charges to him so that I can concentrate on pursuing Cardwell’s killer.”

“Excellent!” Penelope led the way to the stairs. “I admit I’m keen to hear what Winter says. He’s always struck me as a straightforward, sensible sort, but obviously, social appearances are, in his case, deceiving.”

They filed down to the main interrogation room in the basement. As they descended below ground, the atmosphere grew faintly claustrophobic, and the bare stone walls were cold and uninviting.

A tall, thin plainclothes policeman was waiting in the corridor opposite the main interrogation room door, his head bent as he studied the file he held open in his hands.

He looked up as their group neared, then closed the file and straightened, a pleasant and plainly intrigued expression on his face.

Penelope smiled and stated, “Inspector Mann, I take it.”

Mann smiled back and half bowed. “Mrs. Adair, I assume.”

The riposte appealed to Penelope’s sense of humor, and she grinned.

Stokes stepped forward and completed the introductions.

Mann shook hands with Barnaby and Jordan. “I’ve heard about you—well, the Adairs—of course. All the force has.” His gaze on Jordan, he added, “Not so many have had the pleasure of meeting Roscoe’s righthand man, but most would know your name.”

Jordan’s lips quirked. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by that.”

Mann laughed. “Definitely flattered.”

Stokes, who’d been conferring with O’Donnell, who was standing to one side of the interrogation room door, returned.

“According to O’Donnell, Winter was taken completely by surprise at finding Scotland Yard on his doorstep, but as soon as he heard what the charges were, he gave every evidence of being eager to get here and clear his name. ”

“Interesting,” Penelope mused.

Stokes waved at the door. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

He opened the door and led the way in.

With her curiosity concealed behind a censorious mask, Penelope followed.

Winter was sitting at the standard bare rectangular table with a constable Penelope didn’t know at his back. Winter’s gaze had been fixed on his hands, clasped on the table before him, but as their party entered, he raised his head and, with an angry frown on his face, watched them file in.

Then he recognized Penelope and, somewhat uncertainly, rose to his feet.

He was a large man, tall and broad shouldered and heavy with it.

Penelope knew Winter as the third son of a minor viscount.

She and Barnaby had been aware of his existence, although he didn’t move in their more exalted circles.

That said, he was nevertheless very much of the ton, and that showed in his expensive suit, his styled hair, and in the air of confidence and arrogant privilege he exuded.

As Barnaby followed her into the room and Penelope moved to claim one of the five chairs lined up along the nearer side of the table, the one to Stokes’s right, she noted that Winter recognized Barnaby as well.

To her eyes, there was definite tension in Winter’s shoulders, an aggressive tautness signaling hostility, and at the sight of her and Barnaby, that tension had only increased.

Then Winter’s gaze fell on Jordan, and Winter’s confidence noticeably ebbed.

Mann followed Jordan in and claimed the remaining chair on Stokes’s left.

They all sat, including Winter.

The instant the chair legs ceased to scrape, Winter locked his gaze on Stokes and protested, “This is outrageous! Your men came blathering about some illegal scheme, and rather than arguing at the front door, I agreed to come here.” His contemptuous gaze swept the cold, bare room, and he raised his hands, revealing that his wrists were manacled.

“I didn’t expect to be treated like a common criminal. ”

Stokes arched his brows and mildly replied, “I suggest you get used to it. From here, the ambience only gets worse.”

“Indeed.” Mann laid his folder on the table. He regarded Winter with an intensity that, to Penelope, called to mind a lepidopterist studying a recent find.

Winter scowled. “What is this nonsensical talk of gun running?” Fleetingly, he glanced at Penelope and Barnaby. “Why on earth am I here?” Manacles clanking, he spread his large hands. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Ignoring that outburst, Stokes calmly introduced himself and the others, ending with Jordan, seated beyond Mann. Stokes described Jordan as Neville Roscoe’s righthand man.

“What’s he doing here?” In the manner of a dog unsure if he should cower, Winter scowled blackly at Jordan.

Stokes smiled thinly. “You may not realize it, Winter, but Roscoe values his business’s reputation very highly, and he’s quite protective of it.

Consequently, Roscoe isn’t a fan of illegal enterprises that in any way cross his path, and by all accounts, you and your coconspirators have been repeatedly doing so over the past two years. ”

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.”