Chapter 14
Stokes formally interrogated Walter Camberly the next morning at Scotland Yard. Barnaby, in his role as consultant, sat to Stokes’s right, while Montague, courtesy of Lady Halstead’s letter of authority, occupied the chair on Stokes’s left.
Walter Camberly sat in a single hard chair on the opposite side of the table. Two large and grim-looking sergeants stood at ease behind him, staring over his head at the opposite wall.
His wrists and ankles shackled, Walter, disheveled and pale, sat with his head bowed, staring at his hands clasped on the table before him.
Tapping a finger on the table, Stokes considered him, then, in a noncommittal, nonjudgmental tone, said, “Care to tell us why you did it?” When Walter glanced up at him, puzzled by the tack, Stokes elaborated, “You’re the only child of affluent, well-to-do parents.
Your father’s an up-and-coming politician.
You’ve been given everything, have lacked for no comforts.
You’ve been sent to good schools, had every opportunity.
Courtesy of both your parents’ families, you had the entree into society.
You could have been anything you wished, could have made your mark in countless socially acceptable ways, yet instead you chose to throw in your lot with criminals—more, with elements that rank among the most despicable.
” Folding his hands, Stokes leaned forward, his eyes locked with Walter’s.
“With those dregs of humanity who prey on the most defenseless.”
Stokes studied Walter’s eyes, then softly asked, “So why? Why did you do it?”
Walter held Stokes’s gaze, then drew a shuddering breath. “Because it was the only way to make my parents see me. To get their attention.”
Stokes sat back, his expression reflecting his lack of understanding.
Immediately, Walter leaned forward, almost eagerly explaining, “You don’t know what it’s like—I’m nothing to them.
” Bitterness drenched the words. Walter studied Stokes, then Barnaby and Montague.
“You look in from outside and see what they want you—what they want all society—to see. The perfect family—father, mother, and son. It’s always been that way—it’s always been about my father’s ambition, which, of course, my mother fully shares.
They don’t care a fig for me other than that I fill that last position, that I stand by their side like some”—contempt and disgust rising in his voice, he gestured—“shop mannequin. Not a real person, just the representation of one. I’m nothing more than a stage prop to them. ”
Slumping back in the chair, Walter sneered, although the expression was clearly not directed at Stokes, Barnaby, Montague, or anyone else in the room. “Let’s see how they deal with this—they won’t be able to simply not notice, will they?”
Stokes inclined his head. “Probably not. So in that way, at least, you’ve got what you wanted.”
Walter blinked, then slowly nodded. “Yes. I have, haven’t I?”
But at what cost? Montague wondered.
Stokes let a moment elapse, then said, “I’m curious about why you organized the payments as you did—why use your grandmother’s bank account?”
Walter snorted. “I don’t exist other than as an extension of my parents, remember.
I don’t have any income other than what my father allows me—and he gives me my allowance in cash every month, so I never have any decent amount, just enough to get by for the month.
” Dropping his gaze to his hands, he raised a shoulder.
“Why would they give me more? My tailor’s bills, every bill I have, has to go to my father.
That way, he—and through him my mother—keeps complete control.
They decide how I dress, what style of hat, what type of boots.
As I said, I’m nothing more than a tailor’s dummy to them.
But, of course, most importantly, by not giving me access to any decent amount of money, they limit what I can do socially—I can’t wager, I can’t go carousing with friends, I can’t go and visit anywhere or do anything unless I ask for and receive their explicit approval and extra funds.
I can’t belong to any club because they don’t believe it necessary, and it might result in me making undesirable acquaintances. ”
Studying his hands, Walter went on, “The only life I had was what they allowed me.” He looked up and met Stokes’s eyes.
“So I didn’t have a bank account. I never had the money to need one.
” He paused, then added, “And when I did start getting money from the sales at The Laurels, I didn’t want to put it anywhere under my own name, in case it somehow got back to my father.
It was clear the money would mount up, and I didn’t dare hide it in my room or anywhere in the house, so .
. . I used Grandmama’s account.” He met Stokes’s eyes.
“I didn’t think she’d notice. I didn’t think she would ever even look at the amount in there, and as I was only putting money in, and I never took any out, then she would always have her expected amount there.
If there was more, even if she noticed, I didn’t think she’d worry—certainly not enough to look into it. ”
“How did you find out the details of her account?” Montague asked.
Walter shrugged. “Easy enough. One evening when we were there for dinner, I slipped away and searched Grandmama’s desk in the sitting room.
I found her account details as well as old letters she’d sent to the bank—instructions for withdrawals that had been paid out.
I took several of the oldest letters so I’d be able to copy them and get my money out when I wanted it. ”
“As you did,” Barnaby said, “when you learned your grandmother had instructed Runcorn to review her affairs.” When Walter nodded, Barnaby clarified, “So you wrote a letter of withdrawal to close the account, removing all the funds in it, not just your money, and then . . . who was the woman who presented the letter and collected the cash?”
“That was an actress I hired—I promised to pay her well, and I gave her the forged letter. I’d practiced copying Grandmama’s hand for months, off and on, so I was sure the letter would pass, and it did.
I used the actress because, of course, I didn’t want to be seen, and if the letter had been genuine, then Violet would have been the one most likely to present it. ”
“Why take all the money,” Montague asked, “rather than just your own?”
“I wrote the letter after Grandmama died—I’d meant to do it earlier, but with her gone, I knew I had to get my money out right away . . . and as she was gone, I thought I might as well have it all, rather than leaving it for the others.”
“Did you like your grandmother?” Stokes asked.
Walter arched his brows. “She was all right. I never spent much time with her, but she seemed a decent sort.” He shrugged again. “I didn’t know her that well.”
“Which,” Stokes said, his tone growing grim, “presumably made it easier to murder her.”
Walter’s eyes flew wide. “No! I told you.” Wild-eyed, he looked at Barnaby, then Montague.
“I didn’t kill her. I had nothing to do with that—with any of the murders.
” He glanced from one to the other, taking in their hard eyes, their grim faces.
“Well, why would I? I had money of my own, and that was what I wanted. I didn’t have to kill her to get it! ”
A pause ensued, then Stokes looked at Barnaby, then at Montague. Then, slowly, he brought his gaze back to Walter’s face. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what you did?”
With the threat of being blamed for the murders acting as a potent inducement, Walter recounted all the steps he’d taken, all his actions from the moment he’d learned at Lady Halstead’s last, fateful family dinner that her ladyship was intending to get her affairs in order.
“I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill any of them. I didn’t need to. It never even occurred to me.”
He made a convincing case.
And when he saw them still hesitating over exonerating him, at least with respect to the murders, he sighed, and said, “The money—all of it—is in a tin on the top of the wardrobe in my bedroom in my parents’ house in Belgrave Square.”
Barnaby shot Stokes a glance. Stokes caught it and fractionally tipped his head to Barnaby.
“As for the alibis I gave you . . .” Walter’s lips tightened.
“My mother told me what to say, so what I told you before is rubbish. My real alibis are, on the night my grandmother was murdered, I was drinking in the public house on Grosvenor Street, The Royal, not far from my parents’ house.
I’m a regular, and I stayed, as I usually do, until they closed at two o’clock.
” Walter’s lips twisted. “Also as usual, I was utterly inebriated when I left—I was only just able to walk the short distance to my parents’ home before passing out.
I would never have made it to my grandmother’s, much less been able to do . . . well, whatever was done.”
Walter paused as Stokes, lips thin, pulled out his notebook and flipped to a new page.
Stokes scribbled, then nodded, and Walter continued, “On the evening the man-of-business was murdered, I was at a small theater off Leicester Square—The Poulson. I went there to talk to and hire the actress. I was at the theater for the six o’clock show and stayed there, or with her, for most of the night.
The actress’s name is Lily Cartwright—she can tell you the names of the stage manager and the theater owner, both of whom saw me.
On the night the maid was murdered, I met Cromer in a tavern in Tothill Fields to plan last night’s sale.
” Walter paused, then glanced at Stokes.
“With my grandmother dead, it was clear we wouldn’t be able to use The Laurels anymore, so we needed to find some other place.
We were at the tavern until the small hours—the barkeep and girls will remember us. We’d met there before.”