Chapter 14 #2
Walter leaned further forward; when Stokes glanced up, Walter met his eyes.
“Can’t you see? My grandmother’s death completely disrupted my dealings—my way to get sufficient funds to be shot of my parents’ prison forever.
It was all going swimmingly. Yes, I had to move the money out of her account, but I now have sufficient funds to be able to open an account of my own, and through Cromer I’d learned how to do it under another name.
” Walter spread his hands. “Why would I kill my grandmother? Let alone the other two?”
Stokes held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded.
“You’ll be charged with the offences arising out of your kidnapping and selling of the girls.
If your alibis are sound, perhaps you’ll escape the gallows.
” Rising, Stokes spoke to the sergeants.
“Take him to the cells and tell the duty-sergeant I’ll file the papers later today. ”
Barnaby led the way out of the interrogation room; Stokes joined him, and Montague followed.
They didn’t say anything until they were in Stokes’s office, sitting around his desk.
Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “He’s not the murderer.”
Stokes grimaced. “No, he’s not.”
Montague was nodding. “But . . . where does that leave us?” He looked at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “What do we do next?”
Stokes blew out a breath. “Next, we make sure he’s told us the truth. I’ll get his alibis checked and search his room—not just to retrieve the money but also to see if he has a key to the side door of the Lowndes Street house.”
“I’d better assist with the latter.” Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “We’ll have to inform the Camberlys just what their son has been up to.”
Stokes shook his head. “With families like this . . . it’s as if a rot got in at some point, and then it spreads, not just through one generation but into the next as well.” He noticed Montague’s frowning, somewhat distant expression. “What about you?”
Montague met his gaze, then arched his brows.
“Runcorn was murdered. When one considers the matter, killing Runcorn was far more risky for the murderer than his killing of either Lady Halstead or Tilly—and yet Runcorn was indeed murdered, almost certainly by the same man. Yet the only motive I can see for murdering Runcorn is the same motive we’ve had all along—the concealment of something in the accounts. ”
Barnaby was nodding. “We thought the mystery payments into Lady Halstead’s bank account was that something, but if, as seems to be the case, it isn’t that—”
“Then there must be something else.” Montague lifted his hat from the corner of Stokes’s desk. “I’m going to go back to my office and think about what else might be hidden in her ladyship’s, or, more likely, the estate’s, accounts—and what the fastest way to uncover it will be.”
Adair. Inspector.” Standing behind the desk in his study, Wallace Camberly nodded to both men, then waved to two chairs set before the desk. “Please be seated.”
They’d only just settled when the door opened and Cynthia Camberly came in. They all rose again as she shut the door and came to join them.
“Gentlemen.” She eyed them curiously, then glanced at her husband.
Camberly waved her to an armchair to one side of the desk. As she moved to take it, he looked at Stokes. “I hope, gentlemen, that this won’t take long.” As they sat once more, Camberly continued, “As I daresay you know, Parliament is exceedingly busy at this time.”
Cynthia leaned forward. “I take it you have news?”
“As to that”—Stokes made a show of consulting the notebook he’d drawn from his pocket—“with regard to your son, Walter Camberly—”
“Walter’s out of town, visiting friends.” When Stokes glanced up, Cynthia caught his gaze and smiled, although the gesture came nowhere near her eyes. “If there’s been some question about his alibis, I’m sure I can help.”
Stokes held her gaze for an extended moment, then transferred his attention to Camberly.
“Mr. Adair and I have come to inform you that, as of last night, your son, Walter Camberly, has been taken into police custody. He is charged with crimes relating to the abduction of at least seven girls, their subsequent imprisonment at the house known as The Laurels, in Noak Hill in Essex, a house owned by the late Lady Halstead, and with the attempted sale of said girls into prostitution, along with several other crimes relating to those activities.” Stokes paused to take in Camberly’s stunned, utterly stupefied expression, then glanced at Cynthia—and saw the same reaction, but also desperate calculation already emerging.
Looking back at his notebook, he continued, “Your son has admitted to all the crimes with which he is presently charged.”
Cynthia’s face contorted, but as if she was suppressing some scornful outburst rather than in any form of sympathy or concern.
“Good God,” Wallace finally got out. He all but goggled. “Do you mean to say he’s the murderer? That he murdered his own grandmother?”
“We are presently checking his alibis for the nights in question.” Stokes turned to Cynthia. “If you have any information regarding your son’s whereabouts on those nights, ma’am, it would be best to tell me now.”
Cynthia’s eyes fractionally widened as she sat back, sat straighter.
Her gaze shifted, rapidly passing from her husband, to Barnaby, then to Stokes, and back again—then she drew in a deep breath and held it for a second before saying, “I’m sorry, Inspector.
I had thought I knew, but clearly”—she gestured—“I have no idea what my son has been about.”
Stokes paused to let the echo of her earlier comment color the silence, then he inclined his head. “If you say so, ma’am.”
No doubt scenting the subtle threat, Camberly stirred.
“I’m sorry, Inspector, but you have to forgive me—indeed, us—if we appear somewhat discombobulated.
We are, of course, totally dumbfounded by your news.
” Reaching out, Camberly closed one hand about one of his wife’s and squeezed—in comfort, or as a signal?
“We had no idea Walter was involved in any less-than-acceptable activity, much less anything illegal—indeed, criminal.”
“Much less murder.” Cynthia straightened, her back now poker-straight, her head held high.
She’d patently decided that outraged matriarch was the most appropriate role for her to play.
“I am shocked and saddened beyond measure, Inspector. To think that we have nurtured such a fiend, one who has murdered and committed such unspeakable crimes . . .” She glanced briefly at Camberly, then went on, “We can only pray that you will find your final proofs quickly, and that the matter can be dealt with as expeditiously as possible—this is going to be such a difficult time for the family. All the family. And all on top of Mama’s murder, too. ”
Barnaby wasn’t at all surprised when, leaving one hand in Camberly’s clasp, with her other, Cynthia pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and, bowing her head, touched the lace beneath her eyes. Dry though Barnaby would swear those eyes were.
Wallace shifted, drawing Barnaby’s and Stokes’s attention from the not-so-convincing show. “Is there anything more we can help you with, gentlemen? As my wife intimated, while the situation wounds us deeply, we, of course, hold ourselves ready to assist in whatever way we can.”
Stokes nodded. “We need to search Walter’s room. Other than that”—tucking his notebook back into his pocket, Stokes rose—“I don’t believe we require anything further from you or Mrs. Camberly at this point.”
Barnaby got to his feet, as did Camberly.
Camberly glanced at Cynthia, still seated with head bowed. “I’m busy at the moment, but my wife, I’m sure, will show you to Walter’s room.”
Cynthia raised her head, her face a mask of martyred duty. “Yes, of course.” She rose and waved to the door. “Come this way, Inspector. Mr. Adair.”
With nods to Camberly, Stokes and Barnaby followed Cynthia from the room and back into the front hall.
As they climbed the stairs behind her, she stated, “I am devastated, of course, but, in hindsight, Walter was always a secretive child, very quiet about his own actions. We had no inkling whatever of these hideous activities of his.” Gaining the first floor, she turned and led the way through a short gallery and on down a corridor.
“Obviously, there’s nothing my husband or I can do to in any way put right the damage Walter has done.
” Pausing outside a door, her hand on the knob, she swung to face them.
“I can only pray, Inspector, that justice is served swiftly, and the damage to the Camberly name, and, indeed, that of the Halsteads, is minimized. There is, after all, no need for Walter’s trial to cause pain and harm to those who, through no fault of theirs, share his name but were entirely innocent of all knowledge of his crimes. ”
She blinked, then her hard gaze fixed on Stokes’s face. “If I understood you correctly, Inspector, Walter has admitted to the bulk of your charges. Presumably, there’s no reason he can’t appear before a judge and be sentenced in camera, as it were.”
“As to that, ma’am, I’m sure I can’t say. That will be a matter for the judge.”
“I see. But if that were to come to pass, and Walter was dealt with adequately and removed, and you had proof of his guilt with respect to the murders, would there be any further need for another trial to settle the matter of the murders? You would already have dealt with the murderer—he would be transported, after all, would he not?”
Stokes remained silent; he honestly didn’t know how best to respond—wasn’t sure whether he could while remaining appropriately polite.
Barnaby stirred. “Again, ma’am, that’s a decision for the judiciary, rather than the police.”