Page 25 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
“Only for Sunday luncheon. Mama insists on that, and Gibs always comes. Truth be told, I think his friends are also expected at their parents’ houses for Sunday luncheon, so it suits Gibs to oblige Mama and come and eat with us.”
Penelope frowned. “On the Sunday just past, two days before Thomas was killed, was there any hint of additional or heightened tension between Thomas and Gibson?”
Bobby frowned, clearly trawling through his memories, then his expression transformed to one of faint surprise. “No. Actually, if anything, it was the other way around. Gibs was in fine form—he can be genial and charming and entertaining when he’s in a good mood—and Thomas…” Bobby’s frown deepened as he evidently studied some scene in his memory. “It’s odd. Now I look back, I can see that over the luncheontable, Thomas was…well, watchful. Watching Gibs, but not in any aggressive way. Just watching and noting, although what Thomas was looking for, I have no idea.” Bobby refocused on Penelope. “Thomas never said or made any comment or even dropped a hint about anything being wrong.”
Stokes looked at Penelope, caught her eye, and arched a brow.
She shook her head. She couldn’t think of anything more to ask Bobby at that point.
When Jordan and Barnaby both responded to Stokes’s unvoiced question in the same way, Stokes looked at Bobby. “Thank you for coming and telling us what you know. The information is likely to help us find your brother’s killer.” With a nod of dismissal, Stokes pushed back from the table and rose. “You’re free to go.”
Penelope, Barnaby, and Jordan got to their feet.
More hesitantly, Bobby stood and stared at them. “And Gibs?”
Stokes replied, “We’ll be speaking with him next. How long he remains here will be up to him.”
With that, Penelope led the way from the room. She turned down the corridor toward where they’d been told Gibson Cardwell was being held, then halted. Barnaby and Jordan joined her. Stokes paused to tell Walsh to see Bobby Cardwell out of the building, then Stokes joined the company, and trailed by Morgan, they walked to the room at the end of the corridor.
The room in which Gibson Cardwell sat waiting, a belligerent scowl on his face, was much like the room in which they’d interviewed Bobby—a single rectangular table with four chairs lined up along the nearer side and Gibson seated in the single chair opposite. However, this room was fractionally smaller, and with O’Donnell standing behind Gibson and Morgan taking up a stance by the door, it felt more cramped.
As in the first room, the lamp above the table shone harsh light on the interviewee’s face. In Gibson’s case, the stark illumination further washed out his wan, pallid complexion. He was dressed in a suit in the latest style favored by rakish gentlemen about town and sported a spotted silk cravat, another fashionable eccentricity.
Gibson watched as they claimed the chairs, with Stokes and Penelope in the middle, flanked by Barnaby on Penelope’s right and Jordan on Stokes’s left.
Although Stokes paused, unlike Bobby, Gibson made no attempt to offer any spontaneous declaration.
Accepting that, Stokes began, “If you would, Mr. Cardwell, please tell us where you were on Tuesday morning between the hours of seven and nine o’clock.”
Dismissively, almost sneering, Gibson replied, “I was in my bed, of course. And at that hour, sound asleep.”
His tone uninflected, Barnaby inquired, “Is there anyone who can vouch for that?”
Gibson frowned. “Well, no. Not specifically. But my flatmates were in the flat, too, in their rooms. Usually, none of us stumble out until after twelve.”
“So,” Stokes said, rather ostentatiously making a note, “there’s no one to say that you didn’t rise early and leave the flat and return later.”
Gibson’s frown deepened. “I didn’t kill my brother, if that’s what you really want to know.”
Stokes glanced up and met Gibson’s gaze. “You do realize that it’s not possible to remove your name from the suspect list purely on your word?”
“Well”—Gibson puffed up with assumed righteousness—“unless you can find witnesses to where I was—namely in my bed asleep—then I can’t see that you have any other choice. I will say that I didn’t go anywhere near Broad Street that morning.”
Stokes continued to question Gibson, shifting from his whereabouts to his knowledge of Thomas’s business—little to none—and thence to the family finances. The last topic only caused Gibson to become more blustering and defensive.
Stokes tried again with a wider query, and Barnaby tried two other avenues of approach, but Gibson had his defensive façade firmly in place and wasn’t the least bit interested in being helpful.
Finally, Barnaby tried a less pointed question concerning Gibson’s intentions regarding the family’s future and was met with a blank stare and, eventually, a brusque “That’s none of your business.”
Jordan shifted, then leaned forward slightly and, in the tone of one who had lost patience, said, “Listen, Gibson. Our only interest in speaking with you—or with anyone else on this matter—is to identify who killed your brother and hand them over to the courts. I would have thought that, if you are innocent of the crime, you would want justice for Thomas.” Jordan fixed Gibson with a direct look. “Do you or do you not want that?”
Gibson remained gaze-locked with Jordan for a second, then he swallowed and, with the first hint of emotion in his voice, replied, “Of course I do.”
Jordan nodded curtly. “Then just answer our questions as best you can.” Jordan glanced at Stokes and Barnaby as if handing the questioning baton back to them, but both gave him encouraging looks, urging him to continue.
Jordan returned his gaze to Gibson. “We know there was tension of sorts—an undercurrent of animosity—between you and Thomas. Why was that?”
Gibson’s gaze lowered to the table, then his lips twisted, and he replied, “It wasn’t animosity. Nothing to do with hate. It was”—he shifted in the chair—“more like a tussle. Likephysically wrestling when we were children, but now…well, we were adults, so the wrestling was done in other ways.”
