Page 60 of The Murder of Thomas Cardwell
“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.”
