Page 78 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

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.”

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.”