Thomas Mulrooney was not pleased to see us again. Even his captain had been more reticent to give us permission to speak with Mulrooney a second time. Nevertheless, the captain had finally permitted us entry, delivering us to another small room in the Parliament building where Sergeant Mulrooney was once again displaying an appalling lack of willingness to cooperate. If Colin did not focus the thrust of his investigation against this man, I was prepared to do so for him.
“Do you have any sisters, Mr. Pendragon?” Mulrooney was asking with thick disdain.
“I fail to see what this has to do with anything!” Colin groused in return, which pleased me greatly.
“You cannot indulge me one simple question among your barrage?”
Colin heaved an exasperated sigh and I knew he was wrestling with his tongue. “I have no siblings,” he finally answered.
The sergeant cracked a satisfied smile. “Then what could you possibly know about my relationship with Gwen? You’re hounding me with questions and I don’t see that you can understand any of it.”
“Then help me understand.”
Sergeant Mulrooney snorted. “And why should I have any interest in doing that?” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at Colin. “Why don’t you just be honest, Mr. Pendragon? Are you here to arrest me?”
“Of course not.”
“Then piss off.”
Colin’s eyes flashed harshly even as his voice stayed smooth. “So you have no desire to ensure your sister’s killer is brought to justice?”
“Justice?” the sergeant sneered, and shook his head. “How do you know the only justice possible hasn’t already been wrought?”
“Is that what you’ll tell your nephew one day when he asks what happened to his parents?”
“At least Albert stands a chance now. My mum will do right by him.”
“Which certainly doesn’t say much for your sister and her husband.”
“I don’t give a bloody fig about Trevor,” he fired back, pausing before adding, “Gwen made her own decisions. God have mercy on her.”
“Cryptic—”
“Are we done?”
“As soon as you tell me about the fight in McPhee’s between the Life Guard and your Irish mates. The one that cost Captain Newcombe his life . . . ?”
“Wilford Newcombe was every bit the blighted rubbish that Trevor was. Why aren’t you asking me about the three decent men of the Irish Guard who lost their commissions because of that night? Where’s your interest and compassion for them?”
“I was told those men were found culpable.”
The sergeant’s glare darkened. “Of course they were. They were tried in the ruddy British courts. What else would you expect? So tell me, Mr. Pendragon, where is your esteemed justice in that?”
“Tell me what you know about that night then.”
“To what end? Can you reverse the courts . . . ? Give those men their commissions back . . . ? I think not.”
“What started the fight?”
“Why don’t you ask Dashell Hampstead that question?” He abruptly turned and headed for the door, stopping just at the threshold. “Let me be very clear, Mr. Pendragon, so you won’t feel compelled to bother me again. I despised Trevor. He was a disgrace. He polluted everything he came into contact with, including my sister. He deserved what happened to him. It is the will of God. And the murder of my sister is Trevor’s legacy, not mine. I’m only thankful my nephew has a chance at a decent life now.” He started to turn away and then stopped once more. “Do not ask for me again, Mr. Pendragon”—he bit the words ominously—“unless you’ve a magistrate’s warrant in your hand.”
And then he was gone.