The Silver Locomotive Mystery

PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON

‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’

Sunday Telegraph

‘There is a criminal mastermind, a doughty policeman in hot pursuit, plot twists aplenty and enough historical detail to evoke the period without bogging us down. Great fun’

Observer Review

‘A grand romp very much in the tradition of Holmes and Watson and Cribb and Thackeray…packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful, well written’

Time Out

‘Excellent… Marston is probably the best of our British writers of historical crime stories’

Birmingham Post

‘This is writing that can be described as the literary equivalent of the roller coaster. There is never a dull moment as Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck untangles a web of murder, blackmail and destruction. What more can the reader require?’

Friends of the Railway Museum Magazine

‘Told with great colour and panache… This is how history mysteries should be: fine storytelling, marvellous characters reminiscent of the great authors of the mid-Victorian period, and a sneaky mystery, too’

Sherlock Magazine

‘Edward Marston is famous as a writer of whodunits… This author is at his best writing about amiable heroes and hissable villains having some good-humoured adventures in an entertaining plot’

Historical Novels Review

THE SILVER LOCOMOTIVE MYSTERY

EDWARD MARSTON

To the people of Cardiff in the hope that they will forgive any liberties I’ve taken with their history. Jeremiah Box Stockdale and Wlaetislaw Spiridion lived in Cardiff in 1855 but the events related here are entirely fictitious.

CHAPTER ONE

1855

Nigel Buckmaster knew how to make an entrance. When he swept into the bustling concourse at Paddington Station, the crowd parted before him as for royalty. Those close to the actor-manager gaped and gasped as he strode past. Those farther away craned their necks to see what all the fuss was about. Tall, lean and lithe, Buckmaster wore a black cloak that swished behind him and a wide-brimmed black felt hat out of which long, lustrous, dark locks fell to his shoulders. His face was striking rather than handsome, his most significant features being a pointed chin and two large, smouldering eyes separated by a narrow, tapering nose. It was the face both of a hero and a villain, combining bravado with menace in identical proportions and exuding a sense of unassailable purpose.

Contributing in equal part to their dramatic arrival was the stately leading lady whom Buckmaster led on his arm. Kate Linnane was approaching thirty but she still had the stunning bloom and beauty of a much younger woman, features glowing, eyes dancing, delicate chin uplifted with regal disdain. Blond curls peeped out from a poke bonnet trimmed with ostrich feathers. Her light blue waistcoat was in subtle contrast to the exquisitely tailored navy jacket. Hidden beneath a decorated navy skirt that ballooned outwards, her feet tripped along so gracefully that she appeared to be gliding in unison with the majestic gait of her companion. Opened the previous year, the London terminus of the Great Western Railway was a spectacular cathedral of wrought iron and glass where thousands of passengers came to worship daily at the altar of steam. Nigel Buckmaster and Kate Linnane had momentarily transformed it into a vast apron stage on which they could perform before an open-mouthed audience.

As befitted such a splendid couple, there was a sizeable retinue in their wake. Where they led, other members of the troupe followed. First was a group of strutting, long-haired actors of varying ages along with some pretty, perfumed, gesticulating young actresses, eager to grab their share of attention. Behind these preening peacocks was a motley stage crew, noticeably less well-dressed and marked by an air of collective resignation. The cavalcade was completed by a line of porters wheeling well-worn trunks on their rumbling trolleys or carrying costume baskets, scenery and stage properties on their rattling carts. Buckmaster’s Players were on the move. They surged on to the platform as if commandeering the whole train. A strict order of precedence was observed. While the two luminaries headed for a first class carriage, the other artistes had to travel second class and the remainder of the company was forced to supervise the loading of the luggage and the theatrical paraphernalia before being received into the comfortless embrace of third class.

Buckmaster opened a carriage door with a flourish so that Kitty could step into the compartment. When he climbed in after her, he shut the door, flung off his hat, whisked off his cloak and sat with his back to the engine. Kate lowered herself on to the seat opposite him. Now that there were no spectators to impress, she let her features rearrange themselves into an expression of sheer boredom.

‘I hate all this travelling, Nigel,’ she said, peevishly.

‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ he told her. ‘If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain.’

‘Why can we not play at Drury Lane or Covent Garden?’

‘Because they don’t yet deserve us, my love,’ he said with a grandiloquent gesture. ‘Until they do, we must seek pastures new.’

Kate sighed. ‘But why on earth must we do so in Wales?’ she complained, bitterly. ‘It’s like being cast into outer darkness.’

Twenty minutes later, just before the train was due to depart, two figures suddenly appeared outside their carriage. Kate was annoyed that their privacy was about to be invaded but Buckmaster took an interest in the touching little scene that was being played out only feet away from him. Though he could hear no words, he found the mime eloquent. A short, whiskery old man with rounded shoulders was giving a set of instructions to the passenger, peering over his glasses and wagging his finger repeatedly. Still in his twenties, his companion had a fresh-faced, boyish look to him, nodding dutifully in obedience and releasing an occasional affectionate smile. He was carrying a large bag, its heavy weight making him shift it from one hand to the other. Judging from his apparel, his bowler hat and the worried glances the young man threw at the train, Buckmaster surmised that he was not a regular traveller in first class. Indeed, when he eventually opened the door, he looked around warily as if unsure if he was entitled to climb aboard.

‘Come in, come in, my friend,’ said Buckmaster, beckoning him forward. ‘We are delighted to have some company.’

Resenting the newcomer, Kate hid her irritation behind a dazzling smile. He gave them both a nod of gratitude then stepped between them and sat by the window on the opposite side of the compartment. Buckmaster pulled the door shut and nodded to the man on the platform. Within a minute, a whistle sounded and the locomotive exploded into life. As the train moved forward, the young man gave a farewell wave to his erstwhile escort. Mouthing some last advice and with one hand holding his top hat in place, the old man scurried solicitously alongside the carriage until he ran out of breath and platform. Buckmaster was intrigued.

‘You are a regular Laertes, my friend,’ he observed.

The newcomer blinked. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

‘You are clearly not familiar with the greatest play ever written. I refer, of course, to William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a role in which I have garnered endless plaudits. In earlier days, however, when I was a juvenile in the company, I often took the role of Laertes and received wise counsel from my father, Polonius, in much the same way as you took advice from your own revered parent just now.’

‘Mr Voke is not my father, sir.’

Buckmaster was surprised. ‘Really? Did my eyes deceive me?’

‘It’s true that he has been like a father to me in some ways,’ said the other, nervously, ‘especially since his own son deserted the business, but we are in no way related. Mr Voke is my employer.’

‘Ah, I see. And what form does that employment take?’

‘We are silversmiths.’

It took a long time to draw him out. Hugh Kellow had clearly never met any Thespians before. Arresting upon any stage, Buckmaster and Kate were positively overwhelming in the smaller confines of a railway carriage, albeit one on the broader gauge of just over seven feet. The silversmith was uneasy and tongue-tied at first. He sat in the corner with an arm looped protectively around his bag. They slowly won his confidence, eliciting his name and destination from him. It was almost half an hour before he had the courage to look Kate full in the face. Buckmaster resorted to flattery.

‘You have never trod the boards, I take it?’ he began.

‘No, sir,’ replied Kellow, modestly. ‘I’ve been to a few Penny Gaffs in London but that is all.’

Kate snorted. ‘Contemptible places!’

‘They provide a service, my love,’ said Buckmaster, tolerantly. ‘What they can never do, of course, is to reach the heights to which we soar. While they offer base amusement for the uneducated, we deal in true art, profound drama that can reach into the very soul of those privileged to watch.’ He studied Kellow. ‘Unless I am mistaken, you could have the makings of a fine actor.

‘Not me, sir,’ protested the silversmith. ‘I lack any talent.’

‘You have a good voice and a handsome face, two necessary attributes of any actor. If you can master the craft of a silversmith, you obviously have the dedication needed to train for the stage.’ He looked across at Kate. ‘Do you not agree?’

‘I was struck by his appearance the moment I set eyes on him,’ she said, taking her cue. ‘You have presence, Mr Kellow, and that is the most important quality of all. Vocal tricks and histrionic gestures can be taught but stage presence is a natural gift. Come now, there must have been times when you felt the urge to perform in public.’

‘Never, Miss Linnane,’ said Kellow with a self-effacing laugh. ‘The truth of it is I’m rather a timid fellow.’

‘Timidity is something that can easily be shed.’

‘Kate is right,’ added Buckmaster, taking a silver case from his pocket and extracting a card. ‘Here – take this. If ever you change your mind, there will always be a place for you in my company.’ Kellow took the gold-edged card and inspected it. ‘You would have to start at the bottom, you understand, with small parts and meagre rewards but think what glories might lie ahead – Hugh Kellow in Hamlet!’

The silversmith shrugged. ‘I think I will stick to my trade, sir.’

‘Keep my card and come to see us perform in Cardiff.’

‘Oh, I am not staying in the town, sir.’

‘No?’

‘I simply have to make a delivery,’ said Kellow, slipping the card into his pocket, ‘then I catch a return train to London. On that journey, I fear, I will not have such distinguished company in first class. Mr Voke bought me a second class ticket.’

‘I fancy that I see why,’ said Kate, who had been watching the way his arm never left the bag. ‘You must be carrying something of great value if you would not let your luggage be stowed on top of the carriage. May we ask what it is?’

Kellow bit his lip before speaking. ‘It’s a locomotive,’ he said. ‘To be more exact, it’s a silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive.’

‘How singular!’ cried Buckmaster. ‘Pray, let us see it.’

‘Mr Voke forbade me to show it to anyone, sir.’

‘But we are not anyone, Mr Kellow – we are friends.’

‘Trusted friends, I hope,’ said Kate, her appetite whetted. ‘What harm is there in letting us have a peep at it? We are very discreet and it is not as if your employer will ever know.’

Hugh Kellow wrestled with his conscience for several minutes, unwilling to open the bag yet not wishing to let them down. He did not wish to spend the rest of a long journey in a strained atmosphere. They had offered him friendship and he needed to respond.

‘Very well,’ he said, capitulating. ‘But you must promise not to touch it.’ The others nodded their consent. Kellow undid the straps on the bag and took out an object that was wrapped in muslin. He drew back the folds of the material. ‘Here it is – a replica of the Firefly class of 1840, exact in every particular.’

Buckmaster and Kate were astounded. What they were looking at was nothing less than a miniature masterpiece, a scale model that was well over a foot long and that had the substance and sheen of high quality silver. The boiler was fitted to a tall, domed, gleaming firebox. Either side of the two large driving wheels were much smaller carrying wheels. While Buckmaster whistled in amazement, Kate’s eyes widened covetously. Kellow was pleased at their reaction.

‘The framing has been simplified a little,’ he explained, ‘and we added some boiler mountings. As for this little embellishment,’ he went on, indicating a silver crown at the top of the smokestack, ‘it is not mere decoration. It has an important function.’ He flicked the crown back on its hinge. ‘It keeps the coffee warm before it is poured.’

‘It’s magnificent,’ said Buckmaster. ‘I’ve never seen such fine detail. It must have taken an age to make.’

‘It did, sir. Mr Voke is a perfectionist. He worked for an eternity on this commission. He even sent me to Swindon to make some drawings of Firefly locomotives.’

Buckmaster’s eye twinkled. ‘Did you travel first class?’

‘I had to make do with third class on that occasion,’ admitted Kellow, sadly. ‘Mr Voke is very careful with his money. Some call him mean – his son certainly did – but I think he’s being sensible. He’s taught me to manage my own income with similar caution.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Kate, feasting her eyes on the locomotive. ‘Your employer has turned an ugly, dirty, noisy, iron contraption into a thing of real beauty. It must be an honour to work for such a superb craftsman.’

‘It is, indeed,’ returned Kellow, gratefully, ‘though the coffee pot is not entirely Mr Voke’s handiwork. The truth of it is that his eyesight is not what it was so he asked me to take over some of the more intricate work such as the crown and the insignia on the side of the firebox. I was also responsible for the pistons and for the railings on either side of the footplate.’ A note of pride intruded. ‘It was because I was so involved in making it that Mr Voke gave me the honour of delivering it to its new owner.’

‘And who is that?’

‘Mrs Tomkins of Cardiff – her name is on the boiler plate.’

‘I envy her!’ said Kate with feeling. ‘I adore silver. No, no,’ she went on quickly as Kellow tried to cover the locomotive up again. ‘Don’t hide it away, I beseech you. Let me gloat!’

Amid clouds of smoke, sulphur and soot, the train roared into Cardiff General Station and slowed to a juddering halt. The passengers alighted and waited for their luggage to be unloaded from the roofs of the carriages. Larger items had travelled in the guard’s van. Before he stepped on to the platform, Nigel Buckmaster put on his hat, cloak and imperious expression. He helped Kate Linnane to get out then he shook hands with Hugh Kellow. The silversmith was anxious to deliver the coffee pot but Kate was reluctant to let him go, clutching his arm with one hand while surreptitiously stroking his bag with the other. When he finally pulled away, she let out an involuntary cry of distress.

‘What ails you, my love?’ asked Buckmaster.

She watched Kellow until he was swallowed up by the crowd.

‘It’s that silver coffee pot,’ she confessed, a palm to her breast. ‘It’s stolen my heart, Nigel – I’d kill to own it!’

The corpse lay on the bed, impervious to the breeze that blew in through the open window to rustle the curtains. When a fly came into the room, it described endless circles in the air before settling on the top of a large, open, empty leather bag.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Why do we have to go to Cardiff?’ asked Victor Leeming, grumpily.

‘Because that’s where the murder occurred,’ said Colbeck.

‘But Cardiff is in Wales.’

‘You don’t need to lecture me in geography, Victor. I know exactly where it is and how long it will take a train to get us there.’

‘Far too long,’ moaned Leeming.

‘A change of air will do you good.’

‘Don’t they have their own police force?’

‘We were expressly requested by the South Wales Railway.’

‘You mean that you were, Inspector. Every railway company in the country is after your services. At the first sign of trouble, they send for Robert Colbeck, the Railway Detective.’

‘A murder is rather more than a sign of trouble.’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘The telegraph gave us only the merest details,’ said Colbeck. ‘A guest at the Railway Hotel was killed in his room. That’s all we need to know at this stage. The summons had me reaching for my Bradshaw and that’s why we’re on our way to Paddington.’

Leeming grimaced. ‘I detest boring train journeys.’

‘That’s a contradiction in terms. To a trained observer – such as a detective sergeant like you – no train journey should ever be boring. It’s a delight to the eye and a continual stimulus to the brain. Travel broadens the mind, Victor.’

Leeming grunted mutinously. Colbeck knew why he was being so churlish. The sergeant was a married man with a wife and two children on whom he doted. He hated having to be absent from them at night and an investigation in Cardiff could well mean days away. As soon as the telegraph arrived at Scotland Yard, Colbeck had told Leeming to grab the valise he kept at the office in case of an assignment away from London. It contained a change of clothing. The two men were now ensconced in a cab as it rolled noisily towards the railway station over a cobbled street. They were, in appearance, an ill-assorted pair. Colbeck was tall, slim, debonair, impeccably dressed and with an almost flashy handsomeness while Leeming was stocky, of medium height, inelegant even in a frock coat and top hat, and with the startling ugliness of a fairground bruiser who has come off worst in a brawl. Yet his family loved him deeply and Colbeck admired him for his sterling qualities as a policeman. Leeming had the tenacity of a man who, once set on the right path, would never deviate from it until a case was solved.

Colbeck sought to cheer up his jaded companion.

‘There are consolations,’ he argued. ‘For a start, we’ll be out of reach of Superintendent Tallis for a while.’

‘That’s always a bonus,’ agreed Leeming. ‘He’s been very liverish these past few weeks.’

‘It’s understandable – there have been far too many crimes and far too few convictions. The superintendent expects us to catch every single law-breaker and put him or her behind bars. We both know that it’s an impossible demand.’

‘If he wants us patrolling the streets of London, why is he letting us charge off across the Welsh border?’

‘I think that vanity comes into it, Victor,’ decided Colbeck. ‘The fact that we’ve been sought by name indicates that the reputation of the Detective Department has spread far and wide. That feeds his self-importance. In that uninhabitable waste land known as his heart, I fancy that he rather likes the notion of despatching his men to solve crimes in different parts of the country – as long as we are quick about it, naturally.’

‘It can’t be quick enough for me this time.’

‘There’s no call for alarm. Estelle and the children will survive without you for a night or two.’

‘That’s not what irks me, Inspector,’ confided Leeming. ‘My worry is that I won’t be able to survive without them.’

The brisk clip-clop of the horse changed to a slow tap-tap of hooves as the driver pulled on the reins. The cab soon stopped and the two men got out. Colbeck paid the fare then led his companion into the maelstrom that was Paddington Station on a busy afternoon. Over the tumult, he called out to Leeming.

‘Then there’s the other consolation, Victor.’

‘Is there, sir?’

‘When we get to Cardiff, we’ll meet an old friend.’

‘Oh – and who might that be?’

‘Jeremiah Stockdale.’

Leeming brightened instantly. ‘Now that is a consolation.’

And for the first time in his life, he stepped into a railway carriage with something resembling a smile on his face.

Archelaus Pugh had many virtues but he was not a man for a crisis. As the manager of the Railway Hotel in Cardiff, he was unfailingly efficient. Faced with everyday problems – awkward guests, mistakes over reservations, indolence among his staff – he was calm, patient and decisive. Confronted with a dead body in one of his rooms, however, Pugh swiftly deteriorated. Sweat broke out on his corrugated brow, his eyes darted uncontrollably and his clothing was suddenly too tight for him. He was a short, neat man in his forties with a crisp and authoritative voice that had now become a baleful croak.

‘You can’t leave him there, Superintendent,’ he wailed.

‘I can do and I will do, Mr Pugh,’ said Jeremiah Stockdale.

‘Think what it looks like. If a policeman stands outside that room all day, it will frighten my other guests.’

‘It’s more likely to reassure them, sir. And it also prevents any of them from stumbling into the room by mistake. Think how horrified they’d be if that happened.’

Pugh tried to assert himself. ‘I have a hotel to run.’

‘And I have a crime to solve,’ retorted Stockdale, looming over him. ‘That takes precedence over everything.’

‘Can’t you at least move the corpse out of here?’

‘No, Mr Pugh.’

‘Why ever not – it’s the most dreadful advertisement for us.’

‘My sympathies are with the victim. He stays where he is until Inspector Colbeck arrives from London. I want him to see exactly what we found when we went into that room.’

Stockdale was adamant. He was a big, brawny, bluff individual in his forties with a thick, dark moustache and a fringe beard. English by birth, he had had a brief military career as a mercenary in Spain before being invalided home. Recovering from his wounds, he had joined the recently formed Metropolitan Police Force. As a result of the training and experience acquired on the dangerous streets of London, he had secured, when only twenty-four, the post of Superintendent of the Cardiff Borough Police. That made him, in effect, the town’s Chief Constable. For almost two decades, he had been a very successful law-enforcement officer in spite of an inadequate budget, limited manpower and the constant criticism of the Watch Committee.

It was pointless to argue with Jeremiah Box Stockdale. He was his own man. He did not suffer fools gladly or bend to the wishes of panic-stricken hotel managers. Archelaus Pugh could bleat at him all day but it was a futile exercise. The corpse would stay where it was and the policeman would remain on guard.

They were in the foyer of the hotel and guests who went past viewed the superintendent with a curiosity liberally tinged with fear. The imposing figure was dressed in a uniform of his own devising – a dark blue tunic and trousers trimmed with red cord, a peaked cap and a sword belt from his army days. Pugh was invisible beside him.

‘When will the inspector get here?’ asked the manager.

‘I’m sure that he will have caught the first available train,’ said Stockdale, ‘and I’m equally sure that he’ll be bringing Sergeant Leeming with him. You should be grateful to have two men of their ability coming here, Mr Pugh.’

‘The only time I’ll feel the slightest impulse of gratitude is when they carry that dead body out of here and remove the stain of murder.’

‘Don’t you want this crime solved?’

‘Of course, I do, but my concern is for the other guests.’

‘Suspicion comes before concern,’ said the policeman, darkly. ‘Did it never occur to you that the killer is likely to be someone who is staying under this roof?’ Pugh gulped and took an involuntary step backwards. ‘He might be going about his business as if nothing had ever happened. In other words, Mr Pugh, somewhere among those guests about whom you are so concerned may be the self-same villain who committed this foul crime.’

Pugh was aghast. ‘The killer is still here?’

‘It’s something I am bound to consider.’

Leaving the manager to digest this devastating possibility, Stockdale broke away from him and marched over to welcome the two men who were coming in through the door. Colbeck and Leeming had walked the short distance from the railway station. They were pleased to see their old friend. There was an exchange of greetings and warm handshakes. The mutual respect between the three men was evident. Stockdale introduced them to the manager but Pugh was less than impressed. Expecting policemen in uniform, he was instead looking at what he perceived as a dandy and a pugilist.

‘When will you move the body, Inspector?’ demanded Pugh.

‘When it is time to do so,’ snapped Stockdale, quelling him with a glare. ‘Meanwhile, I suggest that you move your own body out of the way so that we can go upstairs. I’m sure that Inspector Colbeck will want to speak to you later.’

‘I will, indeed, sir,’ said Colbeck, turning politely to Pugh. ‘I’m sorry for the disruption this must have caused. I can understand your anxiety. It’s possible that Sergeant Leeming and I may have to stay in the town for a while. I take it that you have a room available?’

‘It’s already booked in your name,’ said Stockdale.

‘Thank you, Superintendent.’

‘Here,’ he continued, relieving them of their valises and handing them to the manager. ‘Do something useful and have these sent up to their room.’ He beamed at the others. ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’

As the detectives ascended the carpeted staircase, Stockdale provided them with preliminary details.

‘The victim is a young silversmith from London. His name was Hugh Kellow and he worked for a Mr Leonard Voke of Wood Street. He came here to deliver an item – the invoice was in his pocket – and it’s been stolen. Robbery was clearly the motive for the murder.’

‘What was the item?’ asked Leeming.

‘It was a silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive.’

Colbeck was fascinated. ‘Then it must be very valuable.’

‘It is,’ said Stockdale, enviously. ‘It cost far more than any of us lesser mortals could ever afford.’ They reached a landing and he led them down a long passageway. ‘A guest was passing the room when she heard what sounded like a muffled cry for help. She alerted the manager and, to his credit, he came up here at once. There was no response when he knocked on the door so he used a master key to open it and made the discovery.’

At the end of the passageway, they turned a corner and saw a uniformed policeman standing outside the first room on the left. At the sight of his superior, he immediately straightened up and gave a deferential salute. Producing a key from his pocket, Stockdale flicked a hand to move his colleague aside.

‘Almost nothing has been touched, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I remembered what you once told me about the scene of a crime. Important clues could be lost if people trampled all over it or, in the case of a murder, if the body was moved before it had been properly examined.’

‘We’re very grateful to you,’ said Colbeck.

Stockdale unlocked the door. ‘What you’re about to see,’ he told them with a grim smile, ‘is exactly what the manager saw – though unlike Mr Pugh, you will not have an attack of hysteria.’

The door swung open and they stepped into the room. Colbeck and Leeming surveyed the scene. The corpse lay on its back on the rumpled bed. He was wearing a shirt that was partly unbuttoned, an open waistcoat, a pair of trousers and some stockings. His shoes were on the floor beside the bed and his coat and cravat over a chair. His bowler hat stood on a small table in front of which was an empty leather bag. There was bruising on the victim’s face and dried blood on his forehead from a scalp wound. What made Leeming catch his breath was that the man’s mouth and chin were disfigured as if they had been badly scalded.

‘Some kind of acid was used,’ explained Stockdale. ‘The killer poured it down his throat. Some of it spilt on his face.’

Colbeck walked around the bed so that he could view the body from a different angle. He bent close to scrutinise it. Then he crossed to the open window and looked out. His gaze shifted to the coat.

‘What did you find in that?’ he asked.

‘Very little,’ replied Stockdale. ‘It looks to me as if his wallet was stolen along with the coffee pot. All that remained were the things you see on the dressing table – an invoice from his employer, a second class ticket to Paddington and a business card.’

Colbeck went over to pick up the card. ‘Nigel Buckmaster,’ he read aloud. ‘Now there’s a name I know well.’

‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Leeming.

‘That’s because you never go to the theatre, Victor.’

‘How can I on my wage, Inspector? I have a family to feed.’

‘Mr Buckmaster is an actor-manager. He has his own company of strolling players. I saw him give a masterly performance as Othello on one occasion.’ His eyes moved to the corpse. ‘How on earth did his card come to be in the victim’s pocket?’

‘I can tell you that,’ said Stockdale, keen to show that he had not been idle. ‘Buckmaster’s Players arrived today to spend a week at the Theatre Royal. It appears that Mr Buckmaster and his leading lady, Miss Linnane, shared a compartment with Mr Kellow on the train. They were horrified to hear what happened to him. It was they who confirmed his name. What surprised them was that he came to the hotel. He told them that he was travelling back to London as soon as he had delivered the coffee pot.’

‘Perhaps he was due to hand it over to its new owner right here,’ suggested Leeming.

‘No, Sergeant. He was supposed to take it to the house.’

‘What house?

‘The one belonging to Mr and Mrs Tomkins,’ said Stockdale, ‘though it’s more like a small palace than a house. Only someone like Clifford Tomkins could afford to buy an expensive coffee pot like that. He made his fortune in Merthyr as an ironmaster then had a mansion built in Cardiff. The coffee pot was a gift to his wife.’

‘Let’s go back to Mr Buckmaster,’ said Colbeck. ‘If he travelled all the way here in the company of Mr Kellow, he might have picked up some useful intelligence. I’ll need to speak to him.’

‘Then you won’t have far to go. He and Miss Linnane are staying at the hotel.’ Stockdale smirked knowingly. ‘They have separate rooms but my guess is that only one of the beds will be used.’

‘I don’t hold with that sort of thing,’ said Leeming, bluntly.

‘There’s no law against it, Sergeant.’

‘Sometimes I think there should be.’

Stockdale laughed. ‘Then I’d have to lock up half the town.’

‘The superintendent is right,’ said Colbeck. ‘One cannot legislate against certain things. One has to live and let live – even though the consequences may be fatal, as in this case.’

Leeming was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Tell me what you see in here, Victor.’

‘I see what we all see. The murder victim was battered then acid was poured down his throat. What surprises me is that Mr Kellow didn’t put up more of a fight. He looks like a healthy young man yet there’s no real sign of a struggle.’

‘That’s what troubled me,’ admitted Stockdale. ‘He must have been surprised. I know that he was supposed to be returning to London today but this room was, in fact, reserved in his name. My theory is that Mr Kellow came in here to rest, took off his hat, coat and shoes then lay down on the bed. Someone caught him off guard. Once he murdered his victim, the killer took everything of value and escaped through the window.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I noticed how easy it would have been to climb on the roof of that shed below. It could well have been a means of escape. But,’ he added, crossing to kneel beside the bed, ‘there’s another explanation that occurs to me.’ He peeled back the cuffs of the dead man’s shirt. ‘It’s just as I thought. He was tied up. You can still see the marks of the rope on his wrists.’

Stockdale was upset. ‘I should have noticed that myself.’

‘You were only looking for things that fitted your theory.’

Leeming scratched his head. ‘The killer must have been a strong man,’ he noted, ‘if he could overpower and tie up his victim. Why didn’t Mr Kellow scream his head off? That’s what I’d have done in the circumstances.’

‘I very much doubt it, Victor,’ observed Colbeck with a smile. ‘You would never have been in those circumstances. Your wedding ring would have saved you from illicit sexual contact. What I believe may have happened is this,’ he went on, thinking it through. ‘Mr Kellow is a young man with a day off in a strange town. He was probably lured in here by a woman who persuaded him to let her tie him up so that she could tease him to heighten his pleasure.’ Leeming was shocked. ‘Once she had him in that condition, either she or a male accomplice took full advantage of him.’

‘That’s disgusting!’ protested Leeming.

‘It happens all the time in Butetown,’ said Stockdale, wearily. ‘Foreign sailors come streaming off their ships after months at sea and run straight to the arms of the nearest whore. After a drunken night of passion, they wake up to find they’ve been robbed of every penny. The only difference here is that poor Mr Kellow will never wake up.’

‘A trap was set,’ concluded Colbeck. ‘That’s why I incline to the notion that there were two of them. They knew when Mr Kellow was coming to Cardiff and what he would be carrying. He simply had to be enticed away from his errand. This room was booked by a man, giving his name as Hugh Kellow. When his female accomplice had rendered their victim helpless, he committed the murder and they fled.’ He turned to Stockdale. ‘The body can be moved now, Superintendent. I’ll want an autopsy.’

‘Of course, Inspector,’ said Stockdale.

‘I’ll need to speak to the manager then I’d like some time with Mr Buckmaster and Miss Linnane. They must have talked at length to Mr Kellow.’

‘What about me, Inspector?’ asked Leeming.

‘You must go straight back to London,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’m not sending you there simply to spend the night with your wife. You must call on Leonard Voke as a matter of urgency, acquaint him with the details of this sorry business and find out who else knew that his assistant would be travelling to Cardiff today with an item of great value in his possession. Oh, there’s one other thing, Victor.’

‘Is there?’

‘Warn him.’

‘You think that he’s in danger?’

‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘but his stock may be at risk. Since he was given the important task of delivering that coffee pot, Hugh Kellow was obviously a trusted employee. He would almost certainly have had keys to the silversmith’s premises. Tell Mr Voke that they are missing.’

CHAPTER THREE

Madeleine Andrews was so engrossed in studying her sketchbook that she did not even hear the familiar footsteps on the pavement outside the little house in Camden. When her father let himself in, therefore, she looked up in alarm as if an intruder had just burst upon her. She smiled with relief at the sight of Caleb Andrews, back home from another day as a driver on the London and North West Railway.

‘You took me by surprise, Father,’ she said.

‘It’s not often I do that, Maddie,’ he said, taking off his coat and cap before hanging them on the back of the door. ‘In any case, I’m the one who should be surprised. I was expecting to find the place empty. You were going out with Inspector Colbeck this evening.’

‘Robert sent a note to cancel the arrangement.’

‘Did he give a reason?’

‘He had to go to Cardiff at short notice.’

‘That means the Great Western Railway,’ said Andrews with a sneer, ‘and Brunel’s Great Big Mistake of installing a broad gauge. If only he’d had the sense to use a standard gauge on his track, life would be so much simpler for all of us.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ she said.

‘It’s the only way, Maddie.’

‘Mr Brunel would argue that the LNWR and other companies were at fault when they chose a narrower gauge. If everyone else had fallen into line behind him, there’d be no argument.’

‘Stop provoking me.’

‘I was trying to see it from his point of view.’

‘In this house,’ he declared, stamping a foot, ‘Isambard Kingdom Brunel doesn’t have a point of view. I work for a rival company.’

‘Then I won’t show you this,’ she said, closing her sketchbook.

‘What was it?’

‘A sketch I made of a locomotive in the Firefly class.’

‘That’s one of Daniel Gooch’s designs,’ he said with grudging admiration. ‘It’s a good, reliable engine and it’s stayed in service. The train that took Inspector Colbeck to Wales might even have been from the Firefly class. You should be drawing our locomotives,’ he added with sudden petulance, ‘not those of our competitors.’

‘I draw what catches my eye, Father.’

Putting her sketchbook aside, she got up and went into the kitchen to set out their supper on the table. She was disappointed that Robert Colbeck was unable to see her that evening but she was accustomed to such last-minute changes of plan. He worked long and uncertain hours at Scotland Yard. Close friendship with the Railway Detective meant that she had to tolerate his sudden departures and unforeseen commitments. Madeleine had her work to console her. It was Colbeck who had discovered her artistic talent and encouraged her to develop it to the point where it began to have commercial value. Not for her the tranquil landscapes and dainty water colours of other female artists. Her subject was the railway system and in her father, who had spent a whole working life on it, and Robert Colbeck, who was its devotee, she had two continual sources of inspiration.

When he drifted into the kitchen, Andrews was smoking his pipe. He was a short, sinewy man in his fifties with a wispy beard salted with grey. His workmates knew him for his irascibility but he tended to mellow when at home. Since the death of his wife, his daughter had taken care of him, feeding him, nurturing him and keeping him from despair. As he watched her now, bending over the table, he was reminded so vividly of his wife that his eyes moistened. Madeleine had the same quietly attractive features, the same clear complexion and the same auburn hair. He had to remind himself how different they really were in character. Madeleine was far more gifted, more assertive and more self-possessed. She could set her sights on something higher than being the wife of a railwayman.

Halfway through the meal, Andrews broached the topic.

‘Has the Inspector said anything?’ he asked, gently.

‘Robert has said lots of things. He’s very talkative.’

‘You know what I mean, Maddie.’

‘I’m sure that I don’t,’ she said, briskly, reaching for her teacup. ‘What sort of a day have you had?’

‘The kind of day that I always have,’ he replied. ‘It was long and tiring. Now don’t try to avoid the question.’

‘I’m avoiding nothing, Father.’

‘Well?’

‘Eat your food.’

‘I’m waiting for an answer.’

‘Robert and I are good friends.’

‘You always say that.’

‘Then why don’t you believe me?’

‘Because you’ve been saying it for years now, Maddie,’ he went on. ‘People are beginning to pass remarks about the two of you.’

‘Well, they’d better not do so to my face,’ she warned with a show of temper worthy of her father, ‘or they’ll get more than they bargained for! I’m surprised you listen to worthless tittle-tattle.’

‘They’re bound to wonder – and so am I.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Robert and I have an understanding,’ she explained, trying to rein in her irritation. ‘You need have no fears about him, I promise you. He’s a perfect gentleman.’

Andrews gave her time to calm down. There was an obvious bond between Colbeck and his daughter but it vexed him that he did not comprehend its true nature. In the normal course of events, an engine driver’s daughter would never have the opportunity to befriend a detective inspector, especially one who had enjoyed a career as a barrister before joining the Metropolitan Police Force. All three of them had been thrown together by a dramatic turn of events. During a daring robbery of a train that Andrews had been driving, he had been badly injured and there had been a string of related crimes. Colbeck had not only solved them, he had rescued Madeleine when she was abducted by the men responsible for the robbery in which her father had almost died. Drawn together by adversity, Colbeck and Madeleine had something far more than a friendship yet somewhat less than a formal betrothal. While she was happy to accept the situation for what it was, her father was not. He waited until the meal was over before he returned to the delicate subject.

‘I’m your father, Maddie,’ he said, softly. ‘It’s my duty to look after you. I know that you look after me most of the time,’ he went on with a chortle, ‘but this is different. I have a responsibility.’

‘I’ve told you before, father. You can rest easy.’

‘You don’t want to be stuck here with me forever.’

‘I’ll do what I feel is right.’

Andrews was tentative. ‘Is it to do with his job?’ he wondered. ‘I know that it’s dangerous work and that he has to work even longer hours than I do. Perhaps he thinks it would be unfair on you to ask you to be his –—’

‘That’s enough,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘I don’t wish to end the day with an argument.’

‘I’m not arguing, Maddie. I have your best interests at heart.’

She heaved a sighed. ‘I know, Father.’

‘I’m bound to feel uneasy at the way things are.’

‘Well, you have no cause.’ She got up and cleared away the dishes before turning to face him. Folding her arms, she weighed her words with care. ‘All I can tell you is this – and it’s strictly for your ears only. I don’t want any more gossip about us.’

‘I’ll be as silent as the grave,’ he promised.

‘You must be, Father. If you keep prying, you’ll upset Robert as well as me. As I’ve told you a dozen times,’ she went on, ‘we’re close friends but there’s a point beyond which our friendship never goes. He hasn’t put it into words but I sense there’s some kind of obstruction. It’s to do with his past.’

‘You mean that he’s already married?’ said Andrews, worriedly. ‘I won’t have any man trifling with your affections, Maddie, however high and mighty he might be,’

‘He’s not married and he never has been. And Robert is certainly not leading me astray. But there was someone in his past and, every so often, that person comes into his mind. At least, that’s what I think. It’s the only way to explain them.’

‘Explain what?’

‘Those odd moments,’ she said, pursing her lips, ‘when he seems to be in mourning for someone.’

The passage of time had not served to calm down Archelaus Pugh. When Colbeck spoke to the manager in his office, Pugh was still in a state of shock, body tense, face pallid, his Welsh lilt exploring higher octaves.

‘This could be the ruination of us, Inspector,’ he said, dabbing at the perspiration on his brow with a handkerchief. ‘The hotel has not long been opened. Murder is bound to affect our business.’

‘Temporarily perhaps,’ said Colbeck. ‘The important thing is to solve the crime as soon as possible so that it does not remain at the forefront of the public’s mind. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve sanctioned the removal of the body.’

‘Thank goodness for that!’

‘I’d recommend that you keep that room unoccupied for a while.’

Pugh gave a hollow laugh. ‘Who’d want to stay there?’

‘I think you’d be surprised, sir. Never underestimate the ghoulish curiosity of some people. Now,’ he went on, ‘I need some details from you. When was that particular room reserved?’

‘This very morning, Inspector,’ replied the manager. ‘Mr Jones, who was on duty at the time, believes that it was around ten o’clock. The room was booked for one night by a Mr Hugh Kellow.’

‘Except that it couldn’t have been the real Mr Kellow because his train did not arrive in Cardiff until almost an hour later. The man was patently an impostor.’

Pugh was defensive. ‘Mr Jones was not to know that.’

‘Of course not,’ said Colbeck. ‘He acted in good faith. What can he tell us about this bogus Mr Kellow?’

‘Very little, I fear,’ said Pugh. ‘He’s an observant man – I teach all my staff to be alert – but other guests were arriving at the same time. All that Mr Jones can remember is that he was a personable young man with a ready smile.’

‘Did he have a Welsh or an English accent?’

‘English.’

‘Was it an educated voice?’

‘Oh, yes. We don’t cater for riffraff here. It’s one of the reasons I moved to Cardiff from a hotel in Merthyr. We had to cope with a lower class of person there at times.’

‘Did Mr Jones notice if the man was carrying any luggage?’

‘He had a large bag with him, Inspector.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘He signed his name in the register and was shown up to his room. About half an hour later, this so-called Mr Kellow was seen to leave the hotel by the front door.’

‘Did anyone see him returning?’

‘Not to my knowledge, Inspector,’ said Pugh. ‘He might have come in through the rear entrance, of course, or even slipped in during the rush. The London train brought in a number of guests so there was a small crowd at the desk for a while.’

‘When did you become aware of a problem?’ asked Colbeck.

‘It must have been a little after noon. A Mrs Anstey, one of the guests, happened to be passing the room in question when she heard clear sounds of distress as if someone was calling for help. She came to report the incident and I went upstairs to investigate.’ He gave a low gurgle. ‘I think you know the rest.’

‘I do, Mr Pugh. What you’ve told me is very helpful. It’s in accord with my early suspicions.’ He sat back and studied the manager with interest. ‘You come from Merthyr Tydfil then?’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ Pugh told him, pocketing the handkerchief. ‘I was born and brought up there. It’s a dirty, brawling, boisterous industrial town with a lot of immigrants – Irish, Spanish and Italian, mostly. Merthyr was always far bigger than Cardiff. Indeed, until recent years, Cardiff couldn’t hold a candle to Merthyr, Swansea or Newport. It was a sort of poor relation.’

‘Things have certainly changed. It’s a thriving coal port now. Superintendent Stockdale was telling me how the population has trebled in the time he’s been living here. Inevitably,’ said Colbeck with a shrug, ‘it’s meant a sharp increase in the amount of crime.’

Pugh was rueful. ‘The worst excesses occur in Butetown – that’s the dockland area. It’s a vile place, filled with the dross of humanity who believe they were put on this earth to do nothing but drink, fight, gamble and enjoy carnal pleasures in sordid dens of wickedness. You’ll not want to be in Butetown when foreign ships come in,’ he warned. ‘It’s like hell on earth. You’d expect a murder there but not,’ he continued, spreading his arms wide, ‘in a respectable hotel like this. Oh, Inspector, please tell me that you’ll be able to catch the villain who inflicted this horror upon us.’

Colbeck was confident. ‘I think I can guarantee it, Mr Pugh.’

Jeremiah Stockdale was not looking forward to the visit. Being the bearer of bad news always made him feel uncomfortable. Since the bad news had to be passed on to Clifford Tomkins and his wife, Stockdale had reason to be even more uneasy. He steeled himself to bear the onslaught of anger, bitterness and criticism that was bound to come. Winifred Tomkins, a plump, pampered middle-aged woman, dripping with expensive jewellery, led the attack. No sooner had he given them the salient details of the crime than she pounced.

‘My coffee pot has been stolen!’ she cried, outrage making her already bulbous eyes move even further out of their sockets. ‘How on earth could you let this happen, Superintendent?’

‘I think it’s unfair to blame me, Mrs Tomkins,’ said Stockdale, stoutly. ‘Neither I nor my men were engaged to guard the item.’

‘Well, you should have been.’

‘This is most distressing,’ said Tomkins, oozing disapproval. ‘Do you know how much that coffee pot cost?’

‘Yes, sir – I’ve seen the invoice.’

‘Then you’ll have noticed that I had already paid fifty pounds deposit. Money does not grow on trees, you know.’

Stockdale was about to point out that, in a sense, it did. The ironmaster had cultivated a small forest out of the blood, sweat and early deaths of the poor wretches who toiled in his ironworks, leaving him to pluck metaphorical banknotes from every branch. The vast neo-Gothic residence that Tomkins had had built on the outskirts of Cardiff bore testimony to his wealth and the drawing room in which they were now standing was awash with Regency furniture, silver ornaments and gilt-framed portraits. Forthright on most occasions, Stockdale held his tongue. There was no virtue in alienating them even more.

‘I want that coffee pot back!’ insisted Winifred.

‘An investigation has already been set in motion,’ said the visitor, ‘but please bear in mind that the theft was only a secondary crime. Cold-blooded murder was committed in that hotel.’

‘That’s immaterial.’

‘Not in my view.’

‘Nor in mine,’ said Tomkins, reasonably. ‘I know that you’re upset, my dear, but the fate of that young man compels attention. It’s a dreadful thing to happen to him.’

Winifred was dismissive. ‘He’s beyond help,’ she said, waving a hand, ‘so let’s not waste time on him. After all, he was only the silversmith’s assistant. I shall be writing to Mr Voke to ask him why he didn’t take more steps to ensure the safety of my coffee pot.’

She continued to complain loudly and to upbraid Stockdale as if he had been the thief. He weathered the storm and collected an apologetic glance from Tomkins as he did so. Though he disliked the man intensely, Stockdale had compassion for any husband wedded to such a garrulous termagant. Clifford Tomkins was a tall, skinny, straight-backed man in his sixties with a mane of silver hair that reinforced his air of distinction. Callous to the point of brutality as a captain of industry, he was more restrained in a domestic setting. Over the years, his cheeks had been reddened by heavy drinking and hollowed by a dissipation about which his wife knew absolutely nothing. Stockdale, however, had his true measure, having once caught the old man in a compromising position during a raid on one of Cardiff’s more exclusive brothels.

‘Thank you, Winifred,’ said Tomkins when his wife’s tirade finally came to an end. ‘Now let’s hear what the superintendent is doing to solve these appalling crimes.’

‘I’ve done the most sensible thing possible, sir,’ explained Stockdale. ‘Since the crimes occurred on the property of the South Wales Railway, I advised the managing director to send for Detective Inspector Colbeck of the Metropolitan Police Force.’

‘Why on earth did you do that, man?’

‘I can see that you’re not familiar with his reputation. The inspector has dealt with crimes relating to the railway system all over the country. His record of success is unparalleled. I’ve worked beside him so I know what a brilliant detective he is.’

‘Can he recover my coffee pot?’ challenged Winifred, eyes at the extremity of their bulge. ‘That’s what I wish to know.’

‘Inspector Colbeck is certain of it. No pawnbroker would touch an object as distinctive as that and I venture to suggest that there are very few ladies with your abiding interest in locomotives.’

‘Years ago,’ she announced, grandly, ‘my father was a major investor in the Great Western Railway. I inherited his passion for trains. I always preferred to play with my brother’s toy engine rather than with my dolls. It was partly in memory of my late father that I wanted that silver coffee pot made and my husband was kind enough to commission it.’

‘Mr Voke was highly recommended,’ added Tomkins, ‘so we put our trust in him. He sent us a series of sketches and my wife chose the one that she wanted. We didn’t want to buy a pig in a poke.’

‘Do you still have the sketch, sir?’ asked Stockdale. ‘It would be helpful to know exactly what we’re looking for.’

‘It’s in the library, Superintendent. I’ll get it for you.’

As Tomkins went out, Stockdale turned to the still fuming Winifred. Nothing but the instant return of her coffee pot would placate her. The murder did not somehow impinge on her consciousness.

‘Mrs Tomkins,’ he began, ‘Inspector Colbeck pointed out that whoever stole your coffee pot must have been aware of the time of its arrival in the town. They knew exactly when to strike. Is there anyone of your acquaintance in whom you confided such a detail?’

She was enraged. ‘Are you suggesting that one of my friends is a thief?’ she cried. ‘Our social circle is above reproach.’

‘I realise that. But if you’d described the item to anyone and told them when it would be delivered, they might accidentally have let slip that information to someone else.’

‘That’s quite out of the question.’

‘Somebody must have known,’ he pointed out. ‘Think carefully, Mrs Tomkins. Who did you tell? I know, for instance, that you number Sir David and Lady Pryde among your acquaintances.’

‘Not any more,’ she rejoined with controlled vehemence. ‘Lady Pryde has proved herself unworthy of my friendship. She is no longer welcome here. However,’ she said as a thought struck her, ‘she did see the sketch of the coffee pot and knew when it would be coming. And she has always had an acquisitive streak. Not that I’m accusing her, mind you,’ she added, hurriedly, ‘but it might be worth bearing her name in mind.’

‘Is that the only name you can offer me?’

‘It is, Superintendent. Unless, that is…’

‘Go on,’ he coaxed.

‘Well, now that I think of it, someone was extremely interested in the sketch when I showed it to her. Like me, she collects silver.’

‘Who is the lady?’

‘Miss Evans,’ she said. ‘Miss Carys Evans.’

Before Stockdale could pass a comment, Tomkins came back into the room with sheet of cartridge paper. He handed it to the superintendent who was impressed by the meticulous detail of the sketch, noting the name of Hugh Kellow in a bottom corner. The young silversmith had also been a competent artist.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Stockdale. ‘May I hold on to this?’

‘If you wish,’ answered Tomkins.

‘It’s a highly individual item and very difficult to sell.’

‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Mrs Tomkins, clutching at her throat. ‘Surely, the thief wouldn’t destroy my precious coffee pot and have something else made out of the silver?’

‘Not according to Inspector Colbeck,’ said Stockdale, firmly. ‘He believes that the villain has a much better plan.’ Pausing for effect, he cleared his throat. ‘He intends to let you buy it back from him.’

Winifred emitted a howl of indignation and her husband’s jaw dropped. The last time Stockdale had seen such an expression of comprehensive dismay on the old man’s face was when he had found him writhing naked between the thighs of a young Welsh prostitute.

As Colbeck walked along St Mary Street, he saw very little of its fine buildings, its plentiful shops, its clean pavements and its gas lamps. He was preoccupied with thoughts of Madeleine Andrews. But for the urgent summons to Cardiff, he would have taken her out to dine that evening and luxuriated in her company for hours. Instead, he was a hundred and sixty miles away, a distance that only intensified his regret. He knew that she would be sorely disappointed but there was nothing he could do about it. His private life was always subsidiary to professional demands. Victor Leeming frequently talked about his family and Colbeck encouraged him to do so. He was very fond of Estelle Leeming and the two children. Yet he never discussed Madeleine with the sergeant. Leeming wore his heart on his sleeve. Colbeck’s heart could beat just as fast even though it was kept discreetly from view.

When he reached the end of High Street, he was jerked out of his reverie by something that sprung up before him to demand his attention. Cardiff Castle was a daunting structure. Beginning as a Roman fortress, it had been rebuilt by the Normans then extended and embroidered by successive owners. Some of its interior had fallen into disrepair but its high walls and massive gatehouse remained. For hundreds of years, it had dominated the town completely. Cardiff was now slowly fighting back, surrounding it with houses, encroaching on its margins, laying siege architecturally. A castle with a town had become a town with a castle. Colbeck took a few minutes to appraise it and to speculate on how much misery its dungeons must have known in the time when they were the home of any local malefactors.

Turning right and with the castle on his left, Colbeck strode in the direction of the Theatre Royal. Stockdale had told him that it was situated in Crockerton but that turned out to be his pronunciation of Crockherbtown. It was only a short walk from the castle. What had once been a leafy suburb of Cardiff was now an integral part, linked to the centre by a series of houses, shops, inns, chapels and other buildings. Colbeck had not gone very far beyond the castle when he was accosted by a young woman whose bonnet framed a face of exceptional loveliness.

‘May I give you one of these, sir?’ she said, sweetly, offering him a playbill. ‘Buckmaster’s Players are performing here this week.’

‘I know,’ he said, taking the handbill and glancing at it. ‘As it happens, I’m on my way to the theatre right now to speak to Mr Buckmaster.’

‘He’s been there all afternoon.’

‘I take it that you’re a member of the company.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, showing a perfect set of teeth in a broad smile. ‘I have two parts in Macbeth – I play one of the witches, then I reappear as Lady Macduff.’

‘Then I must question the casting,’ he said, gallantly. ‘You’re far too beautiful to be a witch.’ She laughed gaily at the compliment. ‘What is not in doubt is your boldness in staging a play that has a reputation of bringing back luck. Mr Buckmaster is a brave man.’

Her face ignited with ardour. ‘I think he’s a genius!’

‘He’s an outstanding actor, to be sure. I marvelled at his Othello and recall his Romeo with fondness.’

‘Every part he touches, he makes his own.’

‘I daresay that’s also true of you – may I know your name?’

‘Of course, sir – it’s Laura Tremaine.’

‘I hope I have the chance to see you perform, Miss Tremaine. But let me give you a warning,’ he went on, looking around. ‘Light will start to fade before too long. It’s not wise for an unaccompanied young lady to be on the streets. Cardiff is not short of public houses, as you can see. I’d hate to think of your being harassed by drunkards.’

‘There’s no danger of that,’ she said, chirpily. ‘I’m called for a rehearsal quite soon. Besides, I’m not alone. Duncan and the Porter are keeping watch on me.’ She indicated the figure of a stout, stooping, middle-aged man some thirty yards away. That’s Sydney Hobbs. He plays both parts. In a small company like ours, we have a lot of doubling. Mr Buckmaster says that it’s good experience for us.’

Laura Tremaine had the burning conviction of a true Thespian. Colbeck felt a pang of sympathy for her. Not for the first time, he thought how gruelling the life of a touring actress must be. Laura would be constantly on the move, going from place to place in search of an audience, travelling cheaply, eating poorly, staying in drab accommodation, living on a pittance and paying for her brief moments of glory on stage by doing such mundane chores as handing out playbills to passing strangers and running the risk of molestation.

She seemed to read his mind. ‘Do not worry about me, sir,’ she said, happily. ‘I would gladly suffer all the indignities that the world can subject me to for the privilege of working with Mr Buckmaster.’

Colbeck was touched by her blazing sincerity. ‘He is evidently a remarkable man,’ he said. ‘I look forward to meeting him.’

CHAPTER FOUR

The Theatre Royal had been opened almost thirty years earlier by interested parties who formed a joint-stock company. What they got for their investment was a neat, rectangular structure with a Gothic façade whose plethora of arched windows gave it an inappropriately ecclesiastical air. Striking in appearance, it was not, however, known for its comfort and its interior lacked the sheer scope, luxury and embellishment of London theatres. Nigel Buckmaster made light of its deficiencies, confident that the brilliance of his performance would divert the minds of any audience from the hardness of the seats. He was reeling off some instructions to his stage manager when he was interrupted by Robert Colbeck. Hearing why the inspector had come, he immediately conducted him to the main dressing room at the rear of the stage.

Gas lighting gave the room a garish glow and created shifting patterns in the mirrors. Colbeck noticed that the actor’s costume for Macbeth was already hanging up. A dirk and claymore lay on the table beside a large make-up box. Buckmaster waved him to a seat but remained standing in a position where the best of the light fell upon his face.

‘I’d hoped to speak to Miss Linnane as well,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I was told that she was indisposed.’

‘This hideous business at the hotel unnerved her,’ explained Buckmaster, ‘so she took to her bed. Kate – Miss Linnane – is a sensitive creature. It’s ironic. Tomorrow, as Lady Macbeth, she’ll urge me to slaughter the King of Scotland and she’ll be utterly merciless in doing so. Yet when a real murder takes place so close to her, she is quite unable to cope with it. I, on the other hand,’ he said, thrusting out his chin, ‘am made of sterner stuff.’

‘So I see, Mr Buckmaster.’

‘I had the courage to identify the body when Superintendent Stockdale requested me to do so. It was a hideous sight but I didn’t flinch. An actor must have complete self-control. Not that I didn’t shed a tear for him,’ he went on, inhaling deeply through his nose. ‘Mr Kellow was a pleasant young man with a patent love of what he was doing. Apparently, he helped to make that silver coffee pot. It showed exceptional talent.’

‘How would you describe him?’

‘He struck me as an intelligent, well-spoken, responsible chap. He was somewhat unworldly, though, and felt uneasy at travelling in a first class railway carriage. It was obviously a rare treat for him. Miss Linanne and I are used to people being cowed by our presence – that’s part of an actor’s stock-in-trade, after all – but Mr Kellow was completely over-awed.’

‘Did he tell you anything about his work?’ probed Colbeck.

‘Not at first,’ replied Buckmaster. ‘We found it hard to get more than two words out of him – and he kept hugging his leather bag as it if contained the Crown Jewels. We had great difficulty persuading him to let us see the coffee pot and we were not allowed to touch it.’

‘What was your first reaction when you saw it?’

Buckmaster hunched his shoulders. ‘I knew that I was looking at a work of art, Inspector.’

‘Was it really that good, sir?’

‘Don’t take my word for it. Miss Linnane is something of an expert on silver – perhaps because her admirers have showered her with gifts made of silver over the years – and she was entranced by it. I’m sure that she’ll tell you that when you speak to her. At the moment, alas,’ he said with a sigh, ‘she has this foolish notion that that murder only happened because we are staging a play that has a history of disasters associated with it.’

‘Macbeth is steeped in superstition.’

‘Superstition is the sign of a weak mind, Inspector. I have no truck with it. When this theatre opened in 1826, the first play presented was Macbeth with the great William Macready in the title role. I seek to emulate him.’

‘I have no doubt that you will, Mr Buckmaster,’ said Colbeck, admiringly. ‘I’ve always enjoyed your performances.’

The actor beamed. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘As for the choice of play, I’m inclined to agree with you. I fear that Mr Kellow would have met the same fate had you been staging A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

‘That’s well beyond our capabilities,’ admitted Buckmaster. ‘Even with strenuous doubling, it has far too many characters for a touring company. Actors need to be paid and our income is very restricted. That’s why we have to rely on patronage.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I noticed from your playbill that the first night is being sponsored by the mayor.’

‘There are three other bespoke performances so we can rely on an audience for those. The challenge is to fill the theatre on the other nights as well as at the matinee.’

‘Word of mouth will surely do that for you, sir. And there is no shame in patronage. Elizabethan theatre was built on it. Shakespeare and his ilk all needed patrons. However,’ he said, noting how satanic the actor looked in the flickering gaslight, ‘let’s return to Mr Kellow. Did he tell you anything about his private life?’

‘He didn’t seem to have much of a private life, Inspector,’ said Buckmaster. ‘His employer, Mr Voke, made him work long hours and the poor man could not afford much in the way of entertainment. Mr Kellow rented a room near the shop. I gather that his parents had both died years ago. He spoke of a sister who lived in London but they saw very little of each other.’

‘What did he tell you of Mr Voke?’

‘Oh, he spoke very fondly of him but I’d already observed the deep affection between the two of them. Mr Voke waved him off at the station. They seemed so close that I took them for father and son. As it turned out,’ he recalled, ‘Mr Kellow has been more of son to the old man than his own flesh and blood.’

Colbeck’s ears pricked up. ‘In what way, sir?’

‘Well, it transpires that the young Mr Voke, also a silversmith, expected to take over the business in time and resented the fact that his father gave some of the best commissions to Mr Kellow because he deemed him the superior craftsman. There were also constant rows between father and son about money. In the end, there was a serious rift in the lute and the son stalked off to work elsewhere.’

‘So he might bear a grudge against Mr Kellow.’

‘I think it unlikely that anyone would do that, Inspector.’

‘Why?’

‘He was so shy and self-effacing. He was the sort of person who would run a mile from an argument. At least,’ said Buckmaster, ‘that’s my estimate of him. Miss Linnane’s will be the same. The only way to get at the truth, of course, is to talk to Mr Voke himself.’

‘Precisely,’ agreed Colbeck, getting up from the chair. ‘I expect that my colleague, Sergeant Leeming, will be doing that very soon.’

It was late evening when Victor Leeming finally reached the little shop in Wood Street. His first duty on returning to London had been to call in at Scotland Yard in order to apprise Superintendent Tallis of the latest developments. Thanks to a message transmitted by telegraph, the superintendent was in possession of news that the sergeant had not heard. The South Wales Railway Company was offering a large reward for information leading to the capture of the person or persons responsible for the murder of Hugh Kellow. Notice of the reward would be carried the following morning in London newspapers as well as in more local periodicals. Leeming and Colbeck would not be working in the relative anonymity of Wales. The metropolitan press would now be watching them as well.

Chastened by this intelligence, Leeming went off in a hansom cab to visit Leonard Voke. It was now dark and the silversmith had retired early to bed. Roused from his sleep, Voke put on a dressing gown and spoke to the sergeant through an open upstairs window. Leeming removed his hat to address the man. Viewed from above in the half-dark, he was an unprepossessing visitor, his upturned face, illumined by the moon, looking more like that of a desperate criminal than of an officer of the law. It took the sergeant minutes to convince the old man of his identity. Only the mention of important news relating to Hugh Kellow persuaded Voke to come to the front door.

When he opened it a few inches, he peered through the crack to appraise Leeming. Holding an oil lamp in one hand, he eventually opened the door with the other. Once his visitor was inside the premises, Voke locked the door and pushed home three large bolts. He then took Leeming into a room at the rear of the shop and set the lamp down on the table. The silversmith’s bleary eyes blinked behind his spectacles.

‘What’s this about my assistant?’ he asked.

‘Perhaps you’d better sit down before I tell you, sir,’ advised Leeming. ‘I bring bad tidings.’

Voke lowered himself into a chair. ‘What sort of bad tidings?’ he said, worriedly. ‘Hugh hasn’t been involved in an accident, has he?’

‘It’s worse than that, Mr Voke. Prepare yourself for a shock. It’s my sad duty to tell you that Mr Kellow was murdered early today in a hotel room in Cardiff.’

Recoiling as if from a blow, Voke seemed about to fall off his chair. He put a steadying hand on the table. Tears streamed down his face and he removed his spectacles to brush them away with the back of his hand. During his years in the police force, Leeming had often been called upon to pass on dire news to grieving parents. It was always a distressing duty for him because there was no way to soften the pain. Voke was thunderstruck, reacting like a father whose favourite son had just been killed. Leeming gave him time to recover.

‘You have my deepest sympathy, sir,’ he said at length.

Voke was still stunned. ‘Who could possibly wish to harm Hugh?’ he said, helplessly. ‘A more likeable and blameless young man doesn’t exist upon this earth. Hugh Kellow was much more than an assistant to me, sergeant. He was my mainstay. I put absolute trust in him. That’s why I let him deliver a silver coffee pot to a client in Cardiff.’ Realisation suddenly hit him. ‘Dear God! Someone stole it, didn’t they? That was the reason Hugh was murdered!’

‘Yes, sir – the coffee pot has disappeared.’

‘Then it’s my fault,’ confessed the old man, beating his chest with a palm. ‘This is all my doing. I should have paid someone to act as an escort for him. I exposed him to unnecessary danger.’

‘You weren’t to know that someone had designs on the item. I gather that it was concealed in a leather bag.’

‘It was, Sergeant Leeming, and I told Hugh that he must not take it out for any reason whatsoever. I even went with him to Paddington Station to select a first class carriage in which he could travel safely. All that Hugh had to do,’ Voke went on, ‘was to deliver the coffee pot to Mrs Tomkins at the address I gave him.’

‘And, presumably, collect some money,’ noted Leeming.

‘Of course – fifty pounds had already been paid on deposit. The balance was to be collected by Hugh. That’s how much I trusted my assistant, you see. I let him collect a substantial amount of money on my behalf. I have to tell you,’ he said, replacing his spectacles, ‘that I couldn’t have entrusted my own son with such an errand. Stephen would have been liable to temptation.’

The detective was shaken. ‘He would surely not have stolen from his own father?’

‘It would not have been the first time, Sergeant. But enough of Stephen,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I’ve disowned him. He’s no longer welcome here and has no claim on the business. Unlike Hugh, he would never apply himself. That’s the secret of the silversmith’s trade in one simple word – application.’

‘I can’t imagine ever disowning either of my children. I love them too dearly. In any case,’ said Leeming, earnestly, ‘my wife would never allow such a thing to happen. I’m surprised that Mrs Voke was ready to renounce her own child.’

Voke stifled a sob. ‘My wife died a couple of years ago,’ he said. ‘While she was alive, Stephen was far less trouble. Alice knew how to handle him. Once she had gone, he became surly and disobedient.’

‘When did you and he come to the parting of the ways?’

‘It must have been two or three months ago.’

‘Would you have started work on that coffee pot by then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Voke, ‘that was a bone of contention. Because my eyesight is fading a little, I needed someone else to do the more intricate work on that locomotive. Stephen expected that I’d turn to him but Hugh was always my first choice.’

‘So your son was aware of the details of the commission?’

‘Naturally – why do you ask?’

‘Someone lay in wait for Mr Kellow,’ said Leeming, ‘so they must have known that he was carrying something of great value. Apart from your son, can you suggest anyone else who might have known what your assistant’s movements would be?’

‘No,’ said Voke, ‘I would never disclose such details. Hugh has delivered expensive items before without mishap, largely, I suspect, because nobody realised what he was carrying.’

‘Could Mr Kellow have confided to anybody that he was going to Cardiff today?’

‘I warned him against doing so, Sergeant. Besides, in whom could he confide? He had few friends and he never talked to his sister about his work here.’

‘Does his sister live in London?’

‘Yes – she’s in service at a house in Mayfair.’

‘Do you have an address for her, Mr Voke? She needs to be informed of what’s happened – and so do his parents.’

‘Hugh and Effie are orphans, I’m afraid. They lost their parents. As to her address, I can’t help you. I only met Effie Kellow a couple of times. She was a pretty girl. This horrible news will destroy her,’ said Voke, sorrowfully. ‘She looked up to her brother and Hugh was very kind to her. I know that he gave her money from time to time.’

‘Is there any way of finding her address?’

‘You might ask Mrs Jennings. She was Hugh’s landlady and has a house not far away from here. But don’t call on her this late,’ he cautioned. ‘Mrs Jennings would never open the door to a stranger after dark even if he is a detective.’ Voke reached across to open a drawer in a sideboard and took out a pencil and some paper. Closing the drawer again, he scribbled an address and handed it to Leeming. ‘That’s where Hugh lived,’ he said. ‘His landlady will be terribly upset at what happened. I know how fond she was of him.’

‘I’ll speak to her tomorrow,’ decided Leeming. ‘I’ll also need to have a word with your son.’

Voke was peremptory. ‘I no longer have a son,’ he snapped. ‘But the person you’re after works for a silversmith in Hatton Garden. Look for Solomon Stern.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘What will happen to the body?’

‘I assume that it will be reclaimed by his sister.’

‘Effie Kellow is in no position to pay for the funeral,’ said Voke with a surge of affection. ‘I’ll bear any costs involved.’

‘That’s very generous of you, Mr Voke.’

‘Hugh was the best apprentice I ever had. When he stayed on as my assistant, he was loyal and hard-working. It’s the least I can do for him, Sergeant.’

‘I’ll pass on that information,’ said Leeming. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, sir, but I didn’t only come to tell you what happened to Mr Kellow. There’s another troubling matter.’

‘My assistant is murdered and a silver coffee pot is stolen – what can be more troubling than that?’

‘We believe that Mr Kellow may have had keys to the shop.’

‘He did,’ confirmed Voke. ‘He had to let himself in.’

‘Those keys have vanished. Inspector Colbeck, who is leading the investigation, sent me specifically to give you a warning. Look to your property, sir. It may be in danger.’

Robert Colbeck and Jeremiah Stockdale ended the day in the lounge of the Railway Hotel with a glass of malt whisky apiece. Before they compared notes about what they had learnt, Stockdale banged the arm of his chair with a fist and made his declaration.

‘I want this man caught and caught quickly, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I won’t tolerate murder in my town. I police Cardiff with a firm hand and villains fear me for that reason.’

‘Your reputation is well-earned, Superintendent, but why do you think the killer must be a man?’

‘It’s what you suggested. You felt that a woman was involved to lure Mr Kellow here but that she needed a male accomplice to do the deed itself. How else could it have happened?’

‘I’ve been mulling that over. The young woman could have been acting alone.’

Stockdale shook his head. ‘No, I refuse to believe that.’

‘Look at the way he was killed,’ said Colbeck. ‘He was struck on the head to daze him then acid was poured down his throat. Why choose that method? Remember that Mr Kellow was defenceless. A man would either have strangled him or battered him to death. A woman, on the other hand, would be less likely to turn to violence.’

‘She could have stabbed him.’

‘Most women would draw back from that. No, I think that she deliberately selected acid and I’ll be interested to find out why. In doing so, of course, she does give us a definite line of enquiry.’

‘How did she get hold of it?’

‘Exactly,’ said Colbeck.

‘According to medical evidence, it was sulphuric acid.’

‘Do you have many chemists and druggists in Cardiff?’

‘Well over a dozen,’ replied Stockdale, ‘and many of them are in Butetown. There are people there who don’t ask questions of their customers. They just give them what they want. It’s the reason we had three poisonings in the district last year.’

‘Mr Pugh was warning me about the perils of Butetown.’

‘It can get lively,’ conceded Stockdale with a grin, ‘but that’s part of its charm. Archelaus Pugh wouldn’t venture anywhere near the docks without an armed guard but I know my way around. It was also the sight of one of my early triumphs. It must be almost fifteen years ago now,’ he recalled with a nostalgic smile. ‘A number of sea captains had been assaulted and robbed near the West Dock. So I dressed up as a sailor one night and acted as bait.’

‘That was a bold thing to do, Superintendent.’

‘Luckily, it worked. When I saw that three men were following me, I broke into a run and they gave chase. One of them was much faster than the others and got well clear of them. I stopped, punched him on the nose and knocked him to the floor. Seeing what I’d done, his friends turned tail.’

‘What happened to the man himself?’

‘I arrested him, charged him with robbery and sent him for trial. He was transported for seven years.’ He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I was in court to savour the moment.’

‘I hope that we’ll both be able to savour the verdict that’s passed on the killer.’

‘Whether it’s a man or a woman,’ remarked Stockdale.

‘Or, indeed, both,’ said Colbeck. ‘If two people were involved, they are both culpable and will end up side by side on the gallows.’

‘It’s where they deserve to be, Inspector.’

Colbeck took another sip of his drink then told his friend about the conversation with Nigel Buckmaster. Stockdale listened intently. He was amused by what the actor had told him about identifying the dead body.

‘So he didn’t flinch, did he?’ he said. ‘Mr Buckmaster took one look at the body, nodded his head to signal that it was indeed Mr Kellow then rushed off to be sick somewhere. He’d never make a policeman.’

‘Murder victims are never pretty.’

‘The ones hauled out of the River Taff are the worst. If they’ve been in there long enough, they’re bloated. I doubt if Mr Buckmaster would even dare to look at such horrors.’

‘The most useful thing he told me was that Mr Voke and his son had parted company.’

‘It sounds to me as if the son needs more than a passing glance,’ said Stockdale. ‘There must have been bad blood between him and Hugh Kellow. That gives us a motive.’

‘We’ll certainly bear him in mind,’ agreed Colbeck, ‘though, in my experience, obvious suspects are often proved innocent.’

Stockdale guffawed. ‘Not if they live in Butetown!’

‘What did you find out, Superintendent?’

‘Well, at least I discovered what was stolen,’ said the other, taking out the sketch and handing it over. ‘Mr Tomkins showed me this.’

Colbeck unfolded the paper. ‘It’s a locomotive based on the Great Western Railway’s Firefly class,’ he said after only a glance. ‘It was designed by Daniel Gooch in 1840 and has proved a reliable workhorse. There are, however, some modifications. In some respects, it’s been simplified but there are also refinements that never existed on the original engine – that crown on the smokestack, for example.’

‘You seem very well-informed, Inspector.’

‘I’ve always loved trains.’

‘I thought I’d show this to every pawnbroker and silversmith in town just in case the killer is tempted to try and sell it.’

Colbeck handed the sketch back. ‘I think that’s highly unlikely,’ he opined. ‘How did Mrs Tomkins respond to the news that her coffee pot has gone astray?’

‘She was livid,’ replied Stockdale with a scowl. ‘Nobody had told her that she ought to separate the message from the messenger. She more or less accused me of betraying her.’

‘Did she give you any names?’

‘Not at first – she refused to believe that anybody in her circle could be implicated in any way. It was only when I put it to her that one of them might inadvertently have passed on details of the coffee pot to someone else that she deigned to think again. Mrs Tomkins eventually provided the names of two people with a particular interest in that silver coffee pot.’

‘Who are they?’

‘The first one is Martha Pryde – she’s the wife of Sir David Pryde, who owns the largest shipping line in Wales. Lady Pryde and Winifred Tomkins used to be very close but the frost seems to have got into that friendship. Heaven knows why,’ he went on. ‘I’d be interested to find out why the two of them fell out.’

‘Would it be relevant to the investigation?’

‘It could be, Inspector. Mrs Tomkins described Lady Pryde as acquisitive. I could add several other adjectives to that and none of them is very complimentary. Mrs Tomkins is only a well-bred harridan,’ he said, ‘whereas Lady Pryde is a venomous snake.’

‘What about Sir David?’

‘That’s the curious thing. When I was leaving, Mr Tomkins mentioned something that might have a bearing on the case.’

Colbeck raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

‘Leonard Voke, the silversmith, was recommended to them by no less a person than Sir David Pryde.’

‘Links of the chain are starting to join up,’ said Colbeck, tasting more whisky. ‘It must have been very galling for Lady Pryde if her former friend was boasting about a coffee pot locomotive made by someone suggested to her by Lady Pryde’s own husband.’

Stockdale chuckled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can imagine that Sir David got a flea in his ear for making that recommendation. Of course, that was at a time when they were friendly with Mr and Mrs Tomkins. Now they seem to be at daggers drawn. But,’ he added, ‘that’s not the only link in the chain. Another name was mentioned.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Miss Carys Evans.’

‘Do you know the lady?’

‘Every red-blooded man in Cardiff knows Miss Evans.’

‘An attractive young woman, then,’ guessed Colbeck.

‘She’s rich, unmarried and obscenely beautiful,’ said Stockdale, rolling a tongue around his lips. ‘Carys Evans is the sort of woman who turns heads wherever she goes and who puts naughty thoughts into the purest minds.’

‘And you say that she’s another link in the chain?’

‘She could be, Inspector.’

‘Why is that?’

‘One of the few compensations of this otherwise joyless life in uniform is that you get to know what happens beneath the surface of a town. That’s how I come to know that the two names given to me by Mrs Tomkins are intimately connected. In short,’ he said, leaning over to speak in a whisper, ‘Carys Evans is Sir David Pryde’s mistress.’

Leonard Voke was so heartbroken at the horrific news about his young assistant that he hardly slept a wink. When he was not recalling happier memories of Hugh Kellow, he was listening for the sound of any disturbance below. A silversmith’s shop was always likely to be a target for burglars so he had taken care to secure his property. The most valuable items were locked away in a safe but there was nothing on display in the shop itself that was inexpensive. Voke produced quality work and expected to be paid for it. What continued to bore into his brain like a red hot drill was the thought that his own son might, in some way, be connected with the crime. They had parted after an acrimonious row and the father had let his tongue run away with him. Had his harsh words provoked a lust for revenge? Was he indirectly responsible for Kellow’s murder? Such fears made any sustained slumber impossible.

Propped up on the pillows, he had an old musket across his lap, a relic of the days when his father had run the shop and kept the weapon in good working condition. The only time it had ever been discharged was when Voke Senior mistook the passing shadow of a policeman for a burglar about to enter the premises at night. Firing by instinct, he had shot out the shop window and sent glass in all directions. It was one of the many reasons why Leonard Voke prayed that he would not have to use the musket. Simply holding it, however, was a comfort and, if his silverware was being stolen, he would not hesitate to use the musket.

Fortunately, his proficiency with the weapon was never put to the test. A false alarm sent him creeping downstairs in the dark and he was mightily relieved to find the shop empty. It was half an hour before his heart stopped thudding. Dawn found him dozing fitfully. As soon as light penetrated the gap in the curtains, he came fully awake. Putting the musket aside, he got up, reached for his glasses, slipped on his dressing gown and opened the curtains. London was already wide awake, Carts, cabs and pedestrians were flashing noisily past. People were going to work or hurrying to the markets to get early bargains. The daily cacophony from yowling dogs, hissing cats and clattering hooves was set up. Leonard Voke yawned.

Grabbing a bunch of keys from a drawer, he put on his slippers and padded downstairs. He unlocked the door to the shop and saw, to his intense joy, everything safely in its place. It was the same in his workroom. Nobody had come, nothing had been touched. The sense of relief flooded through him and he chided himself for his anxieties. Just because someone had stolen Hugh Kellow’s keys, it did not mean that his silverware was in danger of being stolen. The killer might have no idea what locks the keys would open. Voke had had an almost sleepless night for nothing. It was only later, when he went to the safe to collect some items to put on display in the shop, that he discovered his relief was premature. Inserting two keys into their respective locks, he turned each in turn then pulled the heavy door back on its hinges.

Calamity awaited him. The safe had been full of cherished objects, made over the years with an amalgam of skill, patience and a craftsman’s love of his work. Every single one of them had vanished. While Voke had been lying in bed with his loaded musket, someone had entered the premises and robbed him of his most irreplaceable silverware. Brain swimming, he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

CHAPTER FIVE

After an early breakfast, Victor Leeming bestowed a farewell kiss on his wife and two children and gave each of them a warm hug. He set off for another day’s work, uncertain if he would be returning home that night. His first port of call was the house in which Hugh Kellow had rented a room. When he found the address given him by Leonard Voke, he realised why the landlady would not have admitted him after dark. Mrs Jennings was embarrassingly nervous. She was a short, flat-faced, bosomy woman in her fifties with badly dyed hair and a look of permanent suspicion in her eyes. She questioned him on the doorstep for a long time before she agreed to let him into the house.

‘My husband is at home,’ she said, vibrating with tension, ‘and so are two of my lodgers.’

What she did not mention was the fact that her husband was a bedridden invalid or that the lodgers were elderly females. Leeming could see how edgy she was. Telling him that she was not alone was a means of warning him that help could be summoned in the event of any physical threat to her. His unbecoming features clearly worried the landlady. It was a three-storeyed terraced house in urgent need of repair and there was a prevailing mustiness. Mrs Jennings showed him into a cluttered room with fading wallpaper and a threadbare carpet. She invited him to sit down and he perched on a chair beside an enormous aspidistra. She sat opposite him.

‘What’s this about Mr Kellow?’ she asked, hands clasped tightly.

‘Perhaps your husband ought to be here as well,’ he suggested. ‘You may need his support.’

‘He’s busy at the moment, Sergeant Leeming.’

‘Is there someone else you’d like to be present?’

She began to tremble. ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid that it is.’

‘Something has happened to Mr Kellow – I knew it. He went off to Cardiff yesterday and never came back. I had supper waiting for him as usual but…’

Her voice trailed off and she brought out a handkerchief to stem the tears that were already forming. Leeming knew that he could not tell her the full truth because Mrs Jennings was not strong enough to cope with it. From the way that she mentioned her lodger’s name, it was clear that she was fond of Hugh Kellow. The sergeant had to be tactful.

‘He met with an accident, Mrs Jennings.’

‘Was he badly hurt?’

‘I’m afraid that he was killed.’

She gave a shudder and used the handkerchief to smother the cry that came from her lips. Swaying to and fro, she went off into a kind of trance, gazing at the ceiling and talking silently to herself. It was minutes before she remembered that she had company.

‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘That was very rude of me.’

‘No apology is required, Mrs Jennings,’

‘I just can’t believe it. Mr Kellow was such a nice young man. He’s been with us for almost two years. He always paid the rent on time. We appreciated that, sir. He was so quiet,’ she went on, ‘and I can’t say that about all the lodgers we’ve had. He spent most of his time reading those books.’

‘What books would they be?’

‘Books about silver,’ she explained. ‘He showed them to me one day. They had wonderful drawings of things that we could never afford to buy – silver tableware and such like. It’s another world, Sergeant.’

‘I know,’ said the detective with feeling. ‘Only the rich can buy such things. I certainly can’t.’

‘It was strange, really – Mr Kellow said so himself. He was living here in a rented room yet he was making silver ornaments that might end up in the homes of the aristocracy.’

‘Did he talk much about his work?’

‘Not really, sir – he kept to himself most of the time. I always looked in Mr Voke’s window as I went past the shop in the hope of seeing him there. Mr Kellow waved to me once.’

‘What about Mr Voke’s son, Stephen? Was he mentioned at all?’

She brooded for a while. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But he must have talked about his sister.’

‘Oh, he did. Effie was all he had in the world. They were close.’

‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘No, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘The girl was in service and that meant she had very little spare time. Mr Kellow used to walk all the way to Mayfair to get a glimpse of her. They sometimes went to church together on a Sunday. He had hopes that one day he’d own a shop of his own and be able to employ his sister in it.’

‘Did he ever give you her address?’

She looked blank. ‘He had no need to.’

‘No, I suppose not. But, as you’ll understand, I’m anxious to find her. Effie Kellow is his next of kin. She needs to be told that he’s been…’ He stopped to rephrase what he was going to say. ‘…that he met with an unfortunate accident.’

‘My husband will be distraught when he hears,’ she said, blowing her nose into the handkerchief. ‘He’s not in the best of health. I don’t really know how to break it to him.’

‘I’d wait until you get used to the idea yourself, Mrs Jennings,’ advised Leeming. ‘I can see that it’s been a terrible shock for you.’

‘It has, Sergeant. It’s almost like losing a son.’

Tears which had threatened throughout suddenly came in a waterfall and Leeming could do nothing until she had cried her fill. He sat and watched helplessly. When she finally regained a modicum of composure, he rose from his seat and glanced upwards.

‘Could I possibly see Mr Kellow’s room?’ he enquired.

Mrs Jennings stiffened. ‘Why?’

‘It would be interesting to see where he lived.’

‘The room is cleaned regularly,’ she said, striking a defensive note. ‘I look after my lodgers, Sergeant. It’s the reason they stay with me for so long. I’m not like some landladies.’

‘Mr Kellow was obviously very happy here.’

Mollified by his comment, she got up, wiped away the last of her tears then led the way upstairs. Kellow’s room was on the top floor. It was surprisingly large and its window gave him a clear view of the street below. Unlike the room downstairs, it was sparsely furnished. Apart from the bed and a sagging wardrobe, there was only a table and an upright chair. On the table were a couple of well-thumbed books on the art of the silversmith and a notebook with a few sketches in it. When Leeming tried to open the door of the wardrobe, Mrs Jennings was affronted.

‘You can’t look in there,’ she chided. ‘It’s private.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll do so on my behalf, Mrs Jennings. I just wondered if there might be some letters from his sister that bore her address. Could you take a look, please?’

She rummaged reluctantly through every item in the wardrobe but there were no letters. Nor was there anything else to indicate where Effie Kellow lived. It troubled Leeming that she was still unaware of her brother’s fate. As he took a last look around the room, a wave of sadness splashed over him. The young silversmith had lived modestly yet been murdered in possession of a highly expensive coffee pot that he had helped to make. His talent had been his undoing. Now he would never be able to fulfil his ambition of owning his own premises and rescuing his sister from the drudgery of service.

‘Thank you, Mrs Jennings,’ he said. ‘I’ll let myself out.’

But she did not even hear him. The landlady had gone off into another trance, lost in happy memories of her former lodger and pressing one of his beloved books against her ample breasts as if it was imparting warmth and reassurance.

Robert Colbeck was pleased to see that the manager was in a less hysterical state that morning. Now that the corpse had been removed, Archelaus Pugh felt that he was in charge again and could devote all his energies to the smooth running of the hotel. It was he who told the inspector that Kate Linnane was now able to see him at last. Colbeck went up to her room at once. He did not expect her to add much to what Nigel Buckmaster had already told him but he wanted to hear a woman’s appraisal of the silversmith.

In response to his knock, he was invited into the room. He opened the door to find the actress reclining on the chaise longue with a book in her hands. Wearing a silk robe with a floral pattern on it, she looked up with an inquiring smile. Colbeck closed the door then introduced himself.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Inspector,’ she said, smile remaining in place as she looked him up and down. ‘I do apologise for not being able to see you yesterday but I was profoundly upset by what happened here yesterday. The murder was only three doors away.’

‘I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered now, Miss Linnane.’

She put her book aside. ‘You’ve spoken to Nigel, I gather.’

‘Mr Buckmaster was very helpful.’

‘I hope that I can be equally helpful,’ she told him. ‘But do please sit down.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, taking a seat and noting that she had been studying the text of Macbeth. ‘I understand that you think this tragedy is in some way connected with the play you’ve chosen to perform in Cardiff.’

‘I’m convinced of it, Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Have you had bad experiences with Macbeth before?’

‘More than once,’ she replied with a slight grimace. ‘The worst occasion was in Abergavenny last year. I was in the middle of the sleep-walking scene when a balcony at the rear of the hall collapsed. There was the most appalling amount of noise and dust so I simply raised my voice over it. Miraculously, nobody was badly injured but I was so grateful to get offstage at the end of the scene.’

‘I don’t think you’ll have that problem in Cardiff, Miss Linnane.’

She rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘I always have a problem in Wales,’ she moaned. ‘That’s why I hate coming here. On our last visit, we performed The Merchant of Venice in Swansea.’

‘Then you doubtless took the role of Portia.’

‘I tried to, Inspector. During my speech in the trial scene one night, a dog suddenly scampered up on to the stage and bit Bassanio on the ankle. Laughter drowned out every subsequent line.’

‘I’m sure you overcame the interruption like the consummate artiste you are,’ he said, nobly. ‘I had the good fortune to see your Desdemona and your Ophelia. Both were truly memorable.’

‘Thank you!’ she said with a delighted titter. ‘I had a feeling that you might be a theatregoer though, judging by your appearance, you should be on the stage rather than in the audience. You have the look of a born actor, Inspector.’

‘I did toil in an allied profession,’ he admitted. ‘For some years, I was a barrister and there’s a histrionic element in every court case. To that extent, I was something of an actor though I could never aspire to the standard set by you and by Mr Buckmaster. However,’ he went on, ‘diverting as it would be, I haven’t come to discuss the world of theatre. A more pressing business has brought me here.’

‘Mr Kellow!’ she sighed. ‘It’s terrifying to think that such a thing could happen to him. I was amazed to hear that he was in this hotel. When he left us at the station, he was going to deliver the coffee pot to a house on the outskirts of the town.’

‘Someone clearly deflected him from that purpose.’

‘How?’

‘That’s a matter for conjecture at this stage. Perhaps you could begin by telling me what impression Mr Kellow made on you.’

‘To be quite frank,’ she said, ‘he made very little impression at first. He was out of his depth, Inspector. When he stepped into a first class carriage, he was floundering. We managed to bring him out of his shell eventually and he had a simple integrity that was rather touching. Nigel and I both had the feeling that he was being exploited by his employer, who under-paid and over-worked him, but Mr Kellow nevertheless spoke highly of him. And when he showed us that coffee pot,’ she continued, eyebrows arching in unison, ‘we were astonished. It was nothing short of magnificent.’

‘Mr Buckmaster says that you have a penchant for silver.’

‘I crave it, Inspector,’ she confessed, using sensual fingers to caress her silver necklace. ‘I love the sight, the feel, the gleam of it. I’ve been an avid collector for years. Fortunately, most of the pieces have come from admirers in whom I took the trouble to confide my life-long yearning for silver.’ Getting up, she crossed the room to open a portmanteau, taking out a velvet-covered jewellery box. ‘These are some of the gifts that Desdemona garnered for me.’

Opening the lid of the box, she showed him an array of rings, brooches and earrings, all superbly fashioned in silver. The most striking object was a small statue with arms outstretched. Colbeck was quick to identify it.

‘That’s you as Desdemona,’ he said. ‘I remember that gesture vividly as you pleaded with Othello.’

‘Nigel presented it to me at the end of that season,’ she said, taking the statue out to admire it. ‘You can imagine how much the contents of this box cost, Inspector, and I travel with larger objects as well. It’s the other reason I went to ground in here yesterday,’ she told him, replacing the statue and closing the lid. ‘If someone was prepared to kill for a silver coffee pot, I felt that my own collection might be in danger – not to mention my life.’

‘The hotel has a safe, Miss Linnane.’

‘That’s where everything will go when I leave for the theatre.’

‘A wise decision,’ he said.

Admiring her as an actress, Colbeck found her less appealing as a woman, her self-absorption masking any finer qualities she might have. Her towering vanity matched that of Nigel Buckmaster. He waited until she had put the jewellery box away in the portmanteau and resumed her seat. She beamed at him with the confidence of a woman who could rely on her beauty to enchant any man.

‘How would you describe Mr Kellow?’ asked Colbeck.

‘He was very reserved, Inspector,’ she replied, ‘and ill at ease in our company. As a rule, when I find myself travelling in public, men have a tendency to steal at least a glance at me. Some just stare blatantly. Mr Kellow barely raised his eyes. I felt that he was rather immature for his age – or perhaps naïve would be a better word. He was certainly not a man of the world.’

‘That may have been his downfall, Miss Linnane.’

‘As a silversmith, however, he obviously had a promising future ahead of him. When he talked about that coffee pot, he came alive for the first time. I felt that he was a kindred spirit – bewitched by the magic of silver. He spoke with such intense pride about his work.’

‘He also mentioned a sister, I hear.’

‘Yes, Inspector. The poor creature only has one week’s holiday a year. Mr Kellow was saving up to take her to Margate. He was a very caring brother.’

‘So it seems,’ said Colbeck. ‘What else can you tell me about him? Did you see, for instance, if anyone was at the station to meet him when the train pulled in?’

‘I saw nobody waiting for him.’

‘But there might have been someone.’

‘The platform was very crowded and I had to make sure that my luggage was unloaded properly. By the time we left the railway station,’ she said, ‘Mr Kellow had long disappeared. Yet instead of delivering that coffee pot, he was in this very hotel – being killed only yards from my door!’ She put the back of her hand to her forehead as if about to swoon, an attitude, Colbeck recalled, that she had struck as Desdemona. ‘Nigel actually identified the body. He told me that it was a frightening spectacle. I could never have gone into that room.’

‘That’s why the superintendent didn’t call upon you.’

‘I prefer to remember Mr Kellow as he was on the train.’

‘That’s a sensible policy, Miss Linnane.’

‘It’s the only way I can get over the shock of it all,’ she said, then she seemed to dismiss Kellow entirely from her mind. Her manner was conversational. ‘Will you be staying long in Cardiff, Inspector?’

‘I’ll be here until the case is solved.’

‘Then you’ll have the time to visit the Theatre Royal.’

‘I’ll make a point of doing so,’ said Colbeck. ‘On my way there yesterday, I was given a playbill by one of the company – a charming young lady named Miss Tremaine.’

Kate frowned. ‘She has some decorative appeal on stage, I grant you,’ she conceded, ‘but she’s far too wooden to be an actress. Handing our playbills is more suitable employment for her.’

Colbeck heard the note of contempt in her voice. For the second time, he had a surge of sympathy for Laura Tremaine. While the actor-manager and leading lady enjoyed the luxury of the Railway Hotel, Laura would be staying in some squalid boarding house in the suburbs, dreaming, probably in vain, of the time when she would take leading parts in the classical repertoire. One thing was clear. The young actress would get neither help nor encouragement from Kate Linnane. The only person in whom she was interested was herself.

‘Thank you, Miss Linnane,’ he said, getting up. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I’ll intrude on you no longer.’

‘Having you here has reassured me greatly.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

‘If this case is left in the hands of bumbling local policemen, it would never be solved.’

Colbeck sprang to his friend’s defence. ‘You do Superintendent Stockdale a disservice,’ he said with polite firmness. ‘He’s extremely competent and polices this town well.’

‘I found him a trifle vulgar,’ said Kate.

‘We must agree to differ on that score.’

She produced her most bewitching smile. ‘I suspect that we’d agree on most other things, Inspector.’

She offered her hand and he placed a token kiss on it before letting himself out. Colbeck felt as if he had been watching a performance rather than having a normal conversation. To a woman like Kate Linnane, even one person constituted an audience. As he walked along the passageway, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched and he threw a glance over his shoulder. Nobody was there yet he still sensed a presence. It was unsettling. When he turned the corner, therefore, he came to a sudden halt after a few steps then flattened his back against the wall. He inched his way towards the corner so that he could peer around the angle. He was just in time to see the shadowy figure of a man going into Kate Linnane’s room before closing the door behind him.

* * *

‘Where the devil have you been, man?’ roared Edward Tallis from behind his desk. ‘I expected you ages ago.’

‘I had some calls to make, Superintendent,’ said Leeming.

‘Your first call should have been here so that you could tell me what happened yesterday evening. Instead of that, you stay away for hours. You’d better have a very good reason for doing so.’

‘I visited the house where Mr Kellow lodged.’

‘Did you learn anything pertinent to the investigation?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Well, spit it out,’ ordered Tallis. ‘And don’t stand there dithering like that – sit down.’

Victor Leeming obeyed, sinking on to the chair in front of the desk. It did not get any easier. No matter how many times he went into his superior’s office, he still felt like an errant schoolboy hauled up before a tyrannical headmaster. Tallis had the authority of a man who had spent most of his career in the army, commanding soldiers in war-torn parts of the Empire. Now in his fifties, he was beak-nosed, broad-shouldered and portly, a shock of grey hair contrasting sharply with the rubicund hue of his cheeks. A well-trimmed moustache decorated his upper lip like a third eyebrow. His rasping voice made his question sound like an accusation.

‘What have you done since you left here yesterday?’

‘I did as you instructed, sir,’ replied Leeming, ‘and called on Mr Voke. Some interesting facts emerged.’

Tallis issued a challenge. ‘Then interest me.’

The sergeant gave his report. Colbeck had taught him to keep a written account of every interview that he conducted so that it could be referred back to at a future date. Leeming had memorised what he had put down on paper yet – unsettled by the basilisk stare of the superintendent – he still stumbled over some of the words. When the report reached the point where Leeming had departed from Wood Street the night before, Tallis wanted to clarify one point.

‘And you’re sure that you warned Mr Voke that the duplicate set of keys had been stolen?’

‘Inspector Colbeck sent me there for that express purpose.’

‘Did you examine the premises before you left?’

‘No, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘It never occurred to you to advise him about the security of his premises?’

‘I didn’t think it was my place to do so. Mr Voke has had that shop for many years. He knows how to guard his stock. A silversmith would not remain in business if he didn’t lock all his doors at night.’

‘Locks can be opened,’ said Tallis.

‘Only by the right keys, sir,’ Leeming pointed out.

‘Someone appears to have had them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘According to this,’ said Tallis, picking up a sheet of paper, ‘a Mr Leonard Voke reported a burglary at his premises during the night. It appears that his safe was completely emptied.’

‘I did tell him to be on his guard.’

‘You obviously didn’t tell him loudly enough. Nor did you have the sense to check every door to the premises to see if they could in any way be made more secure. Our task,’ he went on, sententiously, ‘is not merely to solve crime. We also exist to prevent it.’

Leeming was abashed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Since you chose to act on your own initiative this morning, the very least you could have done was to return to Mr Voke’s shop to check if anything untoward had happened during the night.’

‘I thought it was more important to visit Mrs Jennings.’

‘Was she Mr Kellow’s landlady?’

‘Yes, Superintendent,’ said Leeming. ‘She showed me his room.’

He gave an account of his visit to the house, hoping to receive at least a hint of praise for what he had learnt. Tallis, however, was unimpressed. Stroking his moustache, he pondered.

‘Mrs Jennings has told you little of practical use,’ he announced at length. ‘Your visit there was hardly productive.’

‘I learnt much about the murder victim’s character, sir.’

‘That brings us no closer to identifying his killer.’

‘I believe it does,’ argued Leeming. ‘It seems clear to me that the prime suspect is Mr Stephen Voke. He was fired by revenge. From what I can gather, Mr Kellow not only supplanted him as a silversmith, he also took young Mr Voke’s place in his father’s affections. That must have rankled with him.’

‘Yes,’ conceded Tallis, ‘I can detect a plausible motive there.’

‘Stephen Voke would also have known to whom that coffee pot locomotive was being delivered and had a very good idea as to when work on it would be completed. More to the point,’ said Leeming, ‘he would know his way around the premises in the dark.’

‘Then he needs to be brought in for questioning.’

‘That may be difficult, sir.’

‘Why – Mr Voke told you where his son worked.’

‘I called on the proprietor, Mr Solomon Stern. He didn’t speak well of Stephen Voke. Apparently, his work was very satisfactory at first but he became lax. Also, his timekeeping was poor. He began to arrive late and leave early. What annoyed Mr Stern,’ he remembered, ‘was that a young lady was always loitering outside the shop in the evening. As soon as he saw her, Stephen Voke left.’

‘Are you telling me that you never actually met Voke?’

‘He no longer works in Hatton Garden.’

‘Did his employer give him the sack?’

‘Mr Stern never had the chance to do so,’ replied Leeming. ‘He has not seen hide nor hair of Stephen Voke for a week. The young man has terminated his employment there without warning.’

‘Then you should have sought him at his lodgings.’

‘I did, sir. I went to the address given to me by Mr Stern.’

‘Was Stephen Voke there?’

‘No, sir,’ said Leeming, ‘and he never has been. He gave a false address to his employer. Nobody seems to know where he is. Stephen Voke – and, presumably, the young lady – has vanished into thin air.’

Tegwyn Rees was a tall, angular, emaciated man who looked as if he should be lying on the slab beside the corpses he dissected. When he was introduced to Colbeck by Jeremiah Stockdale, he regarded the inspector through cold, almost colourless eyes.

‘Why do we need detectives from London?’ he said with undisguised resentment. ‘The crime was committed on Welsh soil. I’m sure the superintendent could have solved it without interference.’

‘I came to help, Dr Rees,’ said Colbeck, ‘and not to interfere. In any case, Superintendent Stockdale is very much involved in the investigation. His officers are making enquiries about the source of that sulphuric acid even as we speak.’

‘Yet they are under the direction of a complete stranger.’

‘Don’t be so territorial, Tegwyn,’ said Stockdale, jovially. ‘The inspector is no stranger to me. And if you think a Welsh murder can only be tackled by Welsh policeman, it rules me out. I’m as English as Cheddar cheese – and just as delicious. Now tell us what the post-mortem revealed.’

They were in Rees’s surgery, a room as neat, chilly and sterile as the man himself. He consulted a sheet of paper before speaking.

‘The cause of death,’ he began, ‘was heart failure brought on by a massive dose of sulphuric acid. Its corrosive properties can be seen in the disfigurement around the mouth and in several internal organs. The wound on the scalp and the bruising were caused before death.’

‘I realised that when I saw the blood,’ said Colbeck. ‘As soon as the heart stops, so does the circulation.’

‘Let me finish, please,’ said Rees, tetchily. ‘There were also bruises on the chest and arms of the victim, suggesting that someone may have been kneeling on him.’

‘That disposes of your idea that the killer was a female,’ said Stockdale to Colbeck. ‘No woman would have been strong enough to hold him down.’

‘She wouldn’t have needed strength if he’d willingly submitted to being tied up,’ returned Colbeck before giving Rees an apologetic smile. ‘Do go on, sir.’

Rees clicked his tongue. ‘Thank you,’ he said with sarcasm. ‘Need I remind you that I was the one who conducted the autopsy? All that you saw were the more obvious external signs. As it happens, Inspector, your wild guess has some foundation. The victim’s wrists were tied tightly enough to leave a mark and there were similar weals on his ankles. In other words, he was spread-eagled on the bed.’

‘That’s what Inspector Colbeck suggested,’ said Stockdale. ‘He felt that Mr Kellow may have been seduced by a woman and that being tied up was part of some ritual.’

‘There is some supportive evidence for that theory,’ said Rees, glancing at his notes. ‘There was a discharge of semen in the victim’s underwear, consistent with high sexual excitement. It may even be the case that some of the bruising was a deliberate part of any ritual. There are – believe it or not – people who actually derive pleasure from pain and who pay others to administer it.’

Stockdale grinned. ‘You don’t need to tell me that, Tegwyn,’ he said. ‘When we raided a house in Charlotte Street last month, we found a man hanging naked from the rafters while a woman in a black mask flayed him with a cat o’nine tails.’ He pulled a face. ‘I don’t mind telling you that it’s not my idea of pleasure.’

‘We’re still working on assumptions,’ Colbeck reminded them. ‘It would be mistake to build too much on them. Explain one thing to us, Dr Rees, if you can,’ he went on. ‘Even someone who enjoyed pain to a certain point would surely have cried out when he was struck on the head with a blunt instrument that broke open the scalp.

‘You’re quite right, Inspector.’

‘Then why did nobody hear the noise?’

‘You should have been there when I examined the back of the victim’s neck,’ said Rees, loftily. ‘There were unmistakable marks of something having been tied very tightly against it. My considered opinion is that, before he was killed, the victim was bound and gagged. He could neither move nor speak. The gag was only removed when the acid was about to be poured down his throat.’

‘That would explain the cry for help,’ said Colbeck. ‘One of the guests heard it as she walked past and it was quickly stifled.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Whoever committed the murder did not simply wish to kill Hugh Kellow. They were determined to make him suffer.’

CHAPTER SIX

Since he perceived the definite link between the murder in Cardiff and the burglary in Wood Street, Edward Tallis decided to accompany Leeming to the silversmith’s shop. They found Leonard Voke in a state of utter despair. Having closed his shop for the day, the old man was wandering around the premises in a daze. The visitors noticed that he had forgotten to shave that morning. Voke took them into the back room and flopped into a chair, his head in his hands.

‘I’m ruined,’ he kept saying. ‘I’m absolutely ruined.’

‘We’re very sorry that this has happened, Mr Voke,’ said Leeming with genuine pity, ‘but I did warn you that the keys had been stolen.’

‘I have three locks on some doors.’

‘They were not enough, sir.’

‘What exactly was taken?’ asked Tallis.

‘Everything,’ groaned the old man. ‘Everything I hold most dear. The safe contained my most valuable stock as well as commissioned items not yet finished. Clients will demand their deposits back when I tell them that I won’t be able to deliver the items they requested.’

‘Can’t you start work on them again?’

Voke looked forlornly up at him. ‘I could never do that on my own. It would take me years to replace everything. If I still had Hugh beside me, then there’s a chance I could rebuild. He worked quickly as well as meticulously. Without him, Superintendent,’ he said, ‘I’m lost. It’s like having a right hand cut off. Besides,’ he added, wincing as if a nail had just been driven into his body, ‘I kept all my tools in that safe. The burglar stole them as well. That really hurt me.’

‘This was no random crime, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘The only person who would steal your tools is either someone who knew how much they meant to you or someone who might have planned on using them himself. That leads us to one particular person.’

‘Don’t mention his name under my roof!’ snarled Voke, wagging a finger. ‘I told you, Sergeant, if you want to speak to that detestable young man, you must go to Hatton Garden.’

‘That’s what I did, sir, but the bird has flown.’

Voke winced again. ‘He’s run away?’

‘Yes,’ said Tallis, taking over, ‘and we have reason to believe that he was not alone. Was your son – this young man we’re talking about, that is – married?’

‘No, Superintendent, he was not. He claimed that I never paid him enough to support a wife.’

‘Did he have anyone in mind?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Voke, sourly. ‘He never brought anyone home but I knew that he frequented places where young women could be found in abundance. That disgusted me more than I can say. I thank God that my wife died without knowing about his habits.’

‘We need to contact him as soon as possible,’ said Tallis. ‘Can you give us any advice on how to do that? Did he have male friends with whom we could talk?’ Voke shook his head. ‘Well, can you give us the name of the places where he went drinking?’

‘I wish I could, Superintendent. I want him caught as much as you do. But the truth of it is,’ he went on, ‘we lived our lives in different ways. What I had to offer here was not enough for him. He sought excitement elsewhere.’ The lines in his brow deepened. ‘And you say that he left Hatton Garden?’

‘I spoke to Mr Stern himself,’ said Leeming.

‘I’ll be too embarrassed to do that myself. Sol was a good friend until this happened. He’s a hard task master and I thought he might do a certain person some good. How can I look Sol Stern in the face now this has happened? I told you,’ he said, mournfully, ‘I’m ruined.’

The two detectives did their best to console him but he was beyond help. After some futile attempts to get useful information out of him, Tallis decided that it was time to leave.

‘We’re wasting our time here, Sergeant,’ he said as they left the building. ‘We’ll have to find Stephen Voke without his father’s help.’

‘Somebody must know where he is,’ observed Leeming.

‘We’re not just looking for him, I fancy. My instinct tells me that there’s a woman involved here as well. Did you get a description of Stephen Voke from his employer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then it needs to be given to the newspapers,’ said Tallis with rancour. ‘It’s high time the press actually did us some good for a change instead of just sneering at our efforts.’

The locomotive belonged to the Firefly class. It emerged from the tunnel with clouds of thick, dark, acrid smoke billowing in its wake. Legs braced, the driver stood on the footplate and stared at the line ahead. His fireman was reaching into the tender for more coal to feed into the firebox. A railway policeman in top hat and frock coat stood near the opening of the tunnel, right arm outstretched to signal the ‘all clear.’ His dog waited obediently beside him. Four figures were resting against a wall nearby, taking no interest in the clanking monster that was powering its way past them on the next stage of its journey on the Great Western Railway.

It was Madeleine Andrews’ favourite drawing, lithographed in colour to give it more character and definition. Her only regret was that she was not the artist. It was the work of John Cooke Bourne, a London lithographer, who had taken it upon himself to produce a series of illustrations for his History and Description of the Great Western Railway. Some early copies had been available in 1843 but Madeleine had the main edition published three years later. It was a gift from Robert Colbeck, a spur to her own artistic ambitions and proof that she was not the only person in thrall to the railway system. Whenever she needed encouragement in her own work at the easel, she invariably turned to the volume.

Caleb Andrews always reproached his daughter for spending so much time with her head in a book about a railway company that was a fierce rival of his own. He urged her to look at Bourne’s Drawings of the London & Birmingham Railway because that company had been incorporated into the one for whom Andrews worked as a driver. Madeleine knew that his reprimands were half-hearted because she had often caught him studying the volume about Brunel’s railway. Bourne’s work was a remarkable record of its early development and she admired the accuracy of its detail every time. When she had finished scrutinising the lithograph, she turned to something that she always read before closing the book. It was the message that Colbeck had inscribed for her on the title page. His firm hand had expressed the hope that the book might serve to inspire her. Madeleine smiled. The very fact that he had bought it for her did that.

Sir David Pryde was a big, bluff, middle-aged man with a mop of sandy hair and a full beard. He reminded Colbeck of a businessman he had once prosecuted for embezzlement during his time at the bar. Pryde had the same booming voice and easy pomposity. He was not pleased with what his two visitors had told him.

‘Why bother me?’ he demanded. ‘You surely can’t think that I have anything to do with the theft of Winifred Tomkins’ infernal coffee pot? I have no interest in it at all.’

‘I understand that you recommended the silversmith,’ said Colbeck, ‘so we were bound to wonder why.’

‘Isn’t the answer obvious, Inspector? I felt that Voke had earned the kind word I put in for him. See for yourself,’ he urged, pointing to a large silver yacht that stood on the mantelpiece above the huge fireplace. ‘That’s only one of the things he made for me. Voke is a genuine craftsman and his prices are not as exorbitant as most London silversmiths.’

The three men were in the drawing room of the Pryde residence, a Regency mansion standing in its own estate. It was impossible to miss its owner’s connection with the sea. Model ships, boats and yachts stood on almost every surface in the room, turning it into a kind of naval museum. Pryde himself was evidently a sailor in his own right. Silver cups that he had won in yachting races occupied the remaining space on the mantelpiece.

Jeremiah Stockdale stood with his peaked cap under his arm.

‘When exactly did you make the recommendation, Sir David?’ he asked with elaborate respect. ‘Can you remember the date?’

‘What relevance has that got?’ rejoined the other.

‘It must have been some time ago. According to Mrs Tomkins, you and Lady Pryde are no longer regular guests at their home.’

‘It’s the other way around, Stockdale – not that it’s any of your business. Mr and Mrs Tomkins have ceased to be part of our circle.’

‘I find that surprising,’ said Stockdale, fishing gently.

‘I’m not interested in your reaction. It’s a private matter and will always remain so. Now, Inspector,’ he said, confronting Colbeck. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me exactly why you came here?’

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Colbeck. ‘I wish to speak to anyone who was aware that the coffee pot locomotive had been commissioned by Mrs Tomkins.’

Pryde laughed harshly. ‘Then you’d better speak to half the people in Cardiff,’ he advised, ‘because they all heard her bragging about it. Winifred Tomkins is a woman with a compulsion to impress all and sundry.’

‘Several people may have heard about it, Sir David,’ said Stockdale, ‘but very few knew when it would be delivered. Mrs Tomkins said that you and Lady Pryde were among them.’

‘The devil she did!’ snorted Pryde. ‘You should have known better than to listen to her, Stockdale. Winifred is just trying to stir up trouble. That’s typical of the woman.’

‘Did you know that the item was being delivered yesterday, Sir David?’ asked Colbeck, levelly.

‘No, I did not.’

‘What about Lady Pryde?’

‘I can’t speak for my wife,’ said Pryde after some hesitation. ‘It is conceivable that she’d been given that information but she most certainly did not commit a murder in order to lay her hands on the silver coffee pot. That’s a preposterous notion.’

‘I’m sure that it is,’ agreed Colbeck. ‘I just wondered if you or Lady Pryde happened, in an unguarded moment – and I mean this as no criticism of either of you – to have mentioned details of its arrival to anyone else.’

‘My wife and I do not consort with criminals, Inspector.’

‘That’s not what I’m suggesting. In a public place, you may have been overheard, that’s all I’m saying. Such information patently got into the wrong hands.’

‘Well, neither I nor my wife put it there.’

‘Lady Pryde does have a large circle,’ noted Stockdale.

‘If you mean that she’s involved in many charities and sits on several committees, then you’re right. But we are very selective about whom we allow into our home and it is only in the ears of close friends that comments about the silver coffee pot would be made.’

‘It is a highly unusual item,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s probably unique. It was bound to arouse comment. Is there any chance that we might talk to Lady Pryde about it?’

‘No, there isn’t,’ said Pryde, sharply. ‘I refuse to let you bother my wife in this way and I resent your taking up my time.’ He put his hands on his hips and took a combative stance. ‘Was there anything else, Inspector?’

‘You have our apologies, Sir David,’ said Colbeck, signalling to Stockdale that it was time to withdraw. ‘You’ve told us all that we needed to know, sir. Thank you.’

Stockdale waited until the two of them had left the house.

‘What did you make of him?’ he said.

‘He reminded me of a businessman I once prosecuted. The physical resemblance is very close. They both resort to bluster in an identical way.’

‘Sir David always does that when he’s hiding something.’

‘Yes, I felt that he was not entirely honest with us.’

‘He’s the kind of man who swallows nails and shits screws,’ said Stockdale, heartily. ‘I wouldn’t trust him an inch. Can you imagine what Carys Evans sees in that ogre?’

Colbeck smiled. ‘I’m sure that his bank account is very fetching,’ he said, wryly. ‘Wealth has a remarkable power to improve someone’s appeal.’

‘There are few people wealthier than Sir David Pryde – though Clifford Tomkins would run him close and so would the Marquis of Bute when he finally comes of age. By the way,’ he said, turning to Colbeck, ‘what happened to that businessman you prosecuted?’

‘He went to gaol for six years,’ said Colbeck.

The Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police Force had an uneasy relationship with the press. When it came into being in 1842, the new branch was greeted with cynicism. Its failures were cruelly mocked and its successes, Superintendent Tallis felt, were not trumpeted as they should have been. His dealings with newspapers usually left him in a state bordering on apoplexy and he had never forgiven one of them for ridiculing him in a cartoon. What added insult to injury was that he had caught some of his detectives sniggering at the pictorial attack on their superior. Notwithstanding his ingrained dislike of the press, he accepted that it had its uses. When he and Victor Leeming returned to Scotland Yard by cab, he was given ample proof of the fact.

A young woman was waiting to see him. She was sitting on the edge of a chair with a folded newspaper in her lap. Informed that the superintendent had come back, she leapt to her feet and intercepted him in the corridor.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said, deferentially, ‘but I’ve come about that reward notice in the newspaper. My name is Effie Kellow.’

‘Then you must be Hugh Kellow’s sister,’ said Leeming.

She gasped in horror. ‘It was him, then,’ she said. ‘I was afraid that it might be. No name was given in the report but I feared the worst when I saw that the crime happened in Cardiff. That’s where he was going yesterday.’ She began to sway. ‘My brother was murdered.’

Leeming nodded sadly then moved swiftly to catch her as she collapsed. Tallis ordered him to bring her into his office, going ahead to open the door then finding a bottle of brandy in a desk drawer. As Leeming lowered her gently on to a chair, her eyelids fluttered. The superintendent supported her with one hand and, as she slowly recovered, held a glass to her lips. One sip of the brandy made her cough and sit up. Leeming was amazed at the tenderness shown by Tallis. He was a confirmed bachelor who avoided female company as a rule yet here he was, treating their visitor with all the care of a doting father. It was an aspect of his character that had not been caught by the newspaper cartoonist.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Effie Kellow, straightening her hat. ‘I’m sorry to put you to any trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Tallis assured her, going back to his desk and taking the opportunity to swallow the rest of the brandy as he did so. ‘It was a perfectly natural reaction.’

‘I’d never have known about if Mr Dalrymple hadn’t shown the newspaper to me,’ she said, holding back tears. ‘I work at his house. He knew that Hugh had been working on a funny coffee pot because I’d told him. Mr Dalrymple said that I should come here to find out the truth. I simply had to know.’

‘I appreciate that, Miss Kellow.

‘Hugh was such a wonderful brother.’

Effie Kellow was a pretty, petite, auburn-haired young woman who had put on her best dress for the visit. She opened her reticule and took out a letter.

‘This came only days ago,’ she explained, giving it to Leeming. ‘Hugh said that he was going to Cardiff to deliver that coffee pot. He was thrilled that he’d be in first class on the train.’ Leeming passed the letter to Tallis who read through it. ‘We weren’t able to see each other very much but we kept in touch. Hugh’s letters were always more interesting than mine,’ she admitted, meekly. ‘Nothing much happens in my life.’

Tallis returned the letter to Leeming so that he could read it as well. It was quite short and couched in a natural affection for a sibling. He noted that Kellow had used the address of his employer in Wood Street rather than that of Mrs Jenning’s house. Folding it up, he handed it back to Effie. She read it wistfully.

‘What exactly happened to him?’ she asked, looking up.

‘The sergeant is better placed to tell you that than I am,’ said Tallis, shifting the burden of explanation to Leeming. ‘He and Inspector Colbeck went to Cardiff to view the scene of the crime.’

‘I’d rather not go into details,’ said Leeming, trying to spare her more distress. ‘Suffice it to say, that your brother was killed in a hotel room in Cardiff and the coffee pot locomotive he was carrying was stolen.’

‘Why did he have to be murdered?’ she cried. ‘If someone wanted that coffee pot, why didn’t they just steal it?’

‘That’s a question we’ve been asking, Miss Kellow.’

‘Yes,’ added Tallis. ‘It’s one of many to which we need answers.’

‘I want to see him,’ declared Effie.

‘Oh, I don’t think that would be wise,’ cautioned Leeming as he remembered his encounter with the corpse. ‘Mr Kellow was badly injured in the attack. You would only upset yourself even more.’

She was adamant. ‘I want to see him,’ she insisted. ‘It’s my right. I’m his next of kin. I need to identify the body. I won’t believe that it’s my brother until I actually see him. Mr Dalrymple said that I could go to Cardiff to reclaim the body.’

‘Mr Voke has offered to do that,’ Leeming told her, ‘and he also agreed to bear the expenses of his funeral. You’ll see the body when it’s brought back to London.’

‘I’m going to Cardiff today,’ affirmed Effie with determination, ‘and if you won’t help me, I’ll go on my own.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Tallis, coming across to touch her on the shoulder with almost paternal concern. ‘The sergeant will take you there directly.’

Leeming was startled. ‘Will I, Superintendent?’

‘Inspector Colbeck needs to be told about recent events here. In any case, we can’t let Miss Kellow travel by herself.’

‘I can buy my own ticket,’ she said, bravely. ‘Hugh sends me money and I’ve brought some of my own savings as well.’

‘Sergeant Leeming will take care of the tickets,’ promised Tallis, ‘and see that you come to no harm. I’m told that your brother’s hat had his name in it and there were items in his pocket to confirm that he was Mr Kellow. But we always prefer a positive identification from the next of kin – if you feel able to make that effort.’

‘I must, sir,’ she told him, ‘don’t you see that? It’s what Hugh would expect of me. I can’t let my brother down.’

Archelaus Pugh was anxious to make his own small contribution to the murder investigation. When he saw Colbeck crossing the foyer of the hotel, he scurried over to speak to him.

‘May I have a word with you, Inspector?’ he said.

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Colbeck.

‘Let me first apologise for being so unhelpful yesterday. I was so completely bewildered by what had occurred in that room that I could not think straight. Indeed,’ he went on, ‘it was only when I went into the kitchens a while ago that my memory was jogged. We took a delivery around noon yesterday.’

‘That’s close to the time of the murder.’

‘I wondered if the delivery man had seen anything odd when he unloaded provisions at the rear of the hotel. So I sent one of my assistant managers off to question him. The warehouse is in Butetown and, luckily, the man was there.’

‘Did he have anything useful to say?’

‘That depends, Inspector,’ said Pugh. ‘I leave you to judge. The fellow didn’t even know that a crime had been committed here and that he might have witnessed something relevant to it.’

‘What did he remember?’ asked Colbeck.

‘There was a lot to unload from the cart so he was there some time. What he recalls is someone coming out of the rear entrance in a hurry and walking off in the direction of the railway station.’

‘Was he able to give a description, Mr Pugh?’

‘It’s only a hazy one,’ apologised the manager. ‘The man was young, well-dressed and carrying a large bag. It seemed strange that he should be leaving by the back door. It’s only a servants’ entrance, used by staff and by people making deliveries. Most guests would be unaware of its existence.’

‘Oh, I think this young man may have taken the trouble to learn the geography of the hotel. Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘It was very enterprising of you to secure this information. It’s possible, of course, that this person has no connection whatsoever with the crime but the timing of his hasty exit is significant – so is the detail about his luggage.’

‘If he caught the train, he could be hundreds of miles away.’

‘He’s bound to have left clues here in Cardiff. When we gather enough of them, we’ll track him down wherever he is.’

After thanking him again, Colbeck left the hotel and strode briskly down St Mary Street. It took him less than twenty minutes to reach the house in Crockherbtown where Carys Evans lived. It was a large, stone-built cottage with a well-established garden at the front. When first constructed, it had stood in splendid isolation but was now cheek by jowl with other houses. Jeremiah Stockdale rarely missed an opportunity to speak to Carys Evans but he felt that Colbeck might be able to question her more effectively if he was not there to distract him. Admitted to the cottage by a servant, Colbeck was shown into a large, low-ceilinged room with exposed beams and oak furniture. In spite of its size, it had a cosiness that reached out to enfold him.

Carys Evans rose from her chair to greet him and he had a strange feeling that she was expecting him. She showed none of the surprise or hostility of Sir David Pryde.

‘Do sit down, Inspector,’ she said, indicating a chair. ‘Can I offer you any refreshment?’

‘No, thank you, Miss Evans,’ he said, taking a seat.

Sitting opposite, she appraised him. ‘I must say, that you don’t look like a policeman. They tend to be rather large, hefty, clumsy men like Superintendent Stockdale.’

‘You might have thought the same of me when I was in uniform.’

‘I doubt that, Inspector Colbeck.’

Holding his gaze, she gave a half-smile of interest. Carys Evans was a striking woman in her late twenties with pale, elfin features offset by dark hair that hung in ringlets. She wore a shade of green that exactly matched her eyes and had a large silver brooch in the shape of a dragon on her bodice. Hers was a natural, unforced beauty that relied on none of the cosmetics used so artfully by Kate Linnane. Carys was relaxed and self-possessed. What gave even more appeal to Colbeck was the lilt of her voice with its soft, melodic cadences.

‘You’ve come to talk about the murder, I presume?’ she said. ‘Not that I can help you in any way, I fear. I read the report in this morning’s paper and was horrified. I also felt sorry for Winifred Tomkins. I know how eager she was to have her coffee pot.’

‘Mrs Tomkins is not the only person with a fondness for silver,’ he remarked, noting the ornaments in various parts of the room. ‘You have your own collection.’

‘It’s my only indulgence, Inspector.’

‘The one thing I don’t see is a coffee pot.’

‘It’s kept in the kitchen,’ she explained, ‘and, before you ask me, it is not in the shape of a steam engine. I like to think my taste is more refined. A coffee pot is for pouring coffee and a locomotive is for pulling a train. They are incompatible.’

‘Not according to Miss Kate Linnane,’ he said. ‘She’s appearing as Lady Macbeth at the Theatre Royal this week.’

‘I know – I’m going to watch the first performance this evening as the guest of the mayor. Miss Linnane is a wonderful actress, by all accounts. How does she come to have an opinion on coffee pot locomotives?’

‘She and Mr Buckmaster travelled from London with the young man on his way to deliver the item to Mrs Tomkins. He showed them the silver coffee pot and both have described it to me as a work of art.’

‘Works of art are for display,’ she argued, ‘not for functional use. I could never drink coffee that was poured out of the funnel of a locomotive. The very notion would make me cringe. Lady Pryde had the same reaction as I did.’

‘I thought she and Mrs Tomkins were not on speaking terms.’

She was impressed. ‘You’ve picked up the local gossip very quickly, Inspector.’

‘How long has this situation been going on?’

‘You’ll have to ask the ladies concerned. When I was in their company a fortnight ago, they seemed to be on good terms.’

‘Is the rift between the two wives or the two husbands?’

‘I don’t see that it matters either way,’ she said, evenly, ‘and it certainly has no bearing on the crime you are investigating. One thing I can assure you is that Lady Pryde was not responsible for the theft of that coffee pot. When she first saw the sketch of it, she laughed. That really hurt Winifred. Lady Pryde thought the coffee pot absurd.’

‘And so did you, by the sound of it, Miss Evans.’

‘I thought it far too large. Imagine how much coffee it would hold – enough to serve a dozen people or more. It belongs in a hotel and not in a private house.’

‘Mrs Tomkins wanted it to commemorate her father.’

‘I can think of more fitting memorials.’

‘She had a keen interest in railways.’

Carys was amused. ‘I have a keen interest in racing, Inspector,’ she riposted, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’d commission a silver coffee pot in the shape of a thoroughbred stallion. It might provide a talking point for my guests but that would be its only virtue. Do not mistake me,’ she added, seriously, ‘I respect the right of Winifred Tomkins – or anyone else for that matter – to follow their own inclination, and I hope you can retrieve the coffee pot for her so that she can enjoy it to the full.’

‘Were you aware that it was being delivered yesterday?’

‘Yes, Inspector, but I was only one of a number of ladies. Some of them were expecting to be drinking coffee out of it this morning.’

‘I don’t follow, Miss Evans.’

‘Winifred Tomkins wanted to put it on show the day after it arrived,’ she told him. ‘We were all invited to the celebration. I gave a polite refusal but Lady Pryde, I suspect, was a trifle more blunt.’ She offered him a radiant smile. ‘To answer the question you came here to ask, Inspector Colbeck,’ she continued, smoothly, ‘I was one of several people who knew the day and the time when that silver coffee pot would steam into Cardiff General Station. You’ll have a lot of calls to make if you wish to speak to every one of us.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Because of his dislike of travelling by train, all journeys on the iron way were a severe trial for Victor Leeming. None, however, had been as boring, uncomfortable and seemingly interminable as the one between Paddington and Cardiff that day. When he had made the same trip with Colbeck the previous afternoon, the inspector had helped to defeat time with conversation about the case in hand. No such diversion was open to Leeming on this occasion. His companion did not say a single word. Effie Kellow sat hunched in a corner of the compartment, her eyes vacant and her mind preoccupied. Whenever they stopped at a station, she did not even toss a glance out of the window. As a result, Leeming had to remain silent for the whole journey, feeling every jolt and judder of the train, listening to the snores of the elderly gentleman who sat beside him, and fearing that he would not be at home with his family that night.

When they finally reached their destination, he got swiftly onto the platform, one hand on his stomach to keep at bay the travel sickness that threatened. Effie followed him. To his amazement, she was ready to talk to him now.

‘Where are we going, Sergeant?’ she asked.

‘To the Railway Hotel,’ he replied.

‘Is that where Hugh…where it happened?’

‘Yes, Miss Kellow. It’s also where Inspector Colbeck is staying and you’ll need to speak to him before you’re allowed to see the body.’

She looked anxious. ‘He won’t try to stop me, will he?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Mr Dalrymple said I was entitled as next of kin.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Then why do I have to speak to Inspector Colbeck?’

‘He’s in charge of the investigation.’

‘Has he caught the man who killed my brother yet?’

‘I think that highly unlikely, Miss Kellow,’ said Leeming, ‘but we will certainly do so in the fullness of time. The inspector will leave no stone unturned to find the person we’re looking for.’

They joined the passengers thronging around the exit, the fierce hubbub making any further conversation difficult. Though he was barely ten years older, Leeming felt more like a parent to her and had a father’s reluctance to expose her to anything as unpleasant as viewing the corpse of a murder victim. Yet Effie had a kind of inner strength which had made her insist on coming to Cardiff and he hoped that it would sustain her through the ordeal.

‘Have you been to Wales before?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t been anywhere,’ she said, dully.

‘Where were you born?’

‘Watford – we moved to London when I was a child and I’ve been there ever since. Hugh was going to take me to Margate this year,’ she went on, brightening momentarily. Her face crumpled. ‘That won’t happen now. I’d always wanted to go to Margate.’

‘It sounds as if he really looked after you, Miss Kellow.’

‘Oh, he did, sir. Hugh was much more than a brother to me.’

Leeming wondered how she would cope without him. Her future was bleak. Effie Kellow seemed doomed to spend the rest of her life in service. With the death of her brother, her one real escape route had been blocked. For such an attractive woman, there was the possibility of marriage but it would only to be to someone on the same social level. The one consolation was that, according to her, Effie had a very considerate employer. Leeming knew of many cases where rapacious householders had taken advantage of female members of staff who had been forced to comply rather than risk dismissal. He was relieved that she had at least been spared that torment.

To the sergeant’s relief, Colbeck was at the hotel when they got there. It meant that Leeming no longer felt in loco parentis. Colbeck was interested to meet Effie and he put her at ease immediately by agreeing to let her identify the body of her brother.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said, grasping his hand.

‘Sergeant Leeming will doubtless have warned you what to expect,’ he said, looking at his colleague. ‘The body was viewed by someone who travelled with your brother on the train but I’m not sure how much credence can be placed on his identification.’

‘I’m the only person who ought to have seen Hugh.’

‘Granted, Mrs Kellow, but we had no means of getting in touch with you. Fortunately, the reward notice and newspaper report came to your attention.’

‘Can I see him now, sir?’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some refreshment first?’ offered Leeming. ‘It must be a long time since you’ve eaten and you must be hungry – I know that I am.’

‘I suggest a meal afterwards, Sergeant,’ said Colbeck.

Leeming read his meaningful glance. If she viewed the corpse on a full stomach, there was always the possibility that Effie Kellow would be violently sick. It had happened many times with other relatives of murder victims. Leeming mimed an apology to Colbeck.

‘Where is my brother?’ she asked.

‘We’ll take you to him at once,’ said Colbeck.

‘I have to see him, Inspector.’

‘I understand.’

‘It’s the only way to put my mind at rest.’

Leeming squirmed inwardly. He feared that the sight of her brother’s corpse would have exactly the opposite effect.

Clifford Tomkins had spent many years regretting his decision to marry Winifred Armitage. At the time, of course, she had seemed like a good catch, a handsome young woman from the landed gentry with a vivacity kept just inside the bounds of convention. Unlike any other female of his acquaintance, she had shown a sincere interest in his work and been willing to live in Merthyr, the greatest iron town in the world, a noisy, dirty, over-crowded, rough and ready place that would have deterred many potential wives. She had produced five children, gaining weight and losing more of her dwindling appeal after each birth, and devoted herself to spending increasing amounts of his vast wealth. As he looked at her now, in the wild-eyed and bellicose state to which she reverted so easily, he could not believe that her beauty had ever ensnared him or that he had foolishly endured a lengthy and highly regulated betrothal in order to wed her.

‘I must have that coffee pot back, Clifford!’ she asserted.

‘You will, my dear,’ he soothed.

‘Otherwise, I’ll be the laughing-stock of Cardiff.’

‘Nobody will laugh at a brutal murder.’

‘They all knew how much store I set by it. How they must be rejoicing now! Lady Pryde will be cackling, Carys Evans will be clapping her hands and the rest of them will be taking immense pleasure out of my misfortune.’

‘You do them wrong, Winifred,’ he told her. ‘Your friends will have genuine sympathy for you. Lady Pryde might wrest some cruel enjoyment out of your predicament, perhaps, but Carys and the others will all feel sorry. They know how much that coffee pot meant to you.’

‘There’d be nothing else like it in the whole of Wales.’

‘You always did have a sense of originality, my dear.’

He gave a noncommittal smile. They were in the drawing room of their house and Tomkins was forced to listen to yet another outburst of self-pity from his wife. A silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive struck him as a rather bizarre and totally unnecessary object to commission, especially at such a high price. But it was an opinion he would never dare to vouchsafe to his wife.

‘We must put our trust in this Inspector Colbeck,’ he resumed.

‘I’m not sure that I can, Clifford.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I don’t have much faith in a man who doesn’t even bother to call on us. If he is in charge of the investigation, it was his duty to inform us in person of the loss we sustained. Instead of doing so, he sent that oaf, Superintendent Stockdale.’

‘Be fair to the man,’ said Tomkins, remembering the occasion when Stockdale’s discretion had saved him from being exposed as a client of a certain brothel in the town. ‘The superintendent is no oaf. He does a difficult job very well even if he is somewhat heavy-handed at times.’

‘He let us down,’ she accused.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘The crime occurred not long after noon yet it was hours before we were told about it. We should have been contacted at once.’

‘You can understand the delay, my dear. Stockdale had a murder on his hands. That took precedence over the theft. He was probably waiting for Inspector Colbeck to arrive before he took any major decision.’

She was enraged. ‘Whose side are you on?’

‘It’s not a question of sides, Winifred.’

‘Then why are you defending the superintendent?’

‘I’m defending nobody, my dear.’

‘You’re the one person I felt I could rely on,’ she said, hotly. ‘When my property was stolen, I should have been told instantly.’

‘I quite agree,’ he said, choosing dishonesty as a means of appeasing her. ‘I’ll make that point to Stockdale when I see him.’

‘Inspector Colbeck is the person we ought to be seeing. Out of common courtesy, he should have been in touch with us.’ She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Does he know who we are?’

He swelled with pride. ‘Everyone in South Wales knows who we are, Winifred,’ he boasted. ‘As for the inspector, we must bear in mind what Stockdale said of him. He comes with an excellent reputation for solving crimes.’

‘I haven’t been impressed with what he’s done do far. According to him, someone would be trying to sell that coffee pot back to us. I believed him at first,’ she said, ‘but I think it’s an absurd idea now. My fear is that the coffee pot is no longer even in Cardiff.’

‘We’ll get it back somehow, my dear.’

‘Will we?’

‘If all else fails, I’ll commission another one.’

‘That would take ages, Clifford. I want it now.’

‘Then you’ll simply have to keep your fingers crossed.’

Before she could reply, she was interrupted by a tap on the door. It opened to reveal the butler who came into the room with something on a silver salver.

‘This just arrived for you, Mr Tomkins,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Glover – rather late for any mail, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not franked, sir,’ said the butler as Tomkins took the envelope. ‘Someone put it through the letterbox and slipped away unseen. I just found it there.’

‘I see. That will be all.’

The butler nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. Tomkins, meanwhile, opened the letter. He blenched when he read it.

‘What is it?’ demanded his wife.

‘It’s a ransom demand,’ he gulped. ‘Inspector Colbeck was right.’

Since there was no mortuary in the town, the dead body was kept in a cold, dank cellar that helped to delay decomposition slightly. Herbs had been scattered to combat the stench of death. An oil lamp hung from a beam, casting a circle of light around the slab. Colbeck was glad to have the body identified by a family member and grateful that Dr Rees had cleaned the scalp wound and wiped away the blood from the corpse. It was no longer as gruesome a sight as it had been. How Effie Kellow would respond, he did not know but he and Leeming stood either side of her as a precautionary measure. They left it to Rees to draw back the shroud. As soon as the dead man’s face came into view, Effie needed only a second to confirm that it was her brother. Staring in horror, she reached out to touch the corpse tenderly on the shoulder and seemed to be on the point of leaning forward to plant a farewell kiss on her brother’s forehead. Changing her mind, she averted her eyes. Effie clearly needed time to recover. Colbeck waited a full minute before speaking.

‘I’m sorry we had to put you through that,’ he said.

‘It’s Hugh,’ she said, chewing her lip. ‘It’s my brother.’

‘Let’s get you out of here, Miss Kellow.’

‘Who could have done such a terrible a thing?’

‘We’ll find his killer, I guarantee it.’

‘It’s so unfair – Hugh wouldn’t have harmed a fly.’

Colbeck wanted to ask her if she could suggest any reason why her brother had been in that particular hotel in the first place but it was obviously the wrong moment to do so. Effie, in any case, had gone off in a private world, her face contorted with grief and her head moving to and fro. A flood of tears then came. Colbeck was ready for them, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to give her and placing a gentle arm around her shoulder by way of comfort. He was moved by the sheer hopelessness of her situation.

‘Miss Kellow can’t return to London in this condition,’ he told Leeming. ‘We’ll have to find a room for her at the hotel.’

The first night of Macbeth was a glittering occasion. The cream of Cardiff society converged on the Theatre Royal in its finery. Carriages of every description arrived in an endless procession to drop off those attending the opening performance. The mayor and mayoress were among the first to arrive, the one wearing his chain of office and the other in a blue silk taffeta dress that would not have been out of place in the presence of royalty. A small knot of people had gathered to watch their social superiors, marvelling at the elegant men and the bejewelled ladies arriving in waves. There was so much colour, action and affectation on show that it seemed as if a drama was being enacted outside the theatre as well as upon its stage.

Sir David and Lady Pryde descended from their phaeton with aristocratic poise, ignoring the watching hoi polloi before sweeping in through the portals of the theatre. Swathed in a black and cerise silk dress that accentuated, rather than concealed, her bulk, Martha Pryde wore a silver tiara and flicked an ivory fan ostentatiously beneath her double chin. She was a hefty woman in her fifties with an arrogant strut. As she and her husband were shown to their seats, her beady eyes scanned the whole auditorium.

‘She’s not here,’ she said, gleefully.

‘What’s that?’ asked her husband.

‘Winifred Tomkins is not here. She can’t face us now that her outlandish coffee pot has been stolen. I know that she was invited but I can’t see her anywhere. Can you, David?’

‘I haven’t really looked.’

‘Well, look now. I can’t believe that I’ve missed her.’

‘Very well, Martha,’ he said, reluctantly shifting his gaze from Carys Evans with whom he had been exchanging a secret smile. ‘Although why you should be bothered with them, I really don’t know. They no longer exist as far as I’m concerned. If I bump into either of that dreadful pair, I shall cut them dead.’

‘Winifred hasn’t got the courage to appear in public.’

‘Forget the egregious woman.’

‘After what happened – how can I?’

‘She’s not here – be grateful for the fact.’

‘Oh, I’m more than grateful,’ said his wife as she took her seat beside him. ‘I’m delighted. The thief who stole that coffee pot of hers deserves congratulations. He’s wiped that haughty smile off her ugly face.’ She smiled triumphantly. ‘I feel wonderful. I don’t think I’ve ever been so ready to enjoy a performance. Wherever she is, I hope that Winifred is in pain.’

‘What do we do, Inspector?’ asked a querulous Winifred Tomkins.

‘I suggest that the ransom is paid,’ said Colbeck.

Tomkins was scandalised. ‘Pay twice for the same thing?’ he said in alarm. ‘That goes against the grain.’

‘Nevertheless, sir, it’s what I advise. And, if I might correct you, the full price for the item has not yet been paid. Mr Kellow was to have collected the balance. All that you have parted with is a deposit.’

‘Fifty pounds is not a trifling amount.’

‘Much more is now required. I’d urge you to pay it.’

‘You mean to let the thief get away with it?’

‘He’s a murderer as well as a thief, Mr Tomkins, and he will be arraigned for both crimes. Until we arrest him, you must comply with the demands in the ransom note.’

‘I refuse to bow to his wishes.’

‘Then you can wave farewell to any hope of recovering the item.’

‘Don’t say that, Inspector!’ exclaimed Winifred. ‘I can’t bear such a thought. Superintendent Stockdale led us to believe that you would retrieve that coffee pot for us.’

‘I’m endeavouring to do just that, Mrs Tomkins.’

Neither she nor her husband was persuaded. They remained hurt, fearful and sceptical. Colbeck and Leeming had been summoned to the house to be shown the anonymous ransom note. The inspector was completely at ease in the sprawling mansion but his sergeant was perturbed. Leeming always felt intimidated by the sight of wealth and, since their arrival, had been shifting his feet and holding his tongue.

‘Have the money ready for tomorrow, sir,’ suggested Colbeck.

‘I might as well toss it on a fire,’ said Tomkins, sullenly.

‘At least I’d get my property back,’ his wife put in.

‘Winifred, it’s not worth twice the asking price.’

She shot him a look. ‘It is to me.’

‘You won’t lose a penny of the money, Mr Tomkins,’ said Colbeck, ‘and you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing the thief put behind bars. The person to thank will be my sergeant.’

Leeming was taken aback, ‘Me, sir?’ he said.

‘Yes, Sergeant, you will be involved in the exchange. All that the note has told us is how much money is required. The details of the exchange will come tomorrow.’

‘Then why can’t you lie in wait to catch the thief when he delivers the message here?’ asked Tomkins.

‘This person is far too clever to be caught that way. We’re dealing with someone who plans ahead very carefully. When the exchange is made, for instance,’ prophesied Colbeck, ‘it will be somewhere in the open so that the sergeant can be watched.’

‘What then, Inspector?’ said Leeming.

‘You ask to see the coffee pot before you hand over the money, and when you see no deception is involved – you make the arrest.’

‘Where will you be?’ wondered Tomkins.

‘A respectable distance away, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘At the slightest sign of a police ambush, the exchange will be cancelled and the coffee pot will disappear forever.’

‘No!’ shrieked Winifred.

‘Sergeant Leeming is an experienced detective. It’s not the first time he’s been in this situation. He’ll know what to do.’

‘A lot of money is at stake here,’ Tomkins reminded him.

‘Not to mention my coffee pot,’ added his wife.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Leeming, pleased to be given such a pivotal role. ‘The money and the coffee pot will be returned when I catch him.’

Colbeck looked at the ransom note. ‘Why do you assume that you’ll be dealing with a man? I’m no expert on calligraphy,’ he went on, passing the note to Leeming, ‘but I’d say that was definitely a woman’s hand – wouldn’t you?’

In defiance of its record of catastrophe, Macbeth was a huge success. There were none of the anticipated mishaps – no falling scenery, no actors taken ill onstage, no sudden failure of the gas footlights and no unfortunate accidents in the auditorium. Laughter was confined to the scene featuring the Porter. At all other times, the audience was in the grip of a searing tragedy. Nigel Buckmaster excelled himself, letting the poetry soar to its full height, committing a foul murder yet somehow managing to retain a degree of sympathy. Kate Linnane was the personification of evil, giving a performance of equal range, brilliance and intensity. The rest of the cast was competent but completely eclipsed by the two principals. When the curtain call was taken before rapturous applause, it was Macbeth and Lady Macbeth who occupied the centre of the stage, he bowing low and she dropping a graceful curtsey, both of them lapping up their due reward for minute after ecstatic minute. They had brought the spectators to their feet. In her costume as Lady Macduff, Laura Tremaine tried at one point to come forward but she was thwarted by Kate Linnane who simply stepped sideways, swished her dress and made the younger actress retreat back into anonymity. No other woman would be allowed to steal one moment of the leading lady’s glory.

When the curtain finally fell, Buckmaster turned to blow a kiss of thanks to the entire cast. They dispersed happily to the dressing rooms. The actor-manager took the trouble to catch up with Laura.

‘Well done, Miss Tremaine!’ he congratulated. ‘I couldn’t fault you this evening.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied, excitedly.

‘Your Lady Macduff was a minor triumph.’

Laura giggled with pleasure and went off with the others. Kate Linnane was less complimentary as she walked past Buckmaster.

‘A minor triumph!’ she said, acidly. ‘Miss Tremaine was a positive embarrassment. I’ve seen better Lady Macduffs in the ranks of amateurs!’

‘One has to offer encouragement,’ he said.

‘She should be encouraged off the stage altogether.’

Flouncing off into her dressing room, she slammed the door behind her. Buckmaster knew better than to follow her.

Jeremiah Stockdale joined them in their hotel room to report his findings and to review the situation. Colbeck had asked for a bottle of whisky and three glasses to be sent up. Resigned to spending at least one night in Cardiff, Leeming sipped his drink and confided his worries.

‘Do you think that someone should be looking after Miss Kellow?’ he said, concernedly. ‘Not one of us, of course,’ he went on. ‘That would be quite improper. But there must be a female member of staff whom the manager could recommend.’

‘I think she’s best left on her own, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘She’s very volatile at the moment. Company might unsettle her. She wants to be alone to mourn in private.’

‘When will she go back to London?’

‘That’s up to her but she won’t budge without her brother.’

‘The body is now with an undertaker,’ said Stockdale. ‘Tegwyn Rees has finished with it so it will be ready to leave tomorrow.’

‘Then we may have to call on you, Superintendent. Somebody must accompany Miss Kellow back to London and Victor will be involved here. Could you spare a man to go with her?’ asked Colbeck. ‘It’s not right for a grieving sister to travel alone with her brother’s coffin. We have a duty of care here.’

‘Consider it done,’ said Stockdale. ‘I know just the man – Idris Roberts. He’s spent the whole day tramping around chemists’ shops so he’ll appreciate a job where he can sit down. Yes, and I’ll make sure that Idris is not in uniform,’ he decided. ‘We don’t want this girl to look as if she’s under arrest.’

‘Did Constable Roberts find anything of interest?’

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector. Some of the chemists would supply the most venomous poison to a total stranger but none would ever admit it. They all swore that nobody had bought sulphuric acid.’

‘Perhaps it was brought from London,’ said Leeming. ‘As I explained, I’m fairly certain the man we’re after is Stephen Voke.’

‘Then he must be here in Cardiff,’ said Colbeck.

Stockdale ruffled his beard. ‘I thought you told us a delivery man had seen someone leaving by the rear exit around the time of the murder and hurrying off towards the station.’

‘I’m beginning to think that he was laying a false trail. The man with the large bag wanted to be seen heading that way. Had he left by the front entrance like every other guest, nobody would have thought it unusual enough to remember. Someone behaving suspiciously at the rear of the hotel, however,’ argued Colbeck, ‘was expecting to be noticed by someone.’

Leeming had made up his mind. ‘Stephen Voke is still here and so is that coffee pot.’

‘Don’t forget the woman in the case, Victor.’

‘She must be the one seen waiting for young Mr Voke in Hatton Garden. The two of them are in this together. They plotted to steal that coffee pot then sell it back to the owner.’

‘They certainly didn’t try to get rid of it here,’ said Stockdale. ‘My men called on every jeweller and silversmith in Cardiff. None of them had been offered that coffee pot – not even Wlaetislaw Spiridion.’

Leeming grinned. ‘He doesn’t sound very Welsh to me.’

‘This is a cosmopolitan place. Walk around Cardiff and you’ll bump into many nationalities. If you want a real Welsh town, you’ll have to go up the valleys.’

‘Let’s turn our minds to the morrow,’ said Colbeck, pensively. ‘Miss Kellow must be on the earliest possible train with Constable Roberts. I don’t think it’s good for her to spend too long in the hotel where her brother was killed. I’ll have to rely on you, Superintendent, to organise the release of the coffin.’

‘I’ll have it conveyed to the station and put into the guard’s van,’ said Stockdale. ‘Where must it be delivered in London?’

‘Mr Voke has volunteered to pay for the funeral,’ said Leeming. ‘If the coffin is taken to his shop in Wood Street – I’ll give you the address before you leave – then he can engage an undertaker and arrange the funeral service.’

‘What about the sister?’

‘I daresay she’ll go back to her workplace in Mayfair.’

‘Miss Kellow will be out of the way,’ said Colbeck. ‘As long as she stays here, she poses a problem. I suggest that you see her off at the station, Victor. I could see how much she trusted you.’

‘I wish that I could go back with her, sir.’

‘You’re needed here to hand over the ransom money.’

‘That’s worth staying for,’ said Leeming, lifted by the thought. ‘I like to be in the thick of things. And having seen what that villain did to Hugh Kellow, I want the chance to meet him face to face.’

‘I still think you should let me surround the Tomkins residence with my men,’ said Stockdale, anxious to be involved. ‘They can hide in the trees. When the killer delivers the second ransom note, we arrest him and force him to tell us where that coffee pot is kept.’

‘Always respect your opponent,’ warned Colbeck, ‘He or she is far too slippery to be caught so easily. Remember how much planning went into the exercise. Its success would never be sacrificed by a silly mistake like that. No,’ he continued, ‘my guess is that a total stranger is paid to deliver the second note. Your men would be arresting an innocent person, Superintendent.’

‘And they wouldn’t be able to tell you anything useful about the man who asked them to carry the message,’ said Leeming, ‘because they’d have no idea who he is. We had a case like this last year in London. The person who delivered the ransom note on that occasion was a child, picked at random off the street.’

‘I can see that I’d better leave it to you, Sergeant,’ said Stockdale. ‘As long as you promise that you’ll give the bastard one good punch from me.’

‘I will, Superintendent.’

‘Don’t be so sure, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘What if, as I fancy, you may be dealing with a young woman? You’re far too chivalrous to strike a member of the fair sex.’

‘I’ll clap handcuffs on her and make her lead us to Stephen Voke. He’s behind the whole thing. I’m certain of it.’

‘I agree with the inspector,’ said Stockdale, downing some whisky. ‘Only a very attractive woman could have tricked Mr Kellow into that hotel room. I think he was tempted by her blandishments. And that raises an interesting possibility.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Mr Pugh happened to mention something to me when I arrived this evening. It may have nothing to do with the crime, of course, and the manager clearly thinks so. But it is an odd coincidence.’

‘Tell us more,’ said Colbeck.

‘Well, what you’re looking for is a beautiful woman who has a passion for silver. I know that because I’ve often seen her wearing it in some form or other. Around the time of the murder,’ Stockdale went on, ‘there was someone in this hotel fitting that description perfectly. The manager remembers seeing her leave.’

‘Who is she, Superintendent?’

‘Miss Carys Evans.’

When the performance of Macbeth was over, Carys Evans mingled with the other guests at a reception given by the mayor and mayoress. Nigel Buckmaster and Kate Linnane joined them on behalf of the company, wallowing in the unstinting praise from all sides. Carys managed to speak to the actor-manager alone for a couple of minutes and he was clearly drawn to her. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of his leading lady, smiling benignly but unable to hide the proprietary glint in her eye. Carys observed that, when Lady Pryde cornered Buckmaster, Kate made no effort to intervene. An obese, waddling, over-dressed, middle-aged woman with a braying voice offered no threat.

As the guests began to disperse, Carys thanked her hosts and withdrew. But she did not return to her cottage even though it was less than a hundred yards away. Instead, she got into a waiting chaise and was driven out of the town in the direction of Llandaff. It was a pleasant night for a drive with the moon conjuring trees out of the darkness. Largely hidden behind a copse, the house was near the cathedral. Gaslight burnt in the ground floor windows. When she let herself in, Carys was pleased to see that the fire in the drawing room had also been lit to ward off the evening chill. Wine and glasses stood on the table. Everything was in readiness. Slipping off her stole, she closed the curtains then settled down on the couch, arranging her crinoline with care. While she waited, she read through the theatre programme, reviving memories of a performance that had stirred her to the marrow. Nigel Buckmaster had been striking at close quarters but had been far more arresting onstage. It was a Macbeth to lodge in the brain for a long time. Kate Linnane, too, as his wife, had had some magnificent moments and Carys had also been moved by Laura Tremaine in the small part of Lady Macduff. The Porter, she felt, had been deliciously vulgar.

It was almost an hour before someone let himself into the house and locked the door behind him. As he entered the drawing room, he was given a welcoming smile.

‘What have you brought me this time?’ she asked.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It had been a full day for Madeleine Andrews. She was up early to prepare breakfast and to make her father sandwiches to take to work. Once she had seen him off on his walk to Euston Station, she picked up a large basket and went off to do the first of her chores. She spent a couple of pleasant hours, haggling in the market, window-gazing among the shops, buying some artists’ materials and talking to friends and neighbours she encountered along the way. The afternoon was largely taken up with a visit to relatives in Chalk Farm, consoling her aunt over the recent death of a much-loved family pet and chatting with her uncle, a retired stationmaster, about her latest lithographs. It was not until early evening that Madeleine was finally able to do some work at her easel.

By the time that her father returned home, she had a meal ready for him. Caleb Andrews followed a regular pattern. At the end of his working day, he liked to have a pint or two of beer in a public house frequented by railwaymen before strolling back to Camden. More often than not, he brought the day’s newspaper with him. His daughter therefore never got to read it until late evening. As he came into the house, he gave her his usual cheerful greeting before hanging up his coat and his hat. The newspaper remained folded up in his coat pocket.

‘Where have you been today?’ asked Madeleine.

‘Crewe was the farthest we went,’ he told her, ‘and we had an hour or more to look around. It’s a railway town in the best sense, Maddy. I really feel at home there. I wouldn’t mind living somewhere like that one day. Mind you,’ he went on with a chuckle, ‘the station does have one problem. If you’re not careful, you can trip over a severed head on the platform.’

‘That only happened once, Father.’

‘It pays to keep your eyes open in Crewe.’

Madeleine understood the jocular reference. The previous year, a hatbox had burst open on the platform when a porter accidentally dropped a trunk on it. Out of the hatbox came a human head. The incident provoked a murder investigation led by Robert Colbeck and culminating in some arrests in the wake of the running of the Derby. Madeleine had been directly involved in the case, finding out vital information for Colbeck and being taken to Epsom on Derby Day by way of thanks. Unfortunately, it was different this time. She could not contribute. A new case had taken him across the Welsh border and excluded her in every way.

‘What about you, Maddy?’ asked Andrews. ‘What have you been doing all day?’

‘I’d like to say that I’ve been sitting down with my feet up,’ she replied, ‘but there was far too much to do.’

‘Did you get across to Chalk Farm?’

‘Yes, Father – Uncle Tom and Auntie Dolly send their love.’

‘Have they got over losing that mangy dog of theirs yet?’

‘Uncle Tom has but Auntie Dolly is still very upset. They had Chum for twelve years and he was like one of the family. Auntie Dolly says that she can’t sleep properly, knowing that Chum is not curled up at the foot of the bed.’

Andrews wrinkled his nose. ‘It was unhealthy,’ he said with disgust, ‘having that smelly old dog in their bedroom at night. A kennel is the proper place for an animal like that. Chum should have been in the back yard, guarding the property, not snoring away on the bedroom carpet. Apart from anything else, Chum had fleas.’

‘His death distressed Auntie Dolly, that’s all I know.’

‘My sister should have had him put down years ago.’

‘Father!’

‘People get too sentimental about animals.’

‘You worshipped Blackie when we had him,’ she recalled.

‘Cats are different,’ he said. ‘They don’t wag their tails at you all the time and expect to share your bedroom. They’ve got self-respect and they know how to look after themselves. Blackie was easy to have around the house but a dog takes over your life.’

Madeleine did not argue. Her father had a deep dislike of dogs, fuelled by the fact that he was often bothered by stray mongrels on his way to and from work. It explained why he so rarely visited his sister and brother-in-law in Chalk Farm. Now that Chum had passed away, Madeleine hoped, he might feel able to enter their house with a measure of enthusiasm.

‘Is there anything interesting in the paper today?’ she asked, glancing across at his coat.

‘Not really, Maddy,’ he answered. ‘I don’t know why I buy it sometimes. There’s another report about the Crimean War and that looks as if it might drag on for years. Oh, yes,’ he added, casually, ‘there was a brief mention of someone called the Railway Detective.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she scolded, hurrying across the room to pull the newspaper out of his coat pocket. ‘What does it say?’

‘Very little – it’s barely a mention.’

She opened the paper. ‘Where is it?’

‘Turn over the page. It’s at the bottom.’

Madeleine turned to the next page and ran her eye down the left-hand column. The item at the bottom was short but explicit. It informed its readers that Inspector Robert Colbeck had been called to the Railway Hotel in Cardiff to investigate the murder of a young man from London who had been on his way to deliver a silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive. It had been stolen. The victim’s name was not given but Madeleine nevertheless felt a surge of pity for him. She was also worried that the crimes might keep Colbeck away from London for some time. When her father had read the item, however, he had been less concerned about the fate of the victim. What interested him was the object that had been stolen.

‘A silver locomotive!’ he said with a whistle.

‘It’s supposed to be used as a coffee pot, Father.’

‘That would only tarnish the inside.’

‘It must have cost an absolute fortune,’ she observed.

‘I’m sure it did, Maddy – what a wonderful thing to own! I couldn’t bear to have a dog in the house but a silver locomotive is another matter altogether.’ He gave a cackle of delight. ‘Now that’s something that would stay at the foot of my bed at night – if not on the pillow beside me!’

Expecting to find her still distraught, Colbeck was pleased to see that Effie Kellow was a little more composed on the following morning. She was clearly making an effort to be brave in the face of tragedy. Though small and almost frail, she seemed to have an instinct for survival. She and her brother, he reminded himself, had been orphaned at a young age yet had managed to find a life for themselves that had some promise on the horizon. Robbed of her brother and deprived of her dreams of escape from service, Effie somehow gave the impression that she would not surrender to the vicissitudes of Fate. There was a muted determination about her.

She and Colbeck had breakfast together. While she was patently unaccustomed to eating in a hotel, she had regained her appetite and munched her food gratefully. Leeming joined them at their table, relieved to see that Effie was managing to control her anguish.

‘Has the inspector explained what’s happening today?’ he asked after placing his order with the waiter.

‘No,’ said Effie. ‘I want to take Hugh’s body back with me.’

‘That’s what I’ve arranged,’ Colbeck told her. ‘Superintendent Stockdale will have the coffin put on the eight o’clock train and there’ll be a ticket bought for you. Constable Roberts will then travel with you to London.’

She was upset. ‘But I want to be alone with Hugh.’

‘I think you need company, Miss Kellow, and the constable will have the necessary documents. He’ll supervise the transfer of the coffin from Paddington to Wood Street where you and Mr Voke can discuss details of the funeral.’

‘Very well,’ she said, meekly accepting the decision.

‘If you wish, Constable Roberts will make sure that you get back safely to your place of work.’

‘No, Inspector – he doesn’t need to do that. It’s not where I want to go, you see. Not at first, that is. I prefer to go to Mrs Jennings’ house.’

‘Of course,’ said Leeming. ‘Anything belonging to your brother is your property now. It’s a sort of inheritance.’

‘All I want are the books that Hugh showed me,’ she said. ‘They fired him to be a silversmith. I’d like to keep them because they meant so much to him.’ She looked up deferentially at Colbeck. ‘May I ask you a favour, Inspector?’

‘Of course, Miss Kellow?’

‘Could you write me a letter, please? If I tell the landlady that I’ve come for Hugh’s books, she might not believe that I’m his sister. Hugh said that she was very wary of strangers.’

‘That’s true,’ Leeming put in. ‘I had a job persuading her who I was. Mrs Jennings would be suspicious of her own shadow.’

‘I’ll happily jot a few lines down on paper for you,’ said Colbeck. ‘You won’t lose anything of your brother’s, Miss Kellow. I daresay there’ll be property belonging to him at Mr Voke’s shop as well. That will be rightfully yours.’

‘It’s those books that I really want,’ she said, turning to Leeming. ‘Can’t you take me back to London, Sergeant?’ she asked, plaintively. ‘You so were kind to me on the way here. I don’t know this other policeman.’

‘I’m afraid that I have to stay here in Cardiff,’ said Leeming, ‘but I’m sure that Constable Roberts will look after you – and he won’t be wearing his uniform. He’ll look like just another passenger.’

‘Oh, I see.’

That appeared to allay her fears somewhat and she continued to eat her food. When the meal was over, Colbeck probed for information.

‘Did you brother have any enemies, Miss Kellow?’ he asked.

‘None that I know of,’ she returned. ‘Hugh was a very friendly person. He could get along with anybody.’

‘What about Stephen Voke?’

‘They worked together quite well for a time then things changed. Hugh thought that Mr Voke’s son was jealous of him. He was always bickering with his father,’ she remembered. ‘Then one day, he was gone without any explanation. Hugh said that old Mr Voke would never talk about him after that.’

‘Did your brother ever mention Stephen having a close female friend?’

‘No, Inspector. He told me very little about him. We only met now and again and we had more important things to talk about than Mr Voke’s son.’

‘What about your own brother?’ enquired Colbeck. ‘He seems to have been a handsome young man. Was there anyone special in his life – apart from his sister, that is?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I think there was. Hugh mentioned her in one of his letters,’ she said, opening her reticule to look inside. ‘He didn’t write very often and only when he had something important to say. I carry all his letters around with me.’ She took one out and passed it to Colbeck. ‘This came over a month ago, Inspector.’

Colbeck read it through. It contained some gossip about his work and about his landlady then it ended on a hopeful note. Hugh Kellow confided that he had met someone called Bridget and that they had become good friends. Colbeck handed the letter to Leeming so that he could read it as well.

‘I’ve no idea who Bridget is,’ admitted Effie, ‘and I’m worried for her. She ought to be told what’s happened to Hugh. I’d hate her to find out the way that I did – by reading the newspaper.’

‘But she may already have done just that,’ Colbeck pointed out. ‘If they were good friends, the chances are that your brother told Bridget he was going to Cardiff with that coffee pot.’

‘Mr Voke forbade him to tell anyone about that, Inspector. Hugh may have told me but he wouldn’t have said a word to anyone else. Well,’ she added, searching for another letter, ‘I can prove it. I showed this to Sergeant Leeming and the superintendent.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Leeming, returning one letter to her as she was giving the other to Colbeck. ‘The funny thing is that there’s no mention of any Bridget in his last letter. Perhaps the friendship didn’t last. What do you think, Inspector?’

‘We can only speculate,’ said Colbeck, reading the letter before handing it back to Effie and noting the care with which she put it into her reticule. ‘Mr Kellow was obviously very secretive about his visit to Cardiff and rightly so. Carrying a valuable item made him a target. What continues to puzzle me is how he ended up in this very hotel.’ He turned to Effie. ‘Can you throw any light on that?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said.

‘Did he ever mention this hotel to you before?’

‘Hugh had never been to Cardiff, sir – though he once did some work for a customer here. He was called Sir-Somebody-or-Other and he told Hugh what a good job he’d done.’