The Silver Locomotive Mystery (5 page)

‘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.

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
penchan
t 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.’