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 whos
e 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 la
rge 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.’
The Silver Locomotive Mystery irc-6 Page 4