The Silver Locomotive Mystery irc-6

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 savou
r 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.