The Silver Locomotive Mystery irc-6

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 whi
ch 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.