The Silver Locomotive Mystery irc-6

by Edward Marston

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Colbeck,’ she said, ‘I’ll fetch Stephen.’

  Leeming had saved her the trouble. The back door burst open and Stephen Voke was pushed into the kitchen, handcuffs pinning his wrists together behind his back. Leeming shoved him through into the living room with a grin of triumph.

  ‘Here he is,’ he announced, ‘He didn’t put up any fight.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ exclaimed the woman.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Voke, pitifully. ‘This man jumped on me and told me that I was under arrest.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, looking fearfully at the bandage around Leeming’s head, ‘and what do you mean by coming here?’

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Colbeck. ‘This is my colleague, Sergeant Leeming, and I am Inspector Colbeck. We are detectives from London, investigating the murder of Hugh Kellow and the theft of a valuable silver coffee pot.’

  ‘It must be in that workshop, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘There’s a large safe out there. That’s where they keep their spoils.’

  ‘What spoils?’ asked Voke. ‘As for a murder, this is the first I’ve heard of it. Are you telling me that Hugh was killed?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Colbeck. ‘His body was found in the hotel room in Cardiff where you had left it.’

  ‘But I haven’t been to Cardiff for several weeks.’

  ‘Then how did you manage to give me this?’ demanded Leeming, indicating his scalp wound. ‘You must have a very long arm if you could hit me from Caerleon.’

  ‘What my husband is telling you is correct,’ said the woman with evident honesty. ‘We only took possession of the cottage this week. Until then, we were both in London. Stephen had no reason to go to Cardiff. He’s been too busy planning the move here.’

  ‘It’s the truth, Inspector,’ said Voke. ‘I swear it.’

  Colbeck pondered. ‘Take the handcuffs off him,’ he ordered at length. ‘Go on.’

  ‘But he could turn violent, sir,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Take them off, sergeant.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think we have the wrong man.’

  While the sergeant unlocked the handcuffs, Colbeck’s mind was spinning like a wheel. Having arrested a large number of people in the course of his career, he was accustomed to the routine denial of guilt. That was not happening here. Stephen Voke was bemused rather than defiant. He showed none of the righteous indignation that criminals often dredged up when confronted with their misdeeds. Nor did he look like a killer. He was lean, trim and of middle height. Around the nose and mouth, there was a clear resemblance to his father. He had an open face and met Colbeck’s gaze without dissimulation. When the handcuffs were removed, he did not immediately make a dash for the door. He simply rubbed his wrists before putting a protective arm around his wife.

  ‘We must offer you our apologies, sir,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘I’m not apologising,’ insisted Leeming. ‘If it was left to me, he’d be clapped in irons.’

  ‘Mr Voke is completely innocent, Sergeant.’

  ‘But he can’t be, sir.’

  ‘We’ve been pursuing the wrong man.’

  Leeming was bewildered. ‘Well, if he didn’t murder Mr Kellow,’ he wanted to know, ‘then who did?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘That’s impossible, sir.’

  ‘I’m afraid that it isn’t.’

  ‘Somebody must have killed him.’

  ‘Think of those ransom letters,’ said Colbeck. ‘Two were written by a woman but the two written, as I suspect, by a man were in block capitals. Do you know why that was done?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue, Inspector.’

  ‘It was because he didn’t want us to recognise his handwriting. He knew that we’d already seen examples of that in those letters to his sister, Effie. We’d have realised how cunningly we’d been tricked.’

  ‘I’m still none the wiser,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Nor are we,’ added Voke. ‘What exactly has happened?’

  ‘We were deceived,’ said Colbeck, still working it out in his head. ‘Hugh Kellow was not murdered in that hotel and the silver coffee pot was not taken from him. Nor were his keys to his employer’s shop, for that matter. He knew exactly what to steal from Mr Voke’s safe and made sure that he took his own tools as well as the valuables and the money.’ He gestured an apology to Voke. ‘You were wrongly accused, sir, and I deeply regret that. We owe your dear wife our sincerest apologies as well. The evidence that brought us here was misleading. The man we really need to arrest is Hugh Kellow.’ Colbeck gritted his teeth. ‘He’s still alive.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Discontented members of the Cardiff Borough Police sometimes complained – though never within his hearing – that their chief constable was a martinet but none of them denied that he worked tirelessly to keep the town under control. Stockdale always pushed himself much harder than any of his men. He was indefatigable. At the end of another long day, he adjourned to his favourite pub where a pint of beer was poured for him the second he appeared through the door. He took a first, long, noisy, satisfying sip. It not only served to quench his thirst, it helped to steady him after the shock he had received earlier. He still wondered if his fears were justified or if it would simply turn out to be an unfortunate coincidence. The place was quite full and he chatted happily to several people on the well-tried principle that he might pick up a nugget of useful intelligence from even the most casual conversation.

  As he heard the door swing open, he glanced towards it then reacted as if an apparition had just entered. He could not believe that he was looking at Robert Colbeck.

  ‘I was thinking about you only a moment ago, Inspector.’

  ‘Then you can tell me what you thought,’ said Colbeck, ‘but only after you let me buy you another pint of beer.’

  ‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse.’ Quaffing the last of his drink, he handed his tankard to the newcomer. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  While Colbeck went to get the beer, Stockdale found a table in a quiet corner. As always, he sat with his back to the wall so that he could keep an eye on everybody. Colbeck eventually joined him, handing over one of the tankards then raising his own in a toast.

  ‘To policemen everywhere!’ he said.

  ‘Amen.’

  They clinked tankards then Colbeck sat down opposite him.

  ‘I was told that I might find you here, Superintendent.’

  ‘In earlier days,’ Stockdale confided, ‘you’d have found me on the other side of the bar. I was so poorly paid when I first started in this job that I used to serve in the Boat House round the corner in Womanby Street. I had to find some way to supplement my meagre wage. The Watch Committee seemed to think I could live on fresh air and, as your nose must have detected, there’s not a lot of that in the town.’ He supped his beer. ‘But I’m so glad you came, Inspector. I had what could turn out to be alarming news.’

  ‘I think I know what it is,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘How could you?’

  ‘We may already be one step ahead of you.’

  ‘I had a report on a missing person, a young man who came to Cardiff on the day of the murder and whose description fits that of the victim. His father made contact with the police in London. Martin Henley – that was the young man’s name – had said that he’d be spending the night at the Railway Hotel here before returning home.’

  ‘But he was unable to do so because he was murdered.’

  ‘It can’t have been Mr Henley, can it?’

  ‘I’m fairly certain that it was.’

  ‘Then why was he killed by Stephen Voke?’

  ‘He wasn’t, Superintendent,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The sergeant and I tracked Mr Voke to Caerleon where he’s now living with his new wife. Neither of them had anything to do with the crimes.’

  ‘But they must have done.’

  ‘We were badly mistaken.’

  Stockdale frowned. ‘Non
e of this makes the slightest sense.’

  ‘It does if you think it through. If Mr Voke is not the culprit…’

  ‘Then it must have been someone else.’

  ‘One name immediately comes to mind.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Hugh Kellow.’

  Stockdale was flabbergasted. ‘Never!’

  ‘That was my response at first.’

  ‘You mean that he faked his own death?’

  ‘What better way to disappear from sight?’

  Colbeck told him about their confrontation with Stephen Voke and how the young silversmith had been completely exonerated. He and his wife, Catherine, had gone to a part of Wales that held fond memories for Voke, who felt that he had enough private work to be able to operate from home.

  ‘Miss Evans has recommended him to a number of friends in South Wales so his future seems assured. I saw a ring he made for her. It was exquisite.’

  Stockdale rolled his eyes. ‘Everything about Carys is exquisite,’ he attested, ‘except for her choice in men, of course.’

  ‘They fulfilled their purpose by pressing gifts upon her. My guess is that Sir David Pryde commissioned her ring as well as a brooch in the shape of a dragon. For obvious reasons, he couldn’t use a silversmith here.’

  ‘No, it was too risky. A local man would know him and wonder why the items were not made for Lady Pryde. It was safer to use someone in London.’ Stockdale was honest. ‘How stupid we’ve been! We were fooled. We were well and truly fooled by Mr Kellow.’

  ‘When I saw the disfigurement on the corpse,’ said Colbeck. ‘it did cross my mind that the acid had been used to make identification more difficult. But Mr Buckmaster swore that it was Hugh Kellow and recognised his clothing. The sister was even more certain.’

  ‘Her visit settled it as far as I was concerned. Effie was so convinced that it was her brother who’d been murdered.’

  ‘That’s what she wanted us to believe. Incidentally, I don’t think that Effie was his sister at all. She and Kellow were accomplices who worked in harness. We should introduce her to Nigel Buckmaster. She’s such a consummate actress that he could make use of her talents on stage. Talking of which,’ Colbeck said, ‘did you manage to rescue Miss Linnane?’

  ‘That’s a long story, Inspector.’

  Stockdale gave a concise version of it, proud of the fact that he had shamed Buckmaster into paying hefty compensation and received grovelling apologies from him and his leading lady. He assured Colbeck that Michael Linnane would not escape punishment for his part in the charade. Stockdale had written to the Gloucester police with details of the deception practised on their counterparts in Cardiff.

  ‘They’ll send him back to face me,’ said Stockdale, ‘and I’ll make him squirm. Nobody distracts my men like that without paying for it. I expect another sizeable donation to our funds – that’s after a night in the cells to repent of his folly.’ About to take another drink, he put the tankard abruptly down on the table. ‘I’ve just thought, Inspector. Suppose that that dead man was Martin Henley.’

  ‘He was definitely not Hugh Kellow.’

  ‘Yet he’ll be buried instead of him.’

  ‘The funeral hasn’t taken place yet,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I sent Victor Leeming back to London with news of what we discovered. He’ll make sure that the undertaker doesn’t go ahead with the service until we know the true identity of the corpse. Do you still have the report about Martin Henley’s disappearance?’

  ‘No,’ said Stockdale. ‘Because it seemed so important, I sent it to you at Scotland Yard. Idris Roberts volunteered to take it. I think he’s developed a liking for train journeys to London. It was his third in three days. Mind you, he’s going to be upset when I tell him that Effie Kellow wasn’t the poor little waif we thought she was. Constable Roberts treated her like his own daughter.’

  ‘I’ll see the report when I return this evening and I’ll get in touch with the police station that sent it to you. The gentleman who raised the alarm will need to identify his son’s body.’

  ‘How much will you tell him?’

  ‘Very little,’ said Colbeck after drinking some beer. ‘He simply needs to know that his son died an unnatural death – if, indeed, it is Martin Henley, of course. Too much detail will only cause him unnecessary distress.’

  ‘Please let me know what happens.’

  ‘Of course – you’re involved in this investigation. That’s why I took the trouble to come here from Newport. I was so close that I felt I had to bring you up to date with a sensational development.’

  ‘It hit me like a blow.’

  ‘Victor Leeming is the one who was most shocked.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When he arrested and handcuffed Stephen Voke, he thought that he’d captured a vicious killer. Instead of that, he’d merely caught a harmless silversmith.’

  ‘Not all silversmiths are harmless – look at Hugh Kellow.’

  ‘I hope to do so very soon.’

  ‘He should be hanged, drawn and quartered.’

  ‘That sentence is no longer in the statute book.’

  ‘Well, it should be. He’s caused the most terrible mayhem in the town. I don’t think I dare tell Winifred Tomkins that the man who offered her that silver coffee pot was someone who helped to make it in the first place. She’d be even more upset.’

  ‘Is she still grieving over the loss of her carriage?’

  ‘That’s been recovered.’

  ‘Good – I assured the sergeant that it would be. What is suitable for a wealthy ironmaster and his wife would look quite out of place in the possession of a young man like Hugh Kellow.’

  ‘What do you think he’ll do with that coffee pot?’

  ‘Keep it, I should imagine. It’s a trophy. He obviously has a deep personal affection for it and not because he intends to drink a vast amount of coffee out of it. Mr Buckmaster and Miss Linnane both remembered him claiming that he’d done a fair amount of work on it,’ said Colbeck. ‘I have a suspicion that it was largely his creation and that he was never given full credit by his employer.’

  ‘He’s the next person in line for a shock,’ said Stockdale.

  ‘Yes, it will inflict an even deeper wound on Mr Voke.’

  ‘He’s been mourning his clever assistant when, all this time, Kellow has been robbing him blind.’

  ‘To some extent, he was to blame,’ opined Colbeck. ‘His son told us what a skinflint his father was. He could never understand why Kellow worked for him when he could have earned a lot more elsewhere. Now we know the answer. Kellow intended to steal everything of value from his employer to start in business on his own account. He wreaked his revenge by staging his death and breaking the old man’s heart.’

  Stockdale gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t want to be the one who tells Mr Voke what really happened.’

  ‘Neither would I,’ agreed Colbeck. ‘On reflection, I think that’s a task I’d rather leave to Superintendent Tallis.’

  * * *

  Edward Tallis never postponed things that required an immediate response nor did he delegate tasks to his men because they might involve some discomfort. When he heard Leeming’s report that evening, he summoned a cab instantly and went straight to Wood Street. Leonard Voke had retired to bed early and the superintendent had some difficulty in rousing him. The old man eventually padded down the stairs in a dressing gown and slippers. Once Tallis had convinced him that he had important news, he was admitted to the back room of the shop. The two men sat either side of the table with the oil lamp between them. Tallis plunged in.

  ‘The first thing I must tell you,’ he began, ‘is that the funeral has been postponed. I despatched Sergeant Leeming to the undertaker before I came on here.’

  Voke was disturbed. ‘Why should it be delayed?’

  ‘I’ll come to that in a moment, sir.’

  ‘But the arrangements have been made. Hugh must be given a proper burial. It
’s not right for him to have to wait any longer.’

  ‘Mr Kellow will have to wait for some time yet before his funeral,’ said Tallis. ‘The hangman will have to deal with him first.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The man in that coffin is not your assistant, sir.’

  ‘But he must be,’ said Voke, utterly confused. ‘The body was identified by his sister, Effie. I spoke to her myself. We cried together over poor Hugh.’

  ‘Poor Hugh is extremely well-off. He’s been paid three times as much as that silver coffee pot is worth and still has the contents of your safe. It’s no wonder he knew what to take,’ said Tallis. ‘He must have seen inside it every day. He retrieved his own tools from there and, as a final insult, he also took yours.’

  ‘No, no, this can’t be true.’

  ‘The facts are indisputable.’

  ‘What facts?’ croaked the old man. ‘I’m lost, Superintendent. I was told that Hugh had been murdered and that my son killed him.’

  ‘That proved to be a mistaken assumption.’

  ‘It was no assumption – I knew that my son hated me enough to do what he did. Stephen was jealous of my assistant and that drove him to murder Hugh.’ His hands flitted about uncontrollably. ‘If my son is not the killer, why did he flee from London?’

  ‘He went to live in Wales with his wife, Mr Voke.’

  ‘His wife? I didn’t even know that he was married.’

  ‘There are lots of things you don’t know about him,’ said Tallis with a note of disapproval. ‘You turned him against you, Mr Voke. He only stayed here for the sake of his mother. When she died, your son had to get away. According to Sergeant Leeming, who met him and his wife today, he’s a reformed character. Stephen Voke has taken on the responsibilities of marriage and is working to develop his own career.’

  Voke was stunned. Tallis thought for a moment that he was about to keel over. Eyes wide and mouth agape, the silversmith tried to take in the enormity of what he had been told. The son he had disowned had evidently matured and turned over a new leaf. Yet the assistant he had loved and relied on so heavily had committed the most horrendous crimes. It was a sobering moment. Voke realised that he had to take a major share of the blame for what had happened. In favouring Hugh Kellow, he had alienated his son to the point where Stephen wanted to blot out his past altogether.