The Silver Locomotive Mystery (2 page)

‘Why do we have to go to Cardiff?’ asked Victor Leeming, grumpily.

‘Because that’s where the murder occurred,’ said Colbeck.

‘But Cardiff is in Wales.’

‘You don’t need to lecture me in geography, Victor. I know exactly where it is and how long it will take a train to get us there.’

‘Far too long,’ moaned Leeming.

‘A change of air will do you good.’

‘Don’t they have their own police force?’

‘We were expressly requested by the South Wales Railway.’

‘You mean that
you
were, Inspector. Every railway company in the country is after your services. At the first sign of trouble, they send for Robert Colbeck, the Railway Detective.’

‘A murder is rather more than a sign of trouble.’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘The telegraph gave us only the merest details,’ said
Colbeck. ‘A guest at the Railway Hotel was killed in his room. That’s all we need to know at this stage. The summons had me reaching for my
Bradshaw
and that’s why we’re on our way to Paddington.’

Leeming grimaced. ‘I detest boring train journeys.’

‘That’s a contradiction in terms. To a trained observer – such as a detective sergeant like you – no train journey should ever be boring. It’s a delight to the eye and a continual stimulus to the brain. Travel broadens the mind, Victor.’

Leeming grunted mutinously. Colbeck knew why he was being so churlish. The sergeant was a married man with a wife and two children on whom he doted. He hated having to be absent from them at night and an investigation in Cardiff could well mean days away. As soon as the telegraph arrived at Scotland Yard, Colbeck had told Leeming to grab the valise he kept at the office in case of an assignment away from London. It contained a change of clothing. The two men were now ensconced in a cab as it rolled noisily towards the railway station over a cobbled street. They were, in appearance, an ill-assorted pair. Colbeck was tall, slim, debonair, impeccably dressed and with an almost flashy handsomeness while Leeming was stocky, of medium height, inelegant even in a frock coat and top hat, and with the startling ugliness of a fairground bruiser who has come off worst in a brawl. Yet his family loved him deeply and Colbeck admired him for his sterling qualities as a policeman. Leeming had the tenacity of a man who, once set on the right path, would never deviate from it until a case was solved.

Colbeck sought to cheer up his jaded companion.

‘There are consolations,’ he argued. ‘For a start, we’ll be out of reach of Superintendent Tallis for a while.’

‘That’s always a bonus,’ agreed Leeming. ‘He’s been very liverish these past few weeks.’

‘It’s understandable – there have been far too many crimes and far too few convictions. The superintendent expects us to catch every single law-breaker and put him or her behind bars. We both know that it’s an impossible demand.’

‘If he wants us patrolling the streets of London, why is he letting us charge off across the Welsh border?’

‘I think that vanity comes into it, Victor,’ decided Colbeck. ‘The fact that we’ve been sought by name indicates that the reputation of the Detective Department has spread far and wide. That feeds his self-importance. In that uninhabitable waste land known as his heart, I fancy that he rather likes the notion of despatching his men to solve crimes in different parts of the country – as long as we are quick about it, naturally.’

‘It can’t be quick enough for me this time.’

‘There’s no call for alarm. Estelle and the children will survive without you for a night or two.’

‘That’s not what irks me, Inspector,’ confided Leeming. ‘My worry is that I won’t be able to survive without
them
.’

The brisk clip-clop of the horse changed to a slow tap-tap of hooves as the driver pulled on the reins. The cab soon stopped and the two men got out. Colbeck paid the fare then led his companion into the maelstrom that was Paddington Station on a busy afternoon. Over the tumult, he called out to Leeming.

‘Then there’s the other consolation, Victor.’

‘Is there, sir?’

‘When we get to Cardiff, we’ll meet an old friend.’

‘Oh – and who might that be?’

‘Jeremiah Stockdale.’

Leeming brightened instantly. ‘Now that
is
a consolation.’

And for the first time in his life, he stepped into a railway carriage with something resembling a smile on his face.

Archelaus Pugh had many virtues but he was not a man for a crisis. As the manager of the Railway Hotel in Cardiff, he was unfailingly efficient. Faced with everyday problems – awkward guests, mistakes over reservations, indolence among his staff – he was calm, patient and decisive. Confronted with a dead body in one of his rooms, however, Pugh swiftly deteriorated. Sweat broke out on his corrugated brow, his eyes darted uncontrollably and his clothing was suddenly too tight for him. He was a short, neat man in his forties with a crisp and authoritative voice that had now become a baleful croak.

‘You can’t leave him there, Superintendent,’ he wailed.

‘I can do and I will do, Mr Pugh,’ said Jeremiah Stockdale.

‘Think what it looks like. If a policeman stands outside that room all day, it will frighten my other guests.’

‘It’s more likely to reassure them, sir. And it also prevents any of them from stumbling into the room by mistake. Think how horrified they’d be if that happened.’

Pugh tried to assert himself. ‘I have a hotel to run.’

‘And I have a crime to solve,’ retorted Stockdale, looming over him. ‘That takes precedence over everything.’

‘Can’t you at least move the corpse out of here?’

‘No, Mr Pugh.’

‘Why ever not – it’s the most dreadful advertisement for us.’

‘My sympathies are with the victim. He stays where he is until Inspector Colbeck arrives from London. I want him to see exactly what we found when we went into that room.’

Stockdale was adamant. He was a big, brawny, bluff individual in his forties with a thick, dark moustache and a fringe beard. English by birth, he had had a brief military career as a mercenary in Spain before being invalided home. Recovering from his wounds, he had joined the recently formed Metropolitan Police Force. As a result of the training and experience acquired on the dangerous streets of London, he had secured, when only twenty-four, the post of Superintendent of the Cardiff Borough Police. That made him, in effect, the town’s Chief Constable. For almost two decades, he had been a very successful law-enforcement officer in spite of an inadequate budget, limited manpower and the constant criticism of the Watch Committee.

It was pointless to argue with Jeremiah Box Stockdale. He was his own man. He did not suffer fools gladly or bend to the wishes of panic-stricken hotel managers. Archelaus Pugh could bleat at him all day but it was a futile exercise. The corpse would stay where it was and the policeman would remain on guard.

They were in the foyer of the hotel and guests who went past viewed the superintendent with a curiosity liberally tinged with fear. The imposing figure was dressed in a uniform of his own devising – a dark blue tunic and trousers
trimmed with red cord, a peaked cap and a sword belt from his army days. Pugh was invisible beside him.

‘When will the inspector get here?’ asked the manager.

‘I’m sure that he will have caught the first available train,’ said Stockdale, ‘and I’m equally sure that he’ll be bringing Sergeant Leeming with him. You should be grateful to have two men of their ability coming here, Mr Pugh.’

‘The only time I’ll feel the slightest impulse of gratitude is when they carry that dead body out of here and remove the stain of murder.’

‘Don’t you
want
this crime solved?’

‘Of course, I do, but my concern is for the other guests.’

‘Suspicion comes before concern,’ said the policeman, darkly. ‘Did it never occur to you that the killer is likely to be someone who is staying under this roof?’ Pugh gulped and took an involuntary step backwards. ‘He might be going about his business as if nothing had ever happened. In other words, Mr Pugh, somewhere among those guests about whom you are so concerned may be the self-same villain who committed this foul crime.’

Pugh was aghast. ‘The killer is still
here
?’

‘It’s something I am bound to consider.’

Leaving the manager to digest this devastating possibility, Stockdale broke away from him and marched over to welcome the two men who were coming in through the door. Colbeck and Leeming had walked the short distance from the railway station. They were pleased to see their old friend. There was an exchange of greetings and warm handshakes. The mutual respect between the three men was evident. Stockdale introduced them to the
manager but Pugh was less than impressed. Expecting policemen in uniform, he was instead looking at what he perceived as a dandy and a pugilist.

‘When will you move the body, Inspector?’ demanded Pugh.

‘When it is time to do so,’ snapped Stockdale, quelling him with a glare. ‘Meanwhile, I suggest that you move your own body out of the way so that we can go upstairs. I’m sure that Inspector Colbeck will want to speak to you later.’

‘I will, indeed, sir,’ said Colbeck, turning politely to Pugh. ‘I’m sorry for the disruption this must have caused. I can understand your anxiety. It’s possible that Sergeant Leeming and I may have to stay in the town for a while. I take it that you have a room available?’

‘It’s already booked in your name,’ said Stockdale.

‘Thank you, Superintendent.’

‘Here,’ he continued, relieving them of their valises and handing them to the manager. ‘Do something useful and have these sent up to their room.’ He beamed at the others. ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’

As the detectives ascended the carpeted staircase, Stockdale provided them with preliminary details.

‘The victim is a young silversmith from London. His name was Hugh Kellow and he worked for a Mr Leonard Voke of Wood Street. He came here to deliver an item – the invoice was in his pocket – and it’s been stolen. Robbery was clearly the motive for the murder.’

‘What was the item?’ asked Leeming.

‘It was a silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive.’

Colbeck was fascinated. ‘Then it must be very valuable.’

‘It is,’ said Stockdale, enviously. ‘It cost far more than any of us lesser mortals could ever afford.’ They reached a landing and he led them down a long passageway. ‘A guest was passing the room when she heard what sounded like a muffled cry for help. She alerted the manager and, to his credit, he came up here at once. There was no response when he knocked on the door so he used a master key to open it and made the discovery.’

At the end of the passageway, they turned a corner and saw a uniformed policeman standing outside the first room on the left. At the sight of his superior, he immediately straightened up and gave a deferential salute. Producing a key from his pocket, Stockdale flicked a hand to move his colleague aside.

‘Almost nothing has been touched, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I remembered what you once told me about the scene of a crime. Important clues could be lost if people trampled all over it or, in the case of a murder, if the body was moved before it had been properly examined.’

‘We’re very grateful to you,’ said Colbeck.

Stockdale unlocked the door. ‘What you’re about to see,’ he told them with a grim smile, ‘is exactly what the manager saw – though unlike Mr Pugh, you will not have an attack of hysteria.’

The door swung open and they stepped into the room. Colbeck and Leeming surveyed the scene. The corpse lay on its back on the rumpled bed. He was wearing a shirt that was partly unbuttoned, an open waistcoat, a pair of trousers and some stockings. His shoes were on the floor beside the bed and his coat and cravat over a chair. His bowler hat stood on a small table in front of which was an empty leather bag.
There was bruising on the victim’s face and dried blood on his forehead from a scalp wound. What made Leeming catch his breath was that the man’s mouth and chin were disfigured as if they had been badly scalded.

‘Some kind of acid was used,’ explained Stockdale. ‘The killer poured it down his throat. Some of it spilt on his face.’

Colbeck walked around the bed so that he could view the body from a different angle. He bent close to scrutinise it. Then he crossed to the open window and looked out. His gaze shifted to the coat.

‘What did you find in that?’ he asked.

‘Very little,’ replied Stockdale. ‘It looks to me as if his wallet was stolen along with the coffee pot. All that remained were the things you see on the dressing table – an invoice from his employer, a second class ticket to Paddington and a business card.’

Colbeck went over to pick up the card. ‘Nigel Buckmaster,’ he read aloud. ‘Now there’s a name I know well.’

‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Leeming.

‘That’s because you never go to the theatre, Victor.’

‘How can I on my wage, Inspector? I have a family to feed.’

‘Mr Buckmaster is an actor-manager. He has his own company of strolling players. I saw him give a masterly performance as Othello on one occasion.’ His eyes moved to the corpse. ‘How on earth did his card come to be in the victim’s pocket?’

‘I can tell you that,’ said Stockdale, keen to show that he had not been idle. ‘Buckmaster’s Players arrived today to spend a week at the Theatre Royal. It appears that Mr
Buckmaster and his leading lady, Miss Linnane, shared a compartment with Mr Kellow on the train. They were horrified to hear what happened to him. It was they who confirmed his name. What surprised them was that he came to the hotel. He told them that he was travelling back to London as soon as he had delivered the coffee pot.’

‘Perhaps he was due to hand it over to its new owner right here,’ suggested Leeming.

‘No, Sergeant. He was supposed to take it to the house.’

‘What house?

‘The one belonging to Mr and Mrs Tomkins,’ said Stockdale, ‘though it’s more like a small palace than a house. Only someone like Clifford Tomkins could afford to buy an expensive coffee pot like that. He made his fortune in Merthyr as an ironmaster then had a mansion built in Cardiff. The coffee pot was a gift to his wife.’