The Silver Locomotive Mystery (6 page)

‘He also mentioned a sister, I hear.’

‘Yes, Inspector. The poor creature only has one week’s holiday a year. Mr Kellow was saving up to take her to Margate. He was a very caring brother.’

‘So it seems,’ said Colbeck. ‘What else can you tell me about him? Did you see, for instance, if anyone was at the station to meet him when the train pulled in?’

‘I saw nobody waiting for him.’

‘But there might have been someone.’

‘The platform was very crowded and I had to make sure that my luggage was unloaded properly. By the time we left the railway station,’ she said, ‘Mr Kellow had long disappeared. Yet instead of delivering that coffee pot, he
was in this very hotel – being killed only yards from my door!’ She put the back of her hand to her forehead as if about to swoon, an attitude, Colbeck recalled, that she had struck as Desdemona. ‘Nigel actually identified the body. He told me that it was a frightening spectacle.
I
could never have gone into that room.’

‘That’s why the superintendent didn’t call upon you.’

‘I prefer to remember Mr Kellow as he was on the train.’

‘That’s a sensible policy, Miss Linnane.’

‘It’s the only way I can get over the shock of it all,’ she said, then she seemed to dismiss Kellow entirely from her mind. Her manner was conversational. ‘Will you be staying long in Cardiff, Inspector?’

‘I’ll be here until the case is solved.’

‘Then you’ll have the time to visit the Theatre Royal.’

‘I’ll make a point of doing so,’ said Colbeck. ‘On my way there yesterday, I was given a playbill by one of the company – a charming young lady named Miss Tremaine.’

Kate frowned. ‘She has some decorative appeal on stage, I grant you,’ she conceded, ‘but she’s far too wooden to be an actress. Handing our playbills is more suitable employment for her.’

Colbeck heard the note of contempt in her voice. For the second time, he had a surge of sympathy for Laura Tremaine. While the actor-manager and leading lady enjoyed the luxury of the Railway Hotel, Laura would be staying in some squalid boarding house in the suburbs, dreaming, probably in vain, of the time when she would take leading parts in the classical repertoire. One thing was clear. The young actress would get neither help nor encouragement from Kate Linnane. The
only person in whom she was interested was herself.

‘Thank you, Miss Linnane,’ he said, getting up. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I’ll intrude on you no longer.’

‘Having you here has reassured me greatly.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

‘If this case is left in the hands of bumbling local policemen, it would never be solved.’

Colbeck sprang to his friend’s defence. ‘You do Superintendent Stockdale a disservice,’ he said with polite firmness. ‘He’s extremely competent and polices this town well.’

‘I found him a trifle vulgar,’ said Kate.

‘We must agree to differ on that score.’

She produced her most bewitching smile. ‘I suspect that we’d agree on most other things, Inspector.’

She offered her hand and he placed a token kiss on it before letting himself out. Colbeck felt as if he had been watching a performance rather than having a normal conversation. To a woman like Kate Linnane, even one person constituted an audience. As he walked along the passageway, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched and he threw a glance over his shoulder. Nobody was there yet he still sensed a presence. It was unsettling. When he turned the corner, therefore, he came to a sudden halt after a few steps then flattened his back against the wall. He inched his way towards the corner so that he could peer around the angle. He was just in time to see the shadowy figure of a man going into Kate Linnane’s room before closing the door behind him.

‘Where the devil have you been, man?’ roared Edward Tallis from behind his desk. ‘I expected you ages ago.’

‘I had some calls to make, Superintendent,’ said Leeming.

‘Your first call should have been here so that you could tell me what happened yesterday evening. Instead of that, you stay away for hours. You’d better have a very good reason for doing so.’

‘I visited the house where Mr Kellow lodged.’

‘Did you learn anything pertinent to the investigation?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Well, spit it out,’ ordered Tallis. ‘And don’t stand there dithering like that – sit down.’

Victor Leeming obeyed, sinking on to the chair in front of the desk. It did not get any easier. No matter how many times he went into his superior’s office, he still felt like an errant schoolboy hauled up before a tyrannical headmaster. Tallis had the authority of a man who had spent most of his career in the army, commanding soldiers in war-torn parts of the Empire. Now in his fifties, he was beak-nosed, broad-shouldered and portly, a shock of grey hair contrasting sharply with the rubicund hue of his cheeks. A well-trimmed moustache decorated his upper lip like a third eyebrow. His rasping voice made his question sound like an accusation.

‘What have you done since you left here yesterday?’

‘I did as you instructed, sir,’ replied Leeming, ‘and called on Mr Voke. Some interesting facts emerged.’

Tallis issued a challenge. ‘Then interest me.’

The sergeant gave his report. Colbeck had taught him to keep a written account of every interview that he conducted so that it could be referred back to at a future date. Leeming
had memorised what he had put down on paper yet – unsettled by the basilisk stare of the superintendent – he still stumbled over some of the words. When the report reached the point where Leeming had departed from Wood Street the night before, Tallis wanted to clarify one point.

‘And you’re sure that you warned Mr Voke that the duplicate set of keys had been stolen?’

‘Inspector Colbeck sent me there for that express purpose.’

‘Did you examine the premises before you left?’

‘No, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘It never occurred to you to advise him about the security of his premises?’

‘I didn’t think it was my place to do so. Mr Voke has had that shop for many years. He knows how to guard his stock. A silversmith would not remain in business if he didn’t lock all his doors at night.’

‘Locks can be opened,’ said Tallis.

‘Only by the right keys, sir,’ Leeming pointed out.

‘Someone appears to have had them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘According to this,’ said Tallis, picking up a sheet of paper, ‘a Mr Leonard Voke reported a burglary at his premises during the night. It appears that his safe was completely emptied.’

‘I did tell him to be on his guard.’

‘You obviously didn’t tell him loudly enough. Nor did you have the sense to check every door to the premises to see if they could in any way be made more secure. Our task,’ he went on, sententiously, ‘is not merely to solve crime. We also exist to prevent it.’

Leeming was abashed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Since you chose to act on your own initiative this morning, the very least you could have done was to return to Mr Voke’s shop to check if anything untoward had happened during the night.’

‘I thought it was more important to visit Mrs Jennings.’

‘Was she Mr Kellow’s landlady?’

‘Yes, Superintendent,’ said Leeming. ‘She showed me his room.’

He gave an account of his visit to the house, hoping to receive at least a hint of praise for what he had learnt. Tallis, however, was unimpressed. Stroking his moustache, he pondered.

‘Mrs Jennings has told you little of practical use,’ he announced at length. ‘Your visit there was hardly productive.’

‘I learnt much about the murder victim’s character, sir.’

‘That brings us no closer to identifying his killer.’

‘I believe it does,’ argued Leeming. ‘It seems clear to me that the prime suspect is Mr Stephen Voke. He was fired by revenge. From what I can gather, Mr Kellow not only supplanted him as a silversmith, he also took young Mr Voke’s place in his father’s affections. That must have rankled with him.’

‘Yes,’ conceded Tallis, ‘I can detect a plausible motive there.’

‘Stephen Voke would also have known to whom that coffee pot locomotive was being delivered and had a very good idea as to when work on it would be completed. More to the point,’ said Leeming, ‘he would know his way around the premises in the dark.’

‘Then he needs to be brought in for questioning.’

‘That may be difficult, sir.’

‘Why – Mr Voke told you where his son worked.’

‘I called on the proprietor, Mr Solomon Stern. He didn’t speak well of Stephen Voke. Apparently, his work was very satisfactory at first but he became lax. Also, his timekeeping was poor. He began to arrive late and leave early. What annoyed Mr Stern,’ he remembered, ‘was that a young lady was always loitering outside the shop in the evening. As soon as he saw her, Stephen Voke left.’

‘Are you telling me that you never actually met Voke?’

‘He no longer works in Hatton Garden.’

‘Did his employer give him the sack?’

‘Mr Stern never had the chance to do so,’ replied Leeming. ‘He has not seen hide nor hair of Stephen Voke for a week. The young man has terminated his employment there without warning.’

‘Then you should have sought him at his lodgings.’

‘I did, sir. I went to the address given to me by Mr Stern.’

‘Was Stephen Voke there?’

‘No, sir,’ said Leeming, ‘and he never has been. He gave a false address to his employer. Nobody seems to know where he is. Stephen Voke – and, presumably, the young lady – has vanished into thin air.’

Tegwyn Rees was a tall, angular, emaciated man who looked as if he should be lying on the slab beside the corpses he dissected. When he was introduced to Colbeck by Jeremiah Stockdale, he regarded the inspector through cold, almost colourless eyes.

‘Why do we need detectives from London?’ he said with undisguised resentment. ‘The crime was committed on Welsh soil. I’m sure the superintendent could have solved it without interference.’

‘I came to help, Dr Rees,’ said Colbeck, ‘and not to interfere. In any case, Superintendent Stockdale is very much involved in the investigation. His officers are making enquiries about the source of that sulphuric acid even as we speak.’

‘Yet they are under the direction of a complete stranger.’

‘Don’t be so territorial, Tegwyn,’ said Stockdale, jovially. ‘The inspector is no stranger to me. And if you think a Welsh murder can only be tackled by Welsh policeman, it rules me out. I’m as English as Cheddar cheese – and just as delicious. Now tell us what the post-mortem revealed.’

They were in Rees’s surgery, a room as neat, chilly and sterile as the man himself. He consulted a sheet of paper before speaking.

‘The cause of death,’ he began, ‘was heart failure brought on by a massive dose of sulphuric acid. Its corrosive properties can be seen in the disfigurement around the mouth and in several internal organs. The wound on the scalp and the bruising were caused before death.’

‘I realised that when I saw the blood,’ said Colbeck. ‘As soon as the heart stops, so does the circulation.’

‘Let me finish, please,’ said Rees, tetchily. ‘There were also bruises on the chest and arms of the victim, suggesting that someone may have been kneeling on him.’

‘That disposes of your idea that the killer was a female,’ said Stockdale to Colbeck. ‘No woman would have been strong enough to hold him down.’

‘She wouldn’t have needed strength if he’d willingly submitted to being tied up,’ returned Colbeck before giving Rees an apologetic smile. ‘Do go on, sir.’

Rees clicked his tongue. ‘Thank you,’ he said with sarcasm. ‘Need I remind you that I was the one who conducted the autopsy? All that you saw were the more obvious external signs. As it happens, Inspector, your wild guess has some foundation. The victim’s wrists were tied tightly enough to leave a mark and there were similar weals on his ankles. In other words, he was spread-eagled on the bed.’

‘That’s what Inspector Colbeck suggested,’ said Stockdale. ‘He felt that Mr Kellow may have been seduced by a woman and that being tied up was part of some ritual.’

‘There is some supportive evidence for that theory,’ said Rees, glancing at his notes. ‘There was a discharge of semen in the victim’s underwear, consistent with high sexual excitement. It may even be the case that some of the bruising was a deliberate part of any ritual. There are – believe it or not – people who actually derive pleasure from pain and who pay others to administer it.’

Stockdale grinned. ‘You don’t need to tell me that, Tegwyn,’ he said. ‘When we raided a house in Charlotte Street last month, we found a man hanging naked from the rafters while a woman in a black mask flayed him with a cat o’nine tails.’ He pulled a face. ‘I don’t mind telling you that it’s not my idea of pleasure.’

‘We’re still working on assumptions,’ Colbeck reminded them. ‘It would be mistake to build too much on them. Explain one thing to us, Dr Rees, if you can,’ he went on. ‘Even someone who enjoyed pain to a certain point would
surely have cried out when he was struck on the head with a blunt instrument that broke open the scalp.

‘You’re quite right, Inspector.’

‘Then why did nobody hear the noise?’

‘You should have been there when I examined the back of the victim’s neck,’ said Rees, loftily. ‘There were unmistakable marks of something having been tied very tightly against it. My considered opinion is that, before he was killed, the victim was bound and gagged. He could neither move nor speak. The gag was only removed when the acid was about to be poured down his throat.’

‘That would explain the cry for help,’ said Colbeck. ‘One of the guests heard it as she walked past and it was quickly stifled.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Whoever committed the murder did not simply wish to kill Hugh Kellow. They were determined to make him
suffer
.’

Since he perceived the definite link between the murder in Cardiff and the burglary in Wood Street, Edward Tallis decided to accompany Leeming to the silversmith’s shop. They found Leonard Voke in a state of utter despair. Having closed his shop for the day, the old man was wandering around the premises in a daze. The visitors noticed that he had forgotten to shave that morning. Voke took them into the back room and flopped into a chair, his head in his hands.

‘I’m ruined,’ he kept saying. ‘I’m absolutely ruined.’

‘We’re very sorry that this has happened, Mr Voke,’ said Leeming with genuine pity, ‘but I did warn you that the keys had been stolen.’

‘I have three locks on some doors.’

‘They were not enough, sir.’

‘What exactly was taken?’ asked Tallis.

‘
Everything
,’ groaned the old man. ‘Everything I hold most dear. The safe contained my most valuable stock as well
as commissioned items not yet finished. Clients will demand their deposits back when I tell them that I won’t be able to deliver the items they requested.’

‘Can’t you start work on them again?’

Voke looked forlornly up at him. ‘I could never do that on my own. It would take me years to replace everything. If I still had Hugh beside me, then there’s a chance I could rebuild. He worked quickly as well as meticulously. Without him, Superintendent,’ he said, ‘I’m lost. It’s like having a right hand cut off. Besides,’ he added, wincing as if a nail had just been driven into his body, ‘I kept all my tools in that safe. The burglar stole them as well. That really hurt me.’

‘This was no random crime, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘The only person who would steal your tools is either someone who knew how much they meant to you or someone who might have planned on using them himself. That leads us to one particular person.’

‘Don’t mention his name under my roof!’ snarled Voke, wagging a finger. ‘I told you, Sergeant, if you want to speak to that detestable young man, you must go to Hatton Garden.’

‘That’s what I did, sir, but the bird has flown.’

Voke winced again. ‘He’s run away?’

‘Yes,’ said Tallis, taking over, ‘and we have reason to believe that he was not alone. Was your son – this young man we’re talking about, that is – married?’

‘No, Superintendent, he was not. He claimed that I never paid him enough to support a wife.’

‘Did he have anyone in mind?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Voke, sourly. ‘He never brought anyone home but I knew that he frequented places where young women could be found in abundance. That disgusted me more than I can say. I thank God that my wife died without knowing about his habits.’

‘We need to contact him as soon as possible,’ said Tallis. ‘Can you give us any advice on how to do that? Did he have male friends with whom we could talk?’ Voke shook his head. ‘Well, can you give us the name of the places where he went drinking?’

‘I wish I could, Superintendent. I want him caught as much as you do. But the truth of it is,’ he went on, ‘we lived our lives in different ways. What I had to offer here was not enough for him. He sought excitement elsewhere.’ The lines in his brow deepened. ‘And you say that he left Hatton Garden?’

‘I spoke to Mr Stern himself,’ said Leeming.

‘I’ll be too embarrassed to do that myself. Sol was a good friend until this happened. He’s a hard task master and I thought he might do a certain person some good. How can I look Sol Stern in the face now this has happened? I told you,’ he said, mournfully, ‘I’m ruined.’

The two detectives did their best to console him but he was beyond help. After some futile attempts to get useful information out of him, Tallis decided that it was time to leave.

‘We’re wasting our time here, Sergeant,’ he said as they left the building. ‘We’ll have to find Stephen Voke
without
his father’s help.’

‘Somebody must know where he is,’ observed Leeming.

‘We’re not just looking for him, I fancy. My instinct tells me that there’s a woman involved here as well. Did you get a description of Stephen Voke from his employer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then it needs to be given to the newspapers,’ said Tallis with rancour. ‘It’s high time the press actually did us some good for a change instead of just sneering at our efforts.’

The locomotive belonged to the Firefly class. It emerged from the tunnel with clouds of thick, dark, acrid smoke billowing in its wake. Legs braced, the driver stood on the footplate and stared at the line ahead. His fireman was reaching into the tender for more coal to feed into the firebox. A railway policeman in top hat and frock coat stood near the opening of the tunnel, right arm outstretched to signal the ‘all clear.’ His dog waited obediently beside him. Four figures were resting against a wall nearby, taking no interest in the clanking monster that was powering its way past them on the next stage of its journey on the Great Western Railway.

It was Madeleine Andrews’ favourite drawing, lithographed in colour to give it more character and definition. Her only regret was that she was not the artist. It was the work of John Cooke Bourne, a London lithographer, who had taken it upon himself to produce a series of illustrations for his
History and Description of the Great
Western Railway
. Some early copies had been available in 1843 but Madeleine had the main edition published three years later. It was a gift from Robert Colbeck, a spur to her own artistic ambitions and proof that she was not the only person in thrall to the railway system. Whenever she needed
encouragement in her own work at the easel, she invariably turned to the volume.

Caleb Andrews always reproached his daughter for spending so much time with her head in a book about a railway company that was a fierce rival of his own. He urged her to look at Bourne’s
Drawings of the London & Birmingham
Railway
because that company had been incorporated into the one for whom Andrews worked as a driver. Madeleine knew that his reprimands were half-hearted because she had often caught him studying the volume about Brunel’s railway. Bourne’s work was a remarkable record of its early development and she admired the accuracy of its detail every time. When she had finished scrutinising the lithograph, she turned to something that she always read before closing the book. It was the message that Colbeck had inscribed for her on the title page. His firm hand had expressed the hope that the book might serve to inspire her. Madeleine smiled. The very fact that he had bought it for her did that.

Sir David Pryde was a big, bluff, middle-aged man with a mop of sandy hair and a full beard. He reminded Colbeck of a businessman he had once prosecuted for embezzlement during his time at the bar. Pryde had the same booming voice and easy pomposity. He was not pleased with what his two visitors had told him.

‘Why bother me?’ he demanded. ‘You surely can’t think that I have anything to do with the theft of Winifred Tomkins’ infernal coffee pot? I have no interest in it at all.’

‘I understand that you recommended the silversmith,’ said Colbeck, ‘so we were bound to wonder why.’

‘Isn’t the answer obvious, Inspector? I felt that Voke had earned the kind word I put in for him. See for yourself,’ he urged, pointing to a large silver yacht that stood on the mantelpiece above the huge fireplace. ‘That’s only one of the things he made for me. Voke is a genuine craftsman and his prices are not as exorbitant as most London silversmiths.’

The three men were in the drawing room of the Pryde residence, a Regency mansion standing in its own estate. It was impossible to miss its owner’s connection with the sea. Model ships, boats and yachts stood on almost every surface in the room, turning it into a kind of naval museum. Pryde himself was evidently a sailor in his own right. Silver cups that he had won in yachting races occupied the remaining space on the mantelpiece.

Jeremiah Stockdale stood with his peaked cap under his arm.

‘When exactly did you make the recommendation, Sir David?’ he asked with elaborate respect. ‘Can you remember the date?’

‘What relevance has that got?’ rejoined the other.

‘It must have been some time ago. According to Mrs Tomkins, you and Lady Pryde are no longer regular guests at their home.’

‘It’s the other way around, Stockdale – not that it’s any of your business. Mr and Mrs Tomkins have ceased to be part of our circle.’

‘I find that surprising,’ said Stockdale, fishing gently.

‘I’m not interested in your reaction. It’s a private matter and will always remain so. Now, Inspector,’ he said,
confronting Colbeck. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me exactly why you came here?’

‘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.