The Silver Locomotive Mystery (7 page)

‘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 which 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.’

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.

When they finally reached their destination, he got swiftly
onto the platform, one hand on his stomach to keep at bay the travel sickness that threatened. Effie followed him. To his amazement, she was ready to talk to him now.

‘Where are we going, Sergeant?’ she asked.

‘To the Railway Hotel,’ he replied.

‘Is that where Hugh…where it happened?’

‘Yes, Miss Kellow. It’s also where Inspector Colbeck is staying and you’ll need to speak to him before you’re allowed to see the body.’

She looked anxious. ‘He won’t try to stop me, will he?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Mr Dalrymple said I was entitled as next of kin.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Then why do I have to speak to Inspector Colbeck?’

‘He’s in charge of the investigation.’

‘Has he caught the man who killed my brother yet?’

‘I think that highly unlikely, Miss Kellow,’ said Leeming, ‘but we will certainly do so in the fullness of time. The inspector will leave no stone unturned to find the person we’re looking for.’

They joined the passengers thronging around the exit, the fierce hubbub making any further conversation difficult. Though he was barely ten years older, Leeming felt more like a parent to her and had a father’s reluctance to expose her to anything as unpleasant as viewing the corpse of a murder victim. Yet Effie had a kind of inner strength which had made her insist on coming to Cardiff and he hoped that it would sustain her through the ordeal.

‘Have you been to Wales before?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t been anywhere,’ she said, dully.

‘Where were you born?’

‘Watford – we moved to London when I was a child and I’ve been there ever since. Hugh was going to take me to Margate this year,’ she went on, brightening momentarily. Her face crumpled. ‘That won’t happen now. I’d always wanted to go to Margate.’

‘It sounds as if he really looked after you, Miss Kellow.’

‘Oh, he did, sir. Hugh was much more than a brother to me.’

Leeming wondered how she would cope without him. Her future was bleak. Effie Kellow seemed doomed to spend the rest of her life in service. With the death of her brother, her one real escape route had been blocked. For such an attractive woman, there was the possibility of marriage but it would only to be to someone on the same social level. The one consolation was that, according to her, Effie had a very considerate employer. Leeming knew of many cases where rapacious householders had taken advantage of female members of staff who had been forced to comply rather than risk dismissal. He was relieved that she had at least been spared that torment.

To the sergeant’s relief, Colbeck was at the hotel when they got there. It meant that Leeming no longer felt
in loco
parentis
. Colbeck was interested to meet Effie and he put her at ease immediately by agreeing to let her identify the body of her brother.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said, grasping his hand.

‘Sergeant Leeming will doubtless have warned you what to expect,’ he said, looking at his colleague. ‘The body was viewed by someone who travelled with your brother on the
train but I’m not sure how much credence can be placed on his identification.’

‘I’m the only person who ought to have seen Hugh.’

‘Granted, Mrs Kellow, but we had no means of getting in touch with you. Fortunately, the reward notice and newspaper report came to your attention.’

‘Can I see him now, sir?’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some refreshment first?’ offered Leeming. ‘It must be a long time since you’ve eaten and you must be hungry – I know that I am.’

‘I suggest a meal afterwards, Sergeant,’ said Colbeck.

Leeming read his meaningful glance. If she viewed the corpse on a full stomach, there was always the possibility that Effie Kellow would be violently sick. It had happened many times with other relatives of murder victims. Leeming mimed an apology to Colbeck.

‘Where is my brother?’ she asked.

‘We’ll take you to him at once,’ said Colbeck.

‘I
have
to see him, Inspector.’

‘I understand.’

‘It’s the only way to put my mind at rest.’

Leeming squirmed inwardly. He feared that the sight of her brother’s corpse would have exactly the opposite effect.

Clifford Tomkins had spent many years regretting his decision to marry Winifred Armitage. At the time, of course, she had seemed like a good catch, a handsome young woman from the landed gentry with a vivacity kept just inside the bounds of convention. Unlike any other female of his acquaintance, she had shown a sincere interest
in his work and been willing to live in Merthyr, the greatest iron town in the world, a noisy, dirty, over-crowded, rough and ready place that would have deterred many potential wives. She had produced five children, gaining weight and losing more of her dwindling appeal after each birth, and devoted herself to spending increasing amounts of his vast wealth. As he looked at her now, in the wild-eyed and bellicose state to which she reverted so easily, he could not believe that her beauty had ever ensnared him or that he had foolishly endured a lengthy and highly regulated betrothal in order to wed her.

‘I must have that coffee pot back, Clifford!’ she asserted.

‘You will, my dear,’ he soothed.

‘Otherwise, I’ll be the laughing-stock of Cardiff.’

‘Nobody will laugh at a brutal murder.’

‘They all knew how much store I set by it. How they must be rejoicing now! Lady Pryde will be cackling, Carys Evans will be clapping her hands and the rest of them will be taking immense pleasure out of my misfortune.’

‘You do them wrong, Winifred,’ he told her. ‘Your friends will have genuine sympathy for you. Lady Pryde might wrest some cruel enjoyment out of your predicament, perhaps, but Carys and the others will all feel sorry. They know how much that coffee pot meant to you.’

‘There’d be nothing else like it in the whole of Wales.’

‘You always did have a sense of originality, my dear.’

He gave a noncommittal smile. They were in the drawing room of their house and Tomkins was forced to listen to yet another outburst of self-pity from his wife. A silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive struck him as a rather bizarre
and totally unnecessary object to commission, especially at such a high price. But it was an opinion he would never dare to vouchsafe to his wife.

‘We must put our trust in this Inspector Colbeck,’ he resumed.

‘I’m not sure that I can, Clifford.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I don’t have much faith in a man who doesn’t even bother to call on us. If he is in charge of the investigation, it was his duty to inform us in person of the loss we sustained. Instead of doing so, he sent that oaf, Superintendent Stockdale.’

‘Be fair to the man,’ said Tomkins, remembering the occasion when Stockdale’s discretion had saved him from being exposed as a client of a certain brothel in the town. ‘The superintendent is no oaf. He does a difficult job very well even if he is somewhat heavy-handed at times.’

‘He let us down,’ she accused.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘The crime occurred not long after noon yet it was
hours
before we were told about it. We should have been contacted at once.’

‘You can understand the delay, my dear. Stockdale had a murder on his hands. That took precedence over the theft. He was probably waiting for Inspector Colbeck to arrive before he took any major decision.’

She was enraged. ‘Whose side are you on?’

‘It’s not a question of sides, Winifred.’

‘Then why are you defending the superintendent?’

‘I’m defending nobody, my dear.’

‘You’re the one person I felt I
could
rely on,’ she said, hotly. ‘When my property was stolen, I should have been told instantly.’

‘I quite agree,’ he said, choosing dishonesty as a means of appeasing her. ‘I’ll make that point to Stockdale when I see him.’

‘Inspector Colbeck is the person we ought to be seeing. Out of common courtesy, he should have been in touch with us.’ She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Does he know who we
are
?’

He swelled with pride. ‘Everyone in South Wales knows who we are, Winifred,’ he boasted. ‘As for the inspector, we must bear in mind what Stockdale said of him. He comes with an excellent reputation for solving crimes.’

‘I haven’t been impressed with what he’s done do far. According to him, someone would be trying to sell that coffee pot back to us. I believed him at first,’ she said, ‘but I think it’s an absurd idea now. My fear is that the coffee pot is no longer even in Cardiff.’

‘We’ll get it back somehow, my dear.’

‘Will we?’

‘If all else fails, I’ll commission another one.’

‘That would take
ages
, Clifford. I want it now.’

‘Then you’ll simply have to keep your fingers crossed.’

Before she could reply, she was interrupted by a tap on the door. It opened to reveal the butler who came into the room with something on a silver salver.

‘This just arrived for you, Mr Tomkins,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Glover – rather late for any mail, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not franked, sir,’ said the butler as Tomkins took the
envelope. ‘Someone put it through the letterbox and slipped away unseen. I just found it there.’

‘I see. That will be all.’

The butler nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. Tomkins, meanwhile, opened the letter. He blenched when he read it.

‘What is it?’ demanded his wife.

‘It’s a ransom demand,’ he gulped. ‘Inspector Colbeck was right.’

Since there was no mortuary in the town, the dead body was kept in a cold, dank cellar that helped to delay decomposition slightly. Herbs had been scattered to combat the stench of death. An oil lamp hung from a beam, casting a circle of light around the slab. Colbeck was glad to have the body identified by a family member and grateful that Dr Rees had cleaned the scalp wound and wiped away the blood from the corpse. It was no longer as gruesome a sight as it had been. How Effie Kellow would respond, he did not know but he and Leeming stood either side of her as a precautionary measure. They left it to Rees to draw back the shroud. As soon as the dead man’s face came into view, Effie needed only a second to confirm that it was her brother. Staring in horror, she reached out to touch the corpse tenderly on the shoulder and seemed to be on the point of leaning forward to plant a farewell kiss on her brother’s forehead. Changing her mind, she averted her eyes. Effie clearly needed time to recover. Colbeck waited a full minute before speaking.

‘I’m sorry we had to put you through that,’ he said.

‘It’s Hugh,’ she said, chewing her lip. ‘It’s my brother.’

‘Let’s get you out of here, Miss Kellow.’

‘Who could have
done
such a terrible a thing?’

‘We’ll find his killer, I guarantee it.’

‘It’s so unfair – Hugh wouldn’t have harmed a fly.’

Colbeck wanted to ask her if she could suggest any reason why her brother had been in that particular hotel in the first place but it was obviously the wrong moment to do so. Effie, in any case, had gone off in a private world, her face contorted with grief and her head moving to and fro. A flood of tears then came. Colbeck was ready for them, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to give her and placing a gentle arm around her shoulder by way of comfort. He was moved by the sheer hopelessness of her situation.

‘Miss Kellow can’t return to London in this condition,’ he told Leeming. ‘We’ll have to find a room for her at the hotel.’

The first night of
Macbeth
was a glittering occasion. The cream of Cardiff society converged on the Theatre Royal in its finery. Carriages of every description arrived in an endless procession to drop off those attending the opening performance. The mayor and mayoress were among the first to arrive, the one wearing his chain of office and the other in a blue silk taffeta dress that would not have been out of place in the presence of royalty. A small knot of people had gathered to watch their social superiors, marvelling at the elegant men and the bejewelled ladies arriving in waves. There was so much colour, action and affectation on show that it seemed as if a drama was being enacted outside the theatre as well as upon its stage.

Sir David and Lady Pryde descended from their phaeton with aristocratic poise, ignoring the watching hoi polloi before sweeping in through the portals of the theatre. Swathed in a black and cerise silk dress that accentuated, rather than concealed, her bulk, Martha Pryde wore a silver tiara and flicked an ivory fan ostentatiously beneath her double chin. She was a hefty woman in her fifties with an arrogant strut. As she and her husband were shown to their seats, her beady eyes scanned the whole auditorium.

‘She’s not here,’ she said, gleefully.

‘What’s that?’ asked her husband.

‘Winifred Tomkins is not here. She can’t face us now that her outlandish coffee pot has been stolen. I know that she was invited but I can’t see her anywhere. Can you, David?’

‘I haven’t really looked.’

‘Well, look now. I can’t believe that I’ve missed her.’