The Silver Locomotive Mystery Page 10

  In defiance of its record of catastrophe, Macbeth was a huge success. There were none of the anticipated mishaps – no falling scenery, no actors taken ill onstage, no sudden failure of the gas footlights and no unfortunate accidents in the auditorium. Laughter was confined to the scene featuring the Porter. At all other times, the audience was in the grip of a searing tragedy. Nigel Buckmaster excelled himself, letting the poetry soar to its full height, committing a foul murder yet somehow managing to retain a degree of sympathy. Kate Linnane was the personification of evil, giving a performance of equal range, brilliance and intensity. The rest of the cast was competent but completely eclipsed by the two principals. When the curtain call was taken before rapturous applause, it was Macbeth and Lady Macbeth who occupied the centre of the stage, he bowing low and she dropping a graceful curtsey, both of them lapping up their due reward for minute after ecstatic minute. They had brought the spectators to their feet. In her costume as Lady Macduff, Laura Tremaine tried at one point to come forward but she was thwarted by Kate Linnane who simply stepped sideways, swished her dress and made the younger actress retreat back into anonymity. No other woman would be allowed to steal one moment of the leading lady’s glory.

  When the curtain finally fell, Buckmaster turned to blow a kiss of thanks to the entire cast. They dispersed happily to the dressing rooms. The actor-manager took the trouble to catch up with Laura.

  ‘Well done, Miss Tremaine!’ he congratulated. ‘I couldn’t fault you this evening.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied, excitedly.

  ‘Your Lady Macduff was a minor triumph.’

  Laura giggled with pleasure and went off with the others. Kate Linnane was less complimentary as she walked past Buckmaster.

  ‘A minor triumph!’ she said, acidly. ‘Miss Tremaine was a positive embarrassment. I’ve seen better Lady Macduffs in the ranks of amateurs!’

  ‘One has to offer encouragement,’ he said.

  ‘She should be encouraged off the stage altogether.’

  Flouncing off into her dressing room, she slammed the door behind her. Buckmaster knew better than to follow her.

  Jeremiah Stockdale joined them in their hotel room to report his findings and to review the situation. Colbeck had asked for a bottle of whisky and three glasses to be sent up. Resigned to spending at least one night in Cardiff, Leeming sipped his drink and confided his worries.

  ‘Do you think that someone should be looking after Miss Kellow?’ he said, concernedly. ‘Not one of us, of course,’ he went on. ‘That would be quite improper. But there must be a female member of staff whom the manager could recommend.’

  ‘I think she’s best left on her own, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘She’s very volatile at the moment. Company might unsettle her. She wants to be alone to mourn in private.’

  ‘When will she go back to London?’

  ‘That’s up to her but she won’t budge without her brother.’

  ‘The body is now with an undertaker,’ said Stockdale. ‘Tegwyn Rees has finished with it so it will be ready to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Then we may have to call on you, Superintendent. Somebody must accompany Miss Kellow back to London and Victor will be involved here. Could you spare a man to go with her?’ asked Colbeck. ‘It’s not right for a grieving sister to travel alone with her brother’s coffin. We have a duty of care here.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ said Stockdale. ‘I know just the man – Idris Roberts. He’s spent the whole day tramping around chemists’ shops so he’ll appreciate a job where he can sit down. Yes, and I’ll make sure that Idris is not in uniform,’ he decided. ‘We don’t want this girl to look as if she’s under arrest.’

  ‘Did Constable Roberts find anything of interest?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector. Some of the chemists would supply the most venomous poison to a total stranger but none would ever admit it. They all swore that nobody had bought sulphuric acid.’

  ‘Perhaps it was brought from London,’ said Leeming. ‘As I explained, I’m fairly certain the man we’re after is Stephen Voke.’

  ‘Then he must be here in Cardiff,’ said Colbeck.

  Stockdale ruffled his beard. ‘I thought you told us a delivery man had seen someone leaving by the rear exit around the time of the murder and hurrying off towards the station.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think that he was laying a false trail. The man with the large bag wanted to be seen heading that way. Had he left by the front entrance like every other guest, nobody would have thought it unusual enough to remember. Someone behaving suspiciously at the rear of the hotel, however,’ argued Colbeck, ‘was expecting to be noticed by someone.’

  Leeming had made up his mind. ‘Stephen Voke is still here and so is that coffee pot.’

  ‘Don’t forget the woman in the case, Victor.’

  ‘She must be the one seen waiting for young Mr Voke in Hatton Garden. The two of them are in this together. They plotted to steal that coffee pot then sell it back to the owner.’

  ‘They certainly didn’t try to get rid of it here,’ said Stockdale. ‘My men called on every jeweller and silversmith in Cardiff. None of them had been offered that coffee pot – not even Wlaetislaw Spiridion.’

  Leeming grinned. ‘He doesn’t sound very Welsh to me.’

  ‘This is a cosmopolitan place. Walk around Cardiff and you’ll bump into many nationalities. If you want a real Welsh town, you’ll have to go up the valleys.’

  ‘Let’s turn our minds to the morrow,’ said Colbeck, pensively. ‘Miss Kellow must be on the earliest possible train with Constable Roberts. I don’t think it’s good for her to spend too long in the hotel where her brother was killed. I’ll have to rely on you, Superintendent, to organise the release of the coffin.’

  ‘I’ll have it conveyed to the station and put into the guard’s van,’ said Stockdale. ‘Where must it be delivered in London?’

  ‘Mr Voke has volunteered to pay for the funeral,’ said Leeming. ‘If the coffin is taken to his shop in Wood Street – I’ll give you the address before you leave – then he can engage an undertaker and arrange the funeral service.’

  ‘What about the sister?’

  ‘I daresay she’ll go back to her workplace in Mayfair.’

  ‘Miss Kellow will be out of the way,’ said Colbeck. ‘As long as she stays here, she poses a problem. I suggest that you see her off at the station, Victor. I could see how much she trusted you.’

  ‘I wish that I could go back with her, sir.’

  ‘You’re needed here to hand over the ransom money.’

  ‘That’s worth staying for,’ said Leeming, lifted by the thought. ‘I like to be in the thick of things. And having seen what that villain did to Hugh Kellow, I want the chance to meet him face to face.’

  ‘I still think you should let me surround the Tomkins residence with my men,’ said Stockdale, anxious to be involved. ‘They can hide in the trees. When the killer delivers the second ransom note, we arrest him and force him to tell us where that coffee pot is kept.’

  ‘Always respect your opponent,’ warned Colbeck, ‘He or she is far too slippery to be caught so easily. Remember how much planning went into the exercise. Its success would never be sacrificed by a silly mistake like that. No,’ he continued, ‘my guess is that a total stranger is paid to deliver the second note. Your men would be arresting an innocent person, Superintendent.’

  ‘And they wouldn’t be able to tell you anything useful about the man who asked them to carry the message,’ said Leeming, ‘because they’d have no idea who he is. We had a case like this last year in London. The person who delivered the ransom note on that occasion was a child, picked at random off the street.’

  ‘I can see that I’d better leave it to you, Sergeant,’ said Stockdale. ‘As long as you promise that you’ll give the bastard one good punch from me.’

  ‘I will, Superintendent.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘What if, as I
fancy, you may be dealing with a young woman? You’re far too chivalrous to strike a member of the fair sex.’

  ‘I’ll clap handcuffs on her and make her lead us to Stephen Voke. He’s behind the whole thing. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘I agree with the inspector,’ said Stockdale, downing some whisky. ‘Only a very attractive woman could have tricked Mr Kellow into that hotel room. I think he was tempted by her blandishments. And that raises an interesting possibility.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mr Pugh happened to mention something to me when I arrived this evening. It may have nothing to do with the crime, of course, and the manager clearly thinks so. But it is an odd coincidence.’

  ‘Tell us more,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘Well, what you’re looking for is a beautiful woman who has a passion for silver. I know that because I’ve often seen her wearing it in some form or other. Around the time of the murder,’ Stockdale went on, ‘there was someone in this hotel fitting that description perfectly. The manager remembers seeing her leave.’

  ‘Who is she, Superintendent?’

  ‘Miss Carys Evans.’

  When the performance of Macbeth was over, Carys Evans mingled with the other guests at a reception given by the mayor and mayoress. Nigel Buckmaster and Kate Linnane joined them on behalf of the company, wallowing in the unstinting praise from all sides. Carys managed to speak to the actor-manager alone for a couple of minutes and he was clearly drawn to her. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of his leading lady, smiling benignly but unable to hide the proprietary glint in her eye. Carys observed that, when Lady Pryde cornered Buckmaster, Kate made no effort to intervene. An obese, waddling, over-dressed, middle-aged woman with a braying voice offered no threat.

  As the guests began to disperse, Carys thanked her hosts and withdrew. But she did not return to her cottage even though it was less than a hundred yards away. Instead, she got into a waiting chaise and was driven out of the town in the direction of Llandaff. It was a pleasant night for a drive with the moon conjuring trees out of the darkness. Largely hidden behind a copse, the house was near the cathedral. Gaslight burnt in the ground floor windows. When she let herself in, Carys was pleased to see that the fire in the drawing room had also been lit to ward off the evening chill. Wine and glasses stood on the table. Everything was in readiness. Slipping off her stole, she closed the curtains then settled down on the couch, arranging her crinoline with care. While she waited, she read through the theatre programme, reviving memories of a performance that had stirred her to the marrow. Nigel Buckmaster had been striking at close quarters but had been far more arresting onstage. It was a Macbeth to lodge in the brain for a long time. Kate Linnane, too, as his wife, had had some magnificent moments and Carys had also been moved by Laura Tremaine in the small part of Lady Macduff. The Porter, she felt, had been deliciously vulgar.

  It was almost an hour before someone let himself into the house and locked the door behind him. As he entered the drawing room, he was given a welcoming smile.

  ‘What have you brought me this time?’ she asked.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It had been a full day for Madeleine Andrews. She was up early to prepare breakfast and to make her father sandwiches to take to work. Once she had seen him off on his walk to Euston Station, she picked up a large basket and went off to do the first of her chores. She spent a couple of pleasant hours, haggling in the market, window-gazing among the shops, buying some artists’ materials and talking to friends and neighbours she encountered along the way. The afternoon was largely taken up with a visit to relatives in Chalk Farm, consoling her aunt over the recent death of a much-loved family pet and chatting with her uncle, a retired stationmaster, about her latest lithographs. It was not until early evening that Madeleine was finally able to do some work at her easel.

  By the time that her father returned home, she had a meal ready for him. Caleb Andrews followed a regular pattern. At the end of his working day, he liked to have a pint or two of beer in a public house frequented by railwaymen before strolling back to Camden. More often than not, he brought the day’s newspaper with him. His daughter therefore never got to read it until late evening. As he came into the house, he gave her his usual cheerful greeting before hanging up his coat and his hat. The newspaper remained folded up in his coat pocket.

  ‘Where have you been today?’ asked Madeleine.

  ‘Crewe was the farthest we went,’ he told her, ‘and we had an hour or more to look around. It’s a railway town in the best sense, Maddy. I really feel at home there. I wouldn’t mind living somewhere like that one day. Mind you,’ he went on with a chuckle, ‘the station does have one problem. If you’re not careful, you can trip over a severed head on the platform.’

  ‘That only happened once, Father.’

  ‘It pays to keep your eyes open in Crewe.’

  Madeleine understood the jocular reference. The previous year, a hatbox had burst open on the platform when a porter accidentally dropped a trunk on it. Out of the hatbox came a human head. The incident provoked a murder investigation led by Robert Colbeck and culminating in some arrests in the wake of the running of the Derby. Madeleine had been directly involved in the case, finding out vital information for Colbeck and being taken to Epsom on Derby Day by way of thanks. Unfortunately, it was different this time. She could not contribute. A new case had taken him across the Welsh border and excluded her in every way.

  ‘What about you, Maddy?’ asked Andrews. ‘What have you been doing all day?’

  ‘I’d like to say that I’ve been sitting down with my feet up,’ she replied, ‘but there was far too much to do.’

  ‘Did you get across to Chalk Farm?’

  ‘Yes, Father – Uncle Tom and Auntie Dolly send their love.’

  ‘Have they got over losing that mangy dog of theirs yet?’

  ‘Uncle Tom has but Auntie Dolly is still very upset. They had Chum for twelve years and he was like one of the family. Auntie Dolly says that she can’t sleep properly, knowing that Chum is not curled up at the foot of the bed.’

  Andrews wrinkled his nose. ‘It was unhealthy,’ he said with disgust, ‘having that smelly old dog in their bedroom at night. A kennel is the proper place for an animal like that. Chum should have been in the back yard, guarding the property, not snoring away on the bedroom carpet. Apart from anything else, Chum had fleas.’

  ‘His death distressed Auntie Dolly, that’s all I know.’

  ‘My sister should have had him put down years ago.’

  ‘Father!’

  ‘People get too sentimental about animals.’

  ‘You worshipped Blackie when we had him,’ she recalled.

  ‘Cats are different,’ he said. ‘They don’t wag their tails at you all the time and expect to share your bedroom. They’ve got self-respect and they know how to look after themselves. Blackie was easy to have around the house but a dog takes over your life.’

  Madeleine did not argue. Her father had a deep dislike of dogs, fuelled by the fact that he was often bothered by stray mongrels on his way to and from work. It explained why he so rarely visited his sister and brother-in-law in Chalk Farm. Now that Chum had passed away, Madeleine hoped, he might feel able to enter their house with a measure of enthusiasm.

  ‘Is there anything interesting in the paper today?’ she asked, glancing across at his coat.

  ‘Not really, Maddy,’ he answered. ‘I don’t know why I buy it sometimes. There’s another report about the Crimean War and that looks as if it might drag on for years. Oh, yes,’ he added, casually, ‘there was a brief mention of someone called the Railway Detective.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she scolded, hurrying across the room to pull the newspaper out of his coat pocket. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Very little – it’s barely a mention.’

  She opened the paper. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Turn over the page. It’s at the bottom.’

&nb
sp; Madeleine turned to the next page and ran her eye down the left-hand column. The item at the bottom was short but explicit. It informed its readers that Inspector Robert Colbeck had been called to the Railway Hotel in Cardiff to investigate the murder of a young man from London who had been on his way to deliver a silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive. It had been stolen. The victim’s name was not given but Madeleine nevertheless felt a surge of pity for him. She was also worried that the crimes might keep Colbeck away from London for some time. When her father had read the item, however, he had been less concerned about the fate of the victim. What interested him was the object that had been stolen.

  ‘A silver locomotive!’ he said with a whistle.

  ‘It’s supposed to be used as a coffee pot, Father.’

  ‘That would only tarnish the inside.’

  ‘It must have cost an absolute fortune,’ she observed.

  ‘I’m sure it did, Maddy – what a wonderful thing to own! I couldn’t bear to have a dog in the house but a silver locomotive is another matter altogether.’ He gave a cackle of delight. ‘Now that’s something that would stay at the foot of my bed at night – if not on the pillow beside me!’

  Expecting to find her still distraught, Colbeck was pleased to see that Effie Kellow was a little more composed on the following morning. She was clearly making an effort to be brave in the face of tragedy. Though small and almost frail, she seemed to have an instinct for survival. She and her brother, he reminded himself, had been orphaned at a young age yet had managed to find a life for themselves that had some promise on the horizon. Robbed of her brother and deprived of her dreams of escape from service, Effie somehow gave the impression that she would not surrender to the vicissitudes of Fate. There was a muted determination about her.

  She and Colbeck had breakfast together. While she was patently unaccustomed to eating in a hotel, she had regained her appetite and munched her food gratefully. Leeming joined them at their table, relieved to see that Effie was managing to control her anguish.