The Silver Locomotive Mystery Page 14

  ‘I keep coming back to the name of Carys Evans,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ argued Stockdale, ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I reckon that Carys is far too ladylike to get tangled up in serious crimes.’

  ‘She’s not too ladylike to become someone else’s mistress and we know that she was actually in the hotel at the time of the murder.’

  ‘There may be an explanation for that, Inspector. Sir David Pryde is a major shareholder in this hotel. One of his perquisites is to have a room permanently reserved for any business associate who visits the town.’

  ‘Are you telling me that he and Miss Evans might have made use of that hotel room on the day in question?’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion.’

  ‘Would they be quite so blatant? Why risk being seen together in broad daylight when they could arrange a rendezvous after dark in a less public place? No, I fancy she was here for another purpose.’

  ‘It’s the question of motive that troubles me, Inspector.’

  ‘Miss Evans has expensive tastes,’ said Colbeck. ‘She loves silver above all else and, I suspect, would have no scruples about stealing that coffee pot in order to cause a flutter in the Tomkins household. Though she claims to be a friend of Winifred Tomkins, she is more than ready to ridicule her.’

  ‘The one thing that does support the theory,’ said Stockdale, reflectively, ‘is that Carys is eminently capable of luring a man into a hotel room simply by looking into his eyes. I can tell you that I would not need a second invitation from her.’

  ‘She is a very striking lady and that would incline me to absolve her of any real suspicion.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Carys Evans is a woman of quality. She moves among the elite here in Cardiff. If – for the sake of argument – we accept that the killer is Stephen Voke, then we encounter a problem. Would someone like Miss Evans concoct a plot with a young silversmith? How did she meet him? What would she see in such a person?’

  ‘You answered that question earlier, Inspector. She dotes on silver. Who better to woo her than a talented silversmith?’

  ‘But she already seems to have all that she needs.’

  ‘Women always want more,’ said Stockdale, cynically.

  ‘She seems to live very comfortably.’

  ‘Much of what you saw there was provided by her admirers. Sir David is only the latest to enjoy her favours. There have been others, squeezed for what she can get out of them and then discarded. I bow to none in my esteem for her,’ said the superintendent, ‘but I never forget that she is, in essence, a heartless predator.’

  ‘Is she capable of being party to a murder?’

  The question hung unanswered in the air. Archelaus Pugh came over to them with a letter in his hand. He gave it to Colbeck.

  ‘This has just arrived for you, Inspector,’ said Pugh.

  ‘Who brought it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, sir. It was simply tossed into the foyer.’

  As the manager withdrew, Colbeck opened the letter and read the message that was written in large capitals. It berated him for sending someone in place of Clifford Tomkins with the ransom money and gave strict instructions for a second exchange. When he had finished it, he passed it over to Stockdale.

  ‘Is it from the killer?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Colbeck. ‘He’s doubled the price of the coffee pot and insists that Mrs Tomkins hands over the money next time. As you can see from the taunts made to me, he – or she – knows exactly who I am and why I’m here. That will make things much more difficult.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Clifford and Winifred Tomkins had shared a frosty breakfast during which neither of them spoke. It was only when the plates had been cleared away that she finally broke the silence.

  ‘I must say that I find your attitude very hurtful, Clifford.’

  ‘I did not get where I am by throwing money away,’ he said, pompously. ‘I’ll not be duped a second time.’

  ‘How little you must care for my feelings!’ she complained.

  ‘Your well-being has been the major concern of our marriage.’

  ‘Then why do you turn against me now?’

  ‘I’m not turning against you,’ he said, trying to appease her with a flabby smile, ‘but you must see sense, Winifred. The thief has no intention of parting with the silver coffee pot. He simply wishes to grab as much money as he can from us. We’ve already had it dangled in front of our eyes once and you saw what happened.’

  ‘Yes,’ she rejoined, ‘Sergeant Leeming was assaulted because we did not comply with the instructions we were given. Had you handed over the money, you would almost certainly have been given that coffee pot in return.’

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘We must do as they tell us.’

  ‘Then we give up all hope of capturing these villains.’

  ‘I’m far more interested in retrieving my coffee pot than seeing anyone arrested,’ she admitted. ‘Just pay up and have done with it.’

  ‘Winifred,’ he scolded, ‘these people have committed a murder.’

  ‘That’s a separate matter and we can leave it to Inspector Colbeck to deal with that. We mustn’t confuse the issue. All that we need worry about is our stolen property.’

  ‘I think that you should forget all about it.’

  She was indignant. ‘I could never do that – Lady Pryde would mock me unmercifully.’

  ‘You no longer have anything to do with the woman.’

  ‘We have mutual friends, Clifford, and she would goad me through them somehow. Don’t you see? My social standing in the town is at stake. That coffee pot is not simply a memento of dear Father, it’s the one secure way of regaining my position here.’

  ‘That was never under threat, Winifred.’

  ‘I feel that it is.’

  The sound of the doorbell ended the conversation. Not used to visitors at that time of the morning, they wondered who it could be. It was not long before the butler came into the dining room.

  ‘Inspector Colbeck is here to see you,’ he announced.

  Her hopes rose. ‘Perhaps he has good news for us!’

  ‘Show the inspector into the drawing room, Glover,’ said Tomkins. ‘We’ll be there directly.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the butler, going out.

  ‘It may be that he’s made an arrest,’ said Winifred.

  ‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

  ‘Superintendent Stockdale’s men have been searching the whole town. They might have cornered the villains. Who knows? It may even be that the inspector has brought my coffee pot with him.’

  ‘I think you’re being far too optimistic.’

  ‘Why else should he come at this hour?’

  ‘Let’s go and find out,’ said Tomkins, ‘but don’t bank on hearing good news. That silver coffee pot is cursed.’

  ‘Don’t be nonsensical.’

  ‘It is, Winifred. It’s caused us nothing but trouble and my guess is that there’s a lot more to come.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  They went into the drawing room and found Robert Colbeck studying a portrait on the wall. To Winifred’s dismay, he had brought nothing with him. She looked up at the oil painting.

  ‘That’s my father,’ she said, proudly. ‘He was a far-sighted man. As soon as railways began to be built, he realised that they had a wonderful future ahead of them. He once brought Mr Brunel to the house. Father thought that he was a miracle-worker.’

  ‘I’d endorse that, Mrs Tomkins,’ said Colbeck. ‘When the notion of the Taff Vale Railway was first discussed, critics said that that it could never be constructed over such difficult terrain. Mr Brunel took up the challenge and made light of the problems.’

  ‘We know that, Inspector,’ said Tomkins. ‘When the line opened in 1841, I was able to transport iron and steel from Merthyr to Cardiff in less than an hour. Until then,
we’d had to rely on road and canal hauliers and they moved like snails.’

  ‘I’d be happy to discuss the topic in more detail with you, sir, but this is not the appropriate moment, alas.’ He took out the letter. ‘This was delivered to me at the hotel yesterday.’

  ‘Why to you and not us?’ demanded Winifred.

  ‘Because the person who sent it feared that this house might be under surveillance. Also, of course, he wanted to issue a warning.’

  She started. ‘He hasn’t threatened to destroy my coffee pot?’

  ‘No, Mrs Tomkins. The warning was aimed at me. I – and, by implication, Superintendent Stockdale – was ordered to keep out of the ransom negotiations altogether.’ He gave the letter to Tomkins. ‘See for yourself, sir. The instructions are for you and your wife alone.’

  Winifred was impatient. ‘What does it say? Let me see it.’

  ‘Give me chance to read it first,’ said her husband.

  ‘Do they still have my coffee pot?’

  ‘Yes,’ Colbeck told her, ‘but it comes at a price.’

  Tomkins was horror struck. ‘Double the cost,’ he yelled in disbelief. ‘They expect me to pay double the cost? That’s quite inconceivable. In all, it would mean paying three times the value of the item, plus the fifty pounds already paid to Mr Voke as a deposit.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Winifred, snatching the letter from him and reading it quickly. ‘At least, they do have it and they promise that they’ll hand it over next time.’ The conditions made her shiver. ‘They want me to make the exchange.’

  ‘Then it’s out of the question on two grounds,’ said Tomkins. ‘I would never part with the sum of money demanded and I refuse to let my wife imperil herself by handing it over.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Colbeck, flatly, ‘the thieves will simply vanish and try to find a buyer elsewhere. More to the point, our chance of catching them will disappear as well.’

  ‘You’re surely not advocating that we agree to their demands?’

  ‘I believe that you should consider doing so, sir.’

  ‘My wife could be bludgeoned to death, Inspector.’

  ‘If you read the letter again, Mr Tomkins, I think you’ll find there’s a firm promise that your wife will come to no harm. All that they want is the money.’

  ‘They can go to the devil!’

  ‘Clifford!’ said his wife, reproachfully.

  ‘I’ll not deal with blood-suckers.’

  ‘We have to think this through very carefully,’ she said, making a supreme effort to keep calm. ‘There has to be a way to get what we want out of this situation.’

  ‘Yes – we ignore this to start with,’ said Tomkins, grabbing the letter from her and scrunching it up into a ball. ‘Nobody is going to give me orders.’

  Colbeck extended a hand. ‘If you don’t want that, sir,’ he said, ‘then perhaps you’d give it to me. It’s a piece of valuable evidence. I’m sure that you noticed how different this was from the two earlier ransom notes. It’s written in block capitals. There has to be a reason for that.’

  ‘Take the damn thing!’ said Tomkins, thrusting it at him.

  ‘But we may need it, Clifford,’ cried his wife.

  ‘The whole matter is closed.’

  ‘I refuse to accept that.’

  ‘Winifred, the demands are beyond all reason.’

  ‘They are to you,’ she said, ‘so I suggest that you are no longer involved in the transaction. I have money of my own. Since you are too grudging even to consider paying for my coffee pot, then I may have to do so myself. Inspector,’ she added, holding out her palm. ‘May I have it back, please?’ Colbeck gave it to her and she unscrewed the paper. ‘I need to study this in private – do excuse me.’

  ‘Come back!’ ordered Tomkins as she waddled out of the room. He turned to Colbeck. ‘Do something, man. We can’t have my wife exposing herself to the kind of attack that the sergeant suffered.’

  ‘That’s a decision only Mrs Tomkins can take,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘You must talk her out of it.’

  ‘I would have thought that was your privilege, sir.’

  ‘Winifred can be very headstrong at times.’

  ‘She’s clearly determined to get her coffee pot back.’

  ‘But she’s taking an enormous risk going there alone.’

  ‘Mrs Tomkins won’t be alone,’ Colbeck reminded him. ‘She’s been told to travel by carriage so she’ll have a driver with her. That, I think, is where we can seize the advantage. If it were not for the fact that I am clearly known to them, I would suggest that I drove your wife. Instead, one of Superintendent Stockdale’s men can pose as the coachman. I’ll be concealed inside the carriage, ready to leap out when the exchange is made.’

  ‘The exchange is not going to take place,’ decreed Tomkins. ‘I refuse to allow it, Inspector. It’s up to you to catch these villains and reclaim my wife’s property. Don’t you have any idea who you’re up against here?’

  ‘We do, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Then why can’t you make an arrest?’

  ‘We have insufficient evidence, sir.’

  ‘A murder is committed, a man is robbed and Sergeant Leeming is knocked unconscious – how much evidence do you want?’

  ‘Two possible suspects have been identified.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ said Colbeck, ‘until we’re certain of our facts. As you know, we believe that we’re looking for a man and a woman. A detailed description of the man in question has been printed in the London newspapers. Sooner or later, someone is bound to come forward with the information that we need.’

  Edward Tallis was disappointed with the lack of response. In a city as large as London, he felt, there had to be somebody who could give him some indication as to the whereabouts of Stephen Voke. Yet a whole day had passed without anyone coming forward. While it had not linked Voke’s name with a murder in Cardiff, the newspaper report had stressed the Detective Department’s eagerness to make contact with him. Tallis had hoped that one of his former colleagues at Solomon Stern’s shop might be able to help him but none of them appeared at Scotland Yard. Nor could Leonard Voke provide any real guidance. Demanding his son’s immediate arrest, he confessed that he did not have the faintest idea where he might be. Stephen Voke had left no discernible trail behind him.

  It was not until the second morning that someone eventually answered the call. Claude Meyrick was a quiet, inoffensive, studious man of middle years with spectacles perched on a long nose and dark hair flecked with grey at the temples. Shown into the superintendent’s office, he explained that he had, until recently, been Stephen Voke’s landlord.

  ‘At last,’ said Tallis, rubbing his hands. ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘I can tell you that Mr Voke was an exemplary lodger. We were sorry to see him go. The only time my wife had to speak to him was when the tapping noise got out of hand.’

  ‘What tapping noise?’

  ‘He was a silversmith. He used a little hammer to fashion the silver into all manner of wondrous shapes. It was not a problem during the day but our other lodgers complained when he worked on into the night. Once my wife spoke to him,’ he went on, ‘Mr Voke apologised. It never happened again.’

  ‘How long was he living under your roof?’

  ‘It must have been five or six months, Superintendent. Then, out of the blue, he announced that he was leaving us.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Meyrick. ‘Mr Voke told us that he’d resigned from his employment so that he could strike out on his own.’

  ‘What – here in London?’

  ‘No, no, he said that there were already far too many jewellers and silversmiths here. Besides, his father was in the same profession.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tallis, heavily. ‘I’ve met Mr Voke. He and his son were not on the best of terms, it seems.’

  ‘According to young Mr
Voke, his father held him back and refused to pay him a proper wage. I don’t know the truth of the matter, sir, and I make it a rule never take sides in family disputes like that. It’s foolish to do so. Whenever Mr Voke talked about his father,’ Meyrick recalled, ‘I just nodded in agreement. My wife and I knew that he would not stay with us indefinitely.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He was an ambitious young man. He wanted to make a name for himself and he could never do that working for someone else.’

  ‘Did he ever mention a Hugh Kellow?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Meyrick, ‘that was a name that often came to his lips. He was quite bitter about him. He claimed that the worst thing his father ever did was to take on Mr Kellow as an apprentice.’

  ‘Would you say that your lodger was a vengeful man?’

  ‘Not vengeful, sir – just very determined to get what he felt were his just deserts in life. He was single-minded. I admired that.’

  Tallis sat back in his chair and tried to assimilate what he had just heard about Stephen Voke. The landlord took a much kinder view of him than Voke’s own father did but that was not difficult. Tallis could see that Claude Meyrick had a tolerant and uncritical attitude towards his fellow-men. Preferring to think well of people, he would not look too closely into their faults and foibles. The young man he had known had been a welcome tenant. Meyrick did not realise that Stephen Voke had been disinherited by his father and then had deserted his employer in Hatton Garden. Only the more appealing aspects of his lodger’s life and character had been revealed to him.

  ‘Did he have any friends?’ asked Tallis.

  ‘I assume that he did, Superintendent,’ said Meyrick, ‘because he often went out in the evenings.’

  ‘So he brought no young men to the house?’

  ‘None at all, sir – the only person who ever came for him was a young lady.’

  ‘Do you know her name?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. She never actually knocked on the door. She would simply appear on the pavement opposite and Mr Voke would go off with her. Female visitors are not allowed in our lodgers’ rooms,’ said Meyrick, sternly. ‘My wife is very particular on that score. Her father is a clergyman and inculcated the highest moral standards in her. My instincts accord with hers. It’s something that all our lodgers must accept if they wish to stay under our roof.’