The Silver Locomotive Mystery irc-6 Read online

  ‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘but his stock may be at risk. Since he was given the important task of delivering that coffee pot, Hugh Kellow was obviously a trusted employee. He would almost certainly have had keys to the silversmith’s premises. Tell Mr Voke that they are missing.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Madeleine Andrews was so engrossed in studying her sketchbook that she did not even hear the familiar footsteps on the pavement outside the little house in Camden. When her father let himself in, therefore, she looked up in alarm as if an intruder had just burst upon her. She smiled with relief at the sight of Caleb Andrews, back home from another day as a driver on the London and North West Railway.

  ‘You took me by surprise, Father,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not often I do that, Maddie,’ he said, taking off his coat and cap before hanging them on the back of the door. ‘In any case, I’m the one who should be surprised. I was expecting to find the place empty. You were going out with Inspector Colbeck this evening.’

  ‘Robert sent a note to cancel the arrangement.’

  ‘Did he give a reason?’

  ‘He had to go to Cardiff at short notice.’

  ‘That means the Great Western Railway,’ said Andrews with a sneer, ‘and Brunel’s Great Big Mistake of installing a broad gauge. If only he’d had the sense to use a standard gauge on his track, life would be so much simpler for all of us.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the only way, Maddie.’

  ‘Mr Brunel would argue that the LNWR and other companies were at fault when they chose a narrower gauge. If everyone else had fallen into line behind him, there’d be no argument.’

  ‘Stop provoking me.’

  ‘I was trying to see it from his point of view.’

  ‘In this house,’ he declared, stamping a foot, ‘Isambard Kingdom Brunel doesn’t have a point of view. I work for a rival company.’

  ‘Then I won’t show you this,’ she said, closing her sketchbook.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A sketch I made of a locomotive in the Firefly class.’

  ‘That’s one of Daniel Gooch’s designs,’ he said with grudging admiration. ‘It’s a good, reliable engine and it’s stayed in service. The train that took Inspector Colbeck to Wales might even have been from the Firefly class. You should be drawing our locomotives,’ he added with sudden petulance, ‘not those of our competitors.’

  ‘I draw what catches my eye, Father.’

  Putting her sketchbook aside, she got up and went into the kitchen to set out their supper on the table. She was disappointed that Robert Colbeck was unable to see her that evening but she was accustomed to such last-minute changes of plan. He worked long and uncertain hours at Scotland Yard. Close friendship with the Railway Detective meant that she had to tolerate his sudden departures and unforeseen commitments. Madeleine had her work to console her. It was Colbeck who had discovered her artistic talent and encouraged her to develop it to the point where it began to have commercial value. Not for her the tranquil landscapes and dainty water colours of other female artists. Her subject was the railway system and in her father, who had spent a whole working life on it, and Robert Colbeck, who was its devotee, she had two continual sources of inspiration.

  When he drifted into the kitchen, Andrews was smoking his pipe. He was a short, sinewy man in his fifties with a wispy beard salted with grey. His workmates knew him for his irascibility but he tended to mellow when at home. Since the death of his wife, his daughter had taken care of him, feeding him, nurturing him and keeping him from despair. As he watched her now, bending over the table, he was reminded so vividly of his wife that his eyes moistened. Madeleine had the same quietly attractive features, the same clear complexion and the same auburn hair. He had to remind himself how different they really were in character. Madeleine was far more gifted, more assertive and more self-possessed. She could set her sights on something higher than being the wife of a railwayman.

  Halfway through the meal, Andrews broached the topic.

  ‘Has the Inspector said anything?’ he asked, gently.

  ‘Robert has said lots of things. He’s very talkative.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Maddie.’

  ‘I’m sure that I don’t,’ she said, briskly, reaching for her teacup. ‘What sort of a day have you had?’

  ‘The kind of day that I always have,’ he replied. ‘It was long and tiring. Now don’t try to avoid the question.’

  ‘I’m avoiding nothing, Father.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Eat your food.’

  ‘I’m waiting for an answer.’

  ‘Robert and I are good friends.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  ‘Then why don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Because you’ve been saying it for years now, Maddie,’ he went on. ‘People are beginning to pass remarks about the two of you.’

  ‘Well, they’d better not do so to my face,’ she warned with a show of temper worthy of her father, ‘or they’ll get more than they bargained for! I’m surprised you listen to worthless tittle-tattle.’

  ‘They’re bound to wonder – and so am I.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Robert and I have an understanding,’ she explained, trying to rein in her irritation. ‘You need have no fears about him, I promise you. He’s a perfect gentleman.’

  Andrews gave her time to calm down. There was an obvious bond between Colbeck and his daughter but it vexed him that he did not comprehend its true nature. In the normal course of events, an engine driver’s daughter would never have the opportunity to befriend a detective inspector, especially one who had enjoyed a career as a barrister before joining the Metropolitan Police Force. All three of them had been thrown together by a dramatic turn of events. During a daring robbery of a train that Andrews had been driving, he had been badly injured and there had been a string of related crimes. Colbeck had not only solved them, he had rescued Madeleine when she was abducted by the men responsible for the robbery in which her father had almost died. Drawn together by adversity, Colbeck and Madeleine had something far more than a friendship yet somewhat less than a formal betrothal. While she was happy to accept the situation for what it was, her father was not. He waited until the meal was over before he returned to the delicate subject.

  ‘I’m your father, Maddie,’ he said, softly. ‘It’s my duty to look after you. I know that you look after me most of the time,’ he went on with a chortle, ‘but this is different. I have a responsibility.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, father. You can rest easy.’

  ‘You don’t want to be stuck here with me forever.’

  ‘I’ll do what I feel is right.’

  Andrews was tentative. ‘Is it to do with his job?’ he wondered. ‘I know that it’s dangerous work and that he has to work even longer hours than I do. Perhaps he thinks it would be unfair on you to ask you to be his –—’

  ‘That’s enough,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘I don’t wish to end the day with an argument.’

  ‘I’m not arguing, Maddie. I have your best interests at heart.’

  She heaved a sighed. ‘I know, Father.’

  ‘I’m bound to feel uneasy at the way things are.’

  ‘Well, you have no cause.’ She got up and cleared away the dishes before turning to face him. Folding her arms, she weighed her words with care. ‘All I can tell you is this – and it’s strictly for your ears only. I don’t want any more gossip about us.’

  ‘I’ll be as silent as the grave,’ he promised.

  ‘You must be, Father. If you keep prying, you’ll upset Robert as well as me. As I’ve told you a dozen times,’ she went on, ‘we’re close friends but there’s a point beyond which our friendship never goes. He hasn’t put it into words but I sense there’s some kind of obstruction. It’s to do with his past.’

  ‘You mean that he’s already married?’ said Andrews, worriedly.
‘I won’t have any man trifling with your affections, Maddie, however high and mighty he might be,’

  ‘He’s not married and he never has been. And Robert is certainly not leading me astray. But there was someone in his past and, every so often, that person comes into his mind. At least, that’s what I think. It’s the only way to explain them.’

  ‘Explain what?’

  ‘Those odd moments,’ she said, pursing her lips, ‘when he seems to be in mourning for someone.’

  The passage of time had not served to calm down Archelaus Pugh. When Colbeck spoke to the manager in his office, Pugh was still in a state of shock, body tense, face pallid, his Welsh lilt exploring higher octaves.

  ‘This could be the ruination of us, Inspector,’ he said, dabbing at the perspiration on his brow with a handkerchief. ‘The hotel has not long been opened. Murder is bound to affect our business.’

  ‘Temporarily perhaps,’ said Colbeck. ‘The important thing is to solve the crime as soon as possible so that it does not remain at the forefront of the public’s mind. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve sanctioned the removal of the body.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’

  ‘I’d recommend that you keep that room unoccupied for a while.’

  Pugh gave a hollow laugh. ‘Who’d want to stay there?’

  ‘I think you’d be surprised, sir. Never underestimate the ghoulish curiosity of some people. Now,’ he went on, ‘I need some details from you. When was that particular room reserved?’

  ‘This very morning, Inspector,’ replied the manager. ‘Mr Jones, who was on duty at the time, believes that it was around ten o’clock. The room was booked for one night by a Mr Hugh Kellow.’

  ‘Except that it couldn’t have been the real Mr Kellow because his train did not arrive in Cardiff until almost an hour later. The man was patently an impostor.’

  Pugh was defensive. ‘Mr Jones was not to know that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Colbeck. ‘He acted in good faith. What can he tell us about this bogus Mr Kellow?’

  ‘Very little, I fear,’ said Pugh. ‘He’s an observant man – I teach all my staff to be alert – but other guests were arriving at the same time. All that Mr Jones can remember is that he was a personable young man with a ready smile.’

  ‘Did he have a Welsh or an English accent?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘Was it an educated voice?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We don’t cater for riffraff here. It’s one of the reasons I moved to Cardiff from a hotel in Merthyr. We had to cope with a lower class of person there at times.’

  ‘Did Mr Jones notice if the man was carrying any luggage?’

  ‘He had a large bag with him, Inspector.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘He signed his name in the register and was shown up to his room. About half an hour later, this so-called Mr Kellow was seen to leave the hotel by the front door.’

  ‘Did anyone see him returning?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, Inspector,’ said Pugh. ‘He might have come in through the rear entrance, of course, or even slipped in during the rush. The London train brought in a number of guests so there was a small crowd at the desk for a while.’

  ‘When did you become aware of a problem?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘It must have been a little after noon. A Mrs Anstey, one of the guests, happened to be passing the room in question when she heard clear sounds of distress as if someone was calling for help. She came to report the incident and I went upstairs to investigate.’ He gave a low gurgle. ‘I think you know the rest.’

  ‘I do, Mr Pugh. What you’ve told me is very helpful. It’s in accord with my early suspicions.’ He sat back and studied the manager with interest. ‘You come from Merthyr Tydfil then?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ Pugh told him, pocketing the handkerchief. ‘I was born and brought up there. It’s a dirty, brawling, boisterous industrial town with a lot of immigrants – Irish, Spanish and Italian, mostly. Merthyr was always far bigger than Cardiff. Indeed, until recent years, Cardiff couldn’t hold a candle to Merthyr, Swansea or Newport. It was a sort of poor relation.’

  ‘Things have certainly changed. It’s a thriving coal port now. Superintendent Stockdale was telling me how the population has trebled in the time he’s been living here. Inevitably,’ said Colbeck with a shrug, ‘it’s meant a sharp increase in the amount of crime.’

  Pugh was rueful. ‘The worst excesses occur in Butetown – that’s the dockland area. It’s a vile place, filled with the dross of humanity who believe they were put on this earth to do nothing but drink, fight, gamble and enjoy carnal pleasures in sordid dens of wickedness. You’ll not want to be in Butetown when foreign ships come in,’ he warned. ‘It’s like hell on earth. You’d expect a murder there but not,’ he continued, spreading his arms wide, ‘in a respectable hotel like this. Oh, Inspector, please tell me that you’ll be able to catch the villain who inflicted this horror upon us.’

  Colbeck was confident. ‘I think I can guarantee it, Mr Pugh.’

  Jeremiah Stockdale was not looking forward to the visit. Being the bearer of bad news always made him feel uncomfortable. Since the bad news had to be passed on to Clifford Tomkins and his wife, Stockdale had reason to be even more uneasy. He steeled himself to bear the onslaught of anger, bitterness and criticism that was bound to come. Winifred Tomkins, a plump, pampered middle-aged woman, dripping with expensive jewellery, led the attack. No sooner had he given them the salient details of the crime than she pounced.

  ‘My coffee pot has been stolen!’ she cried, outrage making her already bulbous eyes move even further out of their sockets. ‘How on earth could you let this happen, Superintendent?’

  ‘I think it’s unfair to blame me, Mrs Tomkins,’ said Stockdale, stoutly. ‘Neither I nor my men were engaged to guard the item.’

  ‘Well, you should have been.’

  ‘This is most distressing,’ said Tomkins, oozing disapproval. ‘Do you know how much that coffee pot cost?’

  ‘Yes, sir – I’ve seen the invoice.’

  ‘Then you’ll have noticed that I had already paid fifty pounds deposit. Money does not grow on trees, you know.’

  Stockdale was about to point out that, in a sense, it did. The ironmaster had cultivated a small forest out of the blood, sweat and early deaths of the poor wretches who toiled in his ironworks, leaving him to pluck metaphorical banknotes from every branch. The vast neo-Gothic residence that Tomkins had had built on the outskirts of Cardiff bore testimony to his wealth and the drawing room in which they were now standing was awash with Regency furniture, silver ornaments and gilt-framed portraits. Forthright on most occasions, Stockdale held his tongue. There was no virtue in alienating them even more.

  ‘I want that coffee pot back!’ insisted Winifred.

  ‘An investigation has already been set in motion,’ said the visitor, ‘but please bear in mind that the theft was only a secondary crime. Cold-blooded murder was committed in that hotel.’

  ‘That’s immaterial.’

  ‘Not in my view.’

  ‘Nor in mine,’ said Tomkins, reasonably. ‘I know that you’re upset, my dear, but the fate of that young man compels attention. It’s a dreadful thing to happen to him.’

  Winifred was dismissive. ‘He’s beyond help,’ she said, waving a hand, ‘so let’s not waste time on him. After all, he was only the silversmith’s assistant. I shall be writing to Mr Voke to ask him why he didn’t take more steps to ensure the safety of my coffee pot.’

  She continued to complain loudly and to upbraid Stockdale as if he had been the thief. He weathered the storm and collected an apologetic glance from Tomkins as he did so. Though he disliked the man intensely, Stockdale had compassion for any husband wedded to such a garrulous termagant. Clifford Tomkins was a tall, skinny, straight-backed man in his sixties with a mane of silver hair that reinforced his air of distinction. Callous to the point of brutality as a captain of industry
, he was more restrained in a domestic setting. Over the years, his cheeks had been reddened by heavy drinking and hollowed by a dissipation about which his wife knew absolutely nothing. Stockdale, however, had his true measure, having once caught the old man in a compromising position during a raid on one of Cardiff’s more exclusive brothels.

  ‘Thank you, Winifred,’ said Tomkins when his wife’s tirade finally came to an end. ‘Now let’s hear what the superintendent is doing to solve these appalling crimes.’

  ‘I’ve done the most sensible thing possible, sir,’ explained Stockdale. ‘Since the crimes occurred on the property of the South Wales Railway, I advised the managing director to send for Detective Inspector Colbeck of the Metropolitan Police Force.’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that, man?’

  ‘I can see that you’re not familiar with his reputation. The inspector has dealt with crimes relating to the railway system all over the country. His record of success is unparalleled. I’ve worked beside him so I know what a brilliant detective he is.’

  ‘Can he recover my coffee pot?’ challenged Winifred, eyes at the extremity of their bulge. ‘That’s what I wish to know.’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck is certain of it. No pawnbroker would touch an object as distinctive as that and I venture to suggest that there are very few ladies with your abiding interest in locomotives.’

  ‘Years ago,’ she announced, grandly, ‘my father was a major investor in the Great Western Railway. I inherited his passion for trains. I always preferred to play with my brother’s toy engine rather than with my dolls. It was partly in memory of my late father that I wanted that silver coffee pot made and my husband was kind enough to commission it.’

  ‘Mr Voke was highly recommended,’ added Tomkins, ‘so we put our trust in him. He sent us a series of sketches and my wife chose the one that she wanted. We didn’t want to buy a pig in a poke.’

  ‘Do you still have the sketch, sir?’ asked Stockdale. ‘It would be helpful to know exactly what we’re looking for.’

  ‘It’s in the library, Superintendent. I’ll get it for you.’