Calamity awaited him. The safe had been full of cherished objects, made over the years with an amalgam of skill, patience and a craftsman’s love of his work. Every single one of them had vanished. While Voke had been lying in bed with his loaded musket, someone had entered the premises and robbed him of his most irreplaceable silverware. Brain swimming, he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.
CHAPTER FIVE
After an early breakfast, Victor Leeming bestowed a farewell kiss on his wife and two children and gave each of them a warm hug. He set off for another day’s work, uncertain if he would be returning home that night. His first port of call was the house in which Hugh Kellow had rented a room. When he found the address given him by Leonard Voke, he realised why the landlady would not have admitted him after dark. Mrs Jennings was embarrassingly nervous. She was a short, flat-faced, bosomy woman in her fifties with badly dyed hair and a look of permanent suspicion in her eyes. She questioned him on the doorstep for a long time before she agreed to let him into the house.
‘My husband is at home,’ she said, vibrating with tension, ‘and so are two of my lodgers.’
What she did not mention was the fact that her husband was a bedridden invalid or that the lodgers were elderly females. Leeming could see how edgy she was. Telling him that she was not alone was a means of warning him that help could be summoned in the event of any physical threat to her. His unbecoming features clearly worried the landlady. It was a three-storeyed terraced house in urgent need of repair and there was a prevailing mustiness. Mrs Jennings showed him into a cluttered room with fading wallpaper and a threadbare carpet. She invited him to sit down and he perched on a chair beside an enormous aspidistra. She sat opposite him.
‘What’s this about Mr Kellow?’ she asked, hands clasped tightly.
‘Perhaps your husband ought to be here as well,’ he suggested. ‘You may need his support.’
‘He’s busy at the moment, Sergeant Leeming.’
‘Is there someone else you’d like to be present?’
She began to tremble. ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid that it is.’
‘Something has happened to Mr Kellow – I knew it. He went off to Cardiff yesterday and never came back. I had supper waiting for him as usual but…’
Her voice trailed off and she brought out a handkerchief to stem the tears that were already forming. Leeming knew that he could not tell her the full truth because Mrs Jennings was not strong enough to cope with it. From the way that she mentioned her lodger’s name, it was clear that she was fond of Hugh Kellow. The sergeant had to be tactful.
‘He met with an accident, Mrs Jennings.’
‘Was he badly hurt?’
‘I’m afraid that he was killed.’
She gave a shudder and used the handkerchief to smother the cry that came from her lips. Swaying to and fro, she went off into a kind of trance, gazing at the ceiling and talking silently to herself. It was minutes before she remembered that she had company.
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘That was very rude of me.’
‘No apology is required, Mrs Jennings,’
‘I just can’t believe it. Mr Kellow was such a nice young man. He’s been with us for almost two years. He always paid the rent on time. We appreciated that, sir. He was so quiet,’ she went on, ‘and I can’t say that about all the lodgers we’ve had. He spent most of his time reading those books.’
‘What books would they be?’
‘Books about silver,’ she explained. ‘He showed them to me one day. They had wonderful drawings of things that we could never afford to buy – silver tableware and such like. It’s another world, Sergeant.’
‘I know,’ said the detective with feeling. ‘Only the rich can buy such things. I certainly can’t.’
‘It was strange, really – Mr Kellow said so himself. He was living here in a rented room yet he was making silver ornaments that might end up in the homes of the aristocracy.’
‘Did he talk much about his work?’
‘Not really, sir – he kept to himself most of the time. I always looked in Mr Voke’s window as I went past the shop in the hope of seeing him there. Mr Kellow waved to me once.’
‘What about Mr Voke’s son, Stephen? Was he mentioned at all?’
She brooded for a while. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘But he must have talked about his sister.’
‘Oh, he did. Effie was all he had in the world. They were close.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘No, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘The girl was in service and that meant she had very little spare time. Mr Kellow used to walk all the way to Mayfair to get a glimpse of her. They sometimes went to church together on a Sunday. He had hopes that one day he’d own a shop of his own and be able to employ his sister in it.’
‘Did he ever give you her address?’
She looked blank. ‘He had no need to.’
‘No, I suppose not. But, as you’ll understand, I’m anxious to find her. Effie Kellow is his next of kin. She needs to be told that he’s been…’ He stopped to rephrase what he was going to say. ‘…that he met with an unfortunate accident.’
‘My husband will be distraught when he hears,’ she said, blowing her nose into the handkerchief. ‘He’s not in the best of health. I don’t really know how to break it to him.’
‘I’d wait until you get used to the idea yourself, Mrs Jennings,’ advised Leeming. ‘I can see that it’s been a terrible shock for you.’
‘It has, Sergeant. It’s almost like losing a son.’
Tears which had threatened throughout suddenly came in a waterfall and Leeming could do nothing until she had cried her fill. He sat and watched helplessly. When she finally regained a modicum of composure, he rose from his seat and glanced upwards.
‘Could I possibly see Mr Kellow’s room?’ he enquired.
Mrs Jennings stiffened. ‘Why?’
‘It would be interesting to see where he lived.’
‘The room is cleaned regularly,’ she said, striking a defensive note. ‘I look after my lodgers, Sergeant. It’s the reason they stay with me for so long. I’m not like some landladies.’
‘Mr Kellow was obviously very happy here.’
Mollified by his comment, she got up, wiped away the last of her tears then led the way upstairs. Kellow’s room was on the top floor. It was surprisingly large and its window gave him a clear view of the street below. Unlike the room downstairs, it was sparsely furnished. Apart from the bed and a sagging wardrobe, there was only a table and an upright chair. On the table were a couple of well-thumbed books on the art of the silversmith and a notebook with a few sketches in it. When Leeming tried to open the door of the wardrobe, Mrs Jennings was affronted.
‘You can’t look in there,’ she chided. ‘It’s private.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll do so on my behalf, Mrs Jennings. I just wondered if there might be some letters from his sister that bore her address. Could you take a look, please?’
She rummaged reluctantly through every item in the wardrobe but there were no letters. Nor was there anything else to indicate where Effie Kellow lived. It troubled Leeming that she was still unaware of her brother’s fate. As he took a last look around the room, a wave of sadness splashed over him. The young silversmith had lived modestly yet been murdered in possession of a highly expensive coffee pot that he had helped to make. His talent had been his undoing. Now he would never be able to fulfil his ambition of owning his own premises and rescuing his sister from the drudgery of service.
‘Thank you, Mrs Jennings,’ he said. ‘I’ll let myself out.’
But she did not even hear him. The landlady had gone off into another trance, lost in happy memories of her former lodger and pressing one of his beloved books against her ample breasts as if it was imparting warmth and reassurance.
