The Silver Locomotive Mystery

lived our lives in different ways. What I had to offer here was not enough for him. He sought excitement elsewhere.’ The lines in his brow deepened. ‘And you say that he left Hatton Garden?’

‘I spoke to Mr Stern himself,’ said Leeming.

‘I’ll be too embarrassed to do that myself. Sol was a good friend until this happened. He’s a hard task master and I thought he might do a certain person some good. How can I look Sol Stern in the face now this has happened? I told you,’ he said, mournfully, ‘I’m ruined.’

The two detectives did their best to console him but he was beyond help. After some futile attempts to get useful information out of him, Tallis decided that it was time to leave.

‘We’re wasting our time here, Sergeant,’ he said as they left the building. ‘We’ll have to find Stephen Voke without his father’s help.’

‘Somebody must know where he is,’ observed Leeming.

‘We’re not just looking for him, I fancy. My instinct tells me that there’s a woman involved here as well. Did you get a description of Stephen Voke from his employer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then it needs to be given to the newspapers,’ said Tallis with rancour. ‘It’s high time the press actually did us some good for a change instead of just sneering at our efforts.’

The locomotive belonged to the Firefly class. It emerged from the tunnel with clouds of thick, dark, acrid smoke billowing in its wake. Legs braced, the driver stood on the footplate and stared at the line ahead. His fireman was reaching into the tender for more coal to feed into the firebox. A railway policeman in top hat and frock coat stood near the opening of the tunnel, right arm outstretched to signal the ‘all clear.’ His dog waited obediently beside him. Four figures were resting against a wall nearby, taking no interest in the clanking monster that was powering its way past them on the next stage of its journey on the Great Western Railway.

It was Madeleine Andrews’ favourite drawing, lithographed in colour to give it more character and definition. Her only regret was that she was not the artist. It was the work of John Cooke Bourne, a London lithographer, who had taken it upon himself to produce a series of illustrations for his History and Description of the Great Western Railway. Some early copies had been available in 1843 but Madeleine had the main edition published three years later. It was a gift from Robert Colbeck, a spur to her own artistic ambitions and proof that she was not the only person in thrall to the railway system. Whenever she needed encouragement in her own work at the easel, she invariably turned to the volume.

Caleb Andrews always reproached his daughter for spending so much time with her head in a book about a railway company that was a fierce rival of his own. He urged her to look at Bourne’s Drawings of the London & Birmingham Railway because that company had been incorporated into the one for whom Andrews worked as a driver. Madeleine knew that his reprimands were half-hearted because she had often caught him studying the volume about Brunel’s railway. Bourne’s work was a remarkable record of its early development and she admired the accuracy of its detail every time. When she had finished scrutinising the lithograph, she turned to something that she always read before closing the book. It was the message that Colbeck had inscribed for her on the title page. His firm hand had expressed the hope that the book might serve to inspire her. Madeleine smiled. The very fact that he had bought it for her did that.

Sir David Pryde was a big, bluff, middle-aged man with a mop of sandy hair and a full beard. He reminded Colbeck of a businessman he had once prosecuted for embezzlement during his time at the bar. Pryde had the same booming voice and easy pomposity. He was not pleased with what his two visitors had told him.

‘Why bother me?’ he demanded. ‘You surely can’t think that I have anything to do with the theft of Winifred Tomkins’ infernal coffee pot? I have no interest in it at all.’

‘I understand that you recommended the silversmith,’ said Colbeck, ‘so we were bound to wonder why.’

‘Isn’t the answer obvious, Inspector? I felt that Voke had earned the kind word I put in for him. See for yourself,’ he urged, pointing to a large silver yacht that stood on the mantelpiece above the huge fireplace. ‘That’s only one of the things he made for me. Voke is a genuine craftsman and his prices are not as exorbitant as most London silversmiths.’

The three men were in the drawing room of the Pryde residence, a Regency mansion standing in its own estate. It was impossible to miss its owner’s connection with the sea. Model ships, boats and yachts stood on almost every surface in the room, turning it into a kind of naval museum. Pryde himself was evidently a sailor in his own right. Silver cups that he had won in yachting races occupied the remaining space on the mantelpiece.

Jeremiah Stockdale stood with his peaked cap under his arm.

‘When exactly did you make the recommendation, Sir David?’ he asked with elaborate respect. ‘Can you remember the date?’

‘What relevance has that got?’ rejoined the other.

‘It must have been some time ago. According to Mrs Tomkins, you and Lady Pryde are no longer regular guests at their home.’

‘It’s the other way around, Stockdale – not that it’s any of your business. Mr and Mrs Tomkins have ceased to be part of our circle.’

‘I find that surprising,’ said Stockdale, fishing gently.

‘I’m not interested in your reaction. It’s a private matter and will always remain so. Now, Inspector,’ he said, confronting Colbeck. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me exactly why you came here?’

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Colbeck. ‘I wish to speak to anyone who was aware that the coffee pot locomotive had been commissioned by Mrs Tomkins.’

Pryde laughed harshly. ‘Then you’d better speak to half the people in Cardiff,’ he advised, ‘because they all heard her bragging about it. Winifred Tomkins is a woman with a compulsion to impress all and sundry.’

‘Several people may have heard about it, Sir David,’ said Stockdale, ‘but very few knew when it would be delivered. Mrs Tomkins said that you and Lady Pryde were among them.’

‘The devil she did!’ snorted Pryde. ‘You should have known better than to listen to her, Stockdale. Winifred is just trying to stir up trouble. That’s typical of the woman.’

‘Did you know that the item was being delivered yesterday, Sir David?’ asked Colbeck, levelly.

‘No, I did not.’

‘What about Lady Pryde?’

‘I can’t speak for my wife,’ said Pryde after some hesitation. ‘It is conceivable that she’d been given that information but she most certainly did not commit a murder in order to lay her hands on the silver coffee pot. That’s a preposterous notion.’

‘I’m sure that it is,’ agreed Colbeck. ‘I just wondered if you or Lady Pryde happened, in an unguarded moment – and I mean this as no criticism of either of you – to have mentioned details of its arrival to anyone else.’

‘My wife and I do not consort with criminals, Inspector.’

‘That’s not what I’m suggesting. In a public place, you may have been overheard, that’s all I’m saying. Such information patently got into the wrong hands.’

‘Well, neither I nor my wife put it there.’

‘Lady Pryde does have a large circle,’ noted Stockdale.

‘If you mean that she’s involved in many charities and sits on several committees, then you’re right. But we are very selective about whom we allow into our home and it is only in the ears of close friends that comments about the silver coffee pot would be made.’

‘It is a highly unusual item,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s probably unique. It was bound to arouse comment. Is there any chance that we might talk to Lady Pryde about it?’

‘No, there isn’t,’ said Pryde, sharply. ‘I refuse to let you bother my wife in this way and I resent your taking up my time.’ He put his hands on his hips and took a combative stance. ‘Was there anything else, Inspector?’

‘You have our apologies, Sir David,’ said Colbeck, signalling to Stockdale that it was time to withdraw. ‘You’ve told us all that we needed to know, sir. Thank you.’

Stockdale waited until the two of them had left the house.

‘What did you make of him?’ he said.

‘He reminded me of a businessman I once prosecuted. The physical resemblance is very close. They both