‘There was a lot to unload from the cart so he was there some time. What he recalls is someone coming out of the rear entrance in a hurry and walking off in the direction of the railway station.’
‘Was he able to give a description, Mr Pugh?’
‘It’s only a hazy one,’ apologised the manager. ‘The man was young, well-dressed and carrying a large bag. It seemed strange that he should be leaving by the back door. It’s only a servants’ entrance, used by staff and by people making deliveries. Most guests would be unaware of its existence.’
‘Oh, I think this young man may have taken the trouble to learn the geography of the hotel. Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘It was very enterprising of you to secure this information. It’s possible, of course, that this person has no connection whatsoever with the crime but the timing of his hasty exit is significant – so is the detail about his luggage.’
‘If he caught the train, he could be hundreds of miles away.’
‘He’s bound to have left clues here in Cardiff. When we gather enough of them, we’ll track him down wherever he is.’
After thanking him again, Colbeck left the hotel and strode briskly down St Mary Street. It took him less than twenty minutes to reach the house in Crockherbtown where Carys Evans lived. It was a large, stone-built cottage with a well-established garden at the front. When first constructed, it had stood in splendid isolation but was now cheek by jowl with other houses. Jeremiah Stockdale rarely missed an opportunity to speak to Carys Evans but he felt that Colbeck might be able to question her more effectively if he was not there to distract him. Admitted to the cottage by a servant, Colbeck was shown into a large, low-ceilinged room with exposed beams and oak furniture. In spite of its size, it had a cosiness that reached out to enfold him.
Carys Evans rose from her chair to greet him and he had a strange feeling that she was expecting him. She showed none of the surprise or hostility of Sir David Pryde.
‘Do sit down, Inspector,’ she said, indicating a chair. ‘Can I offer you any refreshment?’
‘No, thank you, Miss Evans,’ he said, taking a seat.
Sitting opposite, she appraised him. ‘I must say, that you don’t look like a policeman. They tend to be rather large, hefty, clumsy men like Superintendent Stockdale.’
‘You might have thought the same of me when I was in uniform.’
‘I doubt that, Inspector Colbeck.’
Holding his gaze, she gave a half-smile of interest. Carys Evans was a striking woman in her late twenties with pale, elfin features offset by dark hair that hung in ringlets. She wore a shade of green that exactly matched her eyes and had a large silver brooch in the shape of a dragon on her bodice. Hers was a natural, unforced beauty that relied on none of the cosmetics used so artfully by Kate Linnane. Carys was relaxed and self-possessed. What gave even more appeal to Colbeck was the lilt of her voice with its soft, melodic cadences.
‘You’ve come to talk about the murder, I presume?’ she said. ‘Not that I can help you in any way, I fear. I read the report in this morning’s paper and was horrified. I also felt sorry for Winifred Tomkins. I know how eager she was to have her coffee pot.’
‘Mrs Tomkins is not the only person with a fondness for silver,’ he remarked, noting the ornaments in various parts of the room. ‘You have your own collection.’
‘It’s my only indulgence, Inspector.’
‘The one thing I don’t see is a coffee pot.’
‘It’s kept in the kitchen,’ she explained, ‘and, before you ask me, it is not in the shape of a steam engine. I like to think my taste is more refined. A coffee pot is for pouring coffee and a locomotive is for pulling a train. They are incompatible.’
‘Not according to Miss Kate Linnane,’ he said. ‘She’s appearing as Lady Macbeth at the Theatre Royal this week.’
‘I know – I’m going to watch the first performance this evening as the guest of the mayor. Miss Linnane is a wonderful actress, by all accounts. How does she come to have an opinion on coffee pot locomotives?’
‘She and Mr Buckmaster travelled from London with the young man on his way to deliver the item to Mrs Tomkins. He showed them the silver coffee pot and both have described it to me as a work of art.’
‘Works of art are for display,’ she argued, ‘not for functional use. I could never drink coffee that was poured out of the funnel of a locomotive. The very notion would make me cringe. Lady Pryde had the same reaction as I did.’
‘I thought she and Mrs Tomkins were not on speaking terms.’
She was impressed. ‘You’ve picked up the local gossip very quickly, Inspector.’
‘How long has this situation been going on?’
‘You’ll have to ask the ladies concerned. When I was in their company a fortnight ago, they seemed to be on good terms.’
‘Is the rift between the two wives or the two husbands?’
‘I don’t see that it matters either way,’ she said, evenly, ‘and it certainly has no bearing on the crime you are investigating. One thing I can assure you is that Lady Pryde was not responsible for the theft of that coffee pot. When she first saw the sketch of it, she laughed. That really hurt Winifred. Lady Pryde thought the coffee pot absurd.’
‘And so did you, by the sound of it, Miss Evans.’
‘I thought it far too large. Imagine how much coffee it would hold – enough to serve a dozen people or more. It belongs in a hotel and not in a private house.’
‘Mrs Tomkins wanted it to commemorate her father.’
‘I can think of more fitting memorials.’
‘She had a keen interest in railways.’
Carys was amused. ‘I have a keen interest in racing, Inspector,’ she riposted, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’d commission a silver coffee pot in the shape of a thoroughbred stallion. It might provide a talking point for my guests but that would be its only virtue. Do not mistake me,’ she added, seriously, ‘I respect the right of Winifred Tomkins – or anyone else for that matter – to follow their own inclination, and I hope you can retrieve the coffee pot for her so that she can enjoy it to the full.’
‘Were you aware that it was being delivered yesterday?’
‘Yes, Inspector, but I was only one of a number of ladies. Some of them were expecting to be drinking coffee out of it this morning.’
‘I don’t follow, Miss Evans.’
‘Winifred Tomkins wanted to put it on show the day after it arrived,’ she told him. ‘We were all invited to the celebration. I gave a polite refusal but Lady Pryde, I suspect, was a trifle more blunt.’ She offered him a radiant smile. ‘To answer the question you came here to ask, Inspector Colbeck,’ she continued, smoothly, ‘I was one of several people who knew the day and the time when that silver coffee pot would steam into Cardiff General Station. You’ll have a lot of calls to make if you wish to speak to every one of us.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Because of his dislike of travelling by train, all journeys on the iron way were a severe trial for Victor Leeming. None, however, had been as boring, uncomfortable and seemingly interminable as the one between Paddington and Cardiff that day. When he had made the same trip with Colbeck the previous afternoon, the inspector had helped to defeat time with conversation about the case in hand. No such diversion was open to Leeming on this occasion. His companion did not say a single word. Effie Kellow sat hunched in a corner of the compartment, her eyes vacant and her mind preoccupied. Whenever they stopped at a station, she did not even toss a glance out of the window. As a result, Leeming had to remain silent for the whole journey, feeling every jolt and judder of the train, listening to the snores of the elderly gentleman who sat beside him, and fearing that he would not be at home with his family that night.
When they finally reached their destination, he got swiftly onto the platform, one hand on his stomach to keep at bay the travel sickness that threatened. Effie followed him. To his amazement, she was ready to talk to him now.
‘Where are we going, Sergeant?’ she asked.
‘To the Railway Hotel,’ he replied.
‘Is that where Hugh…where it happened?’
