The Silver Locomotive Mystery

that in those letters to his sister, Effie. We’d have realised how cunningly we’d been tricked.’

‘I’m still none the wiser,’ said Leeming.

‘Nor are we,’ added Voke. ‘What exactly has happened?’

‘We were deceived,’ said Colbeck, still working it out in his head. ‘Hugh Kellow was not murdered in that hotel and the silver coffee pot was not taken from him. Nor were his keys to his employer’s shop, for that matter. He knew exactly what to steal from Mr Voke’s safe and made sure that he took his own tools as well as the valuables and the money.’ He gestured an apology to Voke. ‘You were wrongly accused, sir, and I deeply regret that. We owe your dear wife our sincerest apologies as well. The evidence that brought us here was misleading. The man we really need to arrest is Hugh Kellow.’ Colbeck gritted his teeth. ‘He’s still alive.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Discontented members of the Cardiff Borough Police sometimes complained – though never within his hearing – that their chief constable was a martinet but none of them denied that he worked tirelessly to keep the town under control. Stockdale always pushed himself much harder than any of his men. He was indefatigable. At the end of another long day, he adjourned to his favourite pub where a pint of beer was poured for him the second he appeared through the door. He took a first, long, noisy, satisfying sip. It not only served to quench his thirst, it helped to steady him after the shock he had received earlier. He still wondered if his fears were justified or if it would simply turn out to be an unfortunate coincidence. The place was quite full and he chatted happily to several people on the well-tried principle that he might pick up a nugget of useful intelligence from even the most casual conversation.

As he heard the door swing open, he glanced towards it then reacted as if an apparition had just entered. He could not believe that he was looking at Robert Colbeck.

‘I was thinking about you only a moment ago, Inspector.’

‘Then you can tell me what you thought,’ said Colbeck, ‘but only after you let me buy you another pint of beer.’

‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse.’ Quaffing the last of his drink, he handed his tankard to the newcomer. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

While Colbeck went to get the beer, Stockdale found a table in a quiet corner. As always, he sat with his back to the wall so that he could keep an eye on everybody. Colbeck eventually joined him, handing over one of the tankards then raising his own in a toast.

‘To policemen everywhere!’ he said.

‘Amen.’

They clinked tankards then Colbeck sat down opposite him.

‘I was told that I might find you here, Superintendent.’

‘In earlier days,’ Stockdale confided, ‘you’d have found me on the other side of the bar. I was so poorly paid when I first started in this job that I used to serve in the Boat House round the corner in Womanby Street. I had to find some way to supplement my meagre wage. The Watch Committee seemed to think I could live on fresh air and, as your nose must have detected, there’s not a lot of that in the town.’ He supped his beer. ‘But I’m so glad you came, Inspector. I had what could turn out to be alarming news.’

‘I think I know what it is,’ said Colbeck.

‘How could you?’

‘We may already be one step ahead of you.’

‘I had a report on a missing person, a young man who came to Cardiff on the day of the murder and whose description fits that of the victim. His father made contact with the police in London. Martin Henley – that was the young man’s name – had said that he’d be spending the night at the Railway Hotel here before returning home.’

‘But he was unable to do so because he was murdered.’

‘It can’t have been Mr Henley, can it?’

‘I’m fairly certain that it was.’

‘Then why was he killed by Stephen Voke?’

‘He wasn’t, Superintendent,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The sergeant and I tracked Mr Voke to Caerleon where he’s now living with his new wife. Neither of them had anything to do with the crimes.’

‘But they must have done.’

‘We were badly mistaken.’

Stockdale frowned. ‘None of this makes the slightest sense.’

‘It does if you think it through. If Mr Voke is not the culprit…’

‘Then it must have been someone else.’

‘One name immediately comes to mind.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Hugh Kellow.’

Stockdale was flabbergasted. ‘Never!’

‘That was my response at first.’

‘You mean that he faked his own death?’

‘What better way to disappear from sight?’

Colbeck told him about their confrontation with Stephen Voke and how the young silversmith had been completely exonerated. He and his wife, Catherine, had gone to a part of Wales that held fond memories for Voke, who felt that he had enough private work to be able to operate from home.

‘Miss Evans has recommended him to a number of friends in South Wales so his future seems assured. I saw a ring he made for her. It was exquisite.’

Stockdale rolled his eyes. ‘Everything about Carys is exquisite,’ he attested, ‘except for her choice in men, of course.’

‘They fulfilled their purpose by pressing gifts upon her. My guess is that Sir David Pryde commissioned her ring as well as a brooch in the shape of a dragon. For obvious reasons, he couldn’t use a silversmith here.’

‘No, it was too risky. A local man would know him and wonder why the items were not made for Lady Pryde. It was safer to use someone in London.’ Stockdale was honest. ‘How stupid we’ve been! We were fooled. We were well and truly fooled by Mr Kellow.’

‘When I saw the disfigurement on the corpse,’ said Colbeck. ‘it did cross my mind that the acid had been used to make identification more difficult. But Mr Buckmaster swore that it was Hugh Kellow and recognised his clothing. The sister was even more certain.’

‘Her visit settled it as far as I was concerned. Effie was so convinced that it was her brother who’d been murdered.’

‘That’s what she wanted us to believe. Incidentally, I don’t think that Effie was his sister at all. She and Kellow were accomplices who worked in harness. We should introduce her to Nigel Buckmaster. She’s such a consummate actress that he could make use of her talents on stage. Talking of which,’ Colbeck said, ‘did you manage to rescue Miss Linnane?’

‘That’s a long story, Inspector.’

Stockdale gave a concise version of it, proud of the fact that he had shamed Buckmaster into paying hefty compensation and received grovelling apologies from him and his leading lady. He assured Colbeck that Michael Linnane would not escape punishment for his part in the charade. Stockdale had written to the Gloucester police with details of the deception practised on their counterparts in Cardiff.

‘They’ll send him back to face me,’ said Stockdale, ‘and I’ll make him squirm. Nobody distracts my men like that without paying for it. I expect another sizeable donation to our funds – that’s after a night in the cells to repent of his folly.’ About to take another drink, he put the tankard abruptly down on the table. ‘I’ve just thought, Inspector. Suppose that that dead man was Martin Henley.’

‘He was definitely not Hugh Kellow.’

‘Yet he’ll be buried instead of him.’

‘The funeral hasn’t taken place yet,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I sent Victor Leeming back to London with news of what we discovered. He’ll make sure that the undertaker doesn’t go ahead with the service until we know the true