The Silver Locomotive Mystery

‘Did he tell you anything about his work?’ probed Colbeck.

‘Not at first,’ replied Buckmaster. ‘We found it hard to get more than two words out of him – and he kept hugging his leather bag as it if contained the Crown Jewels. We had great difficulty persuading him to let us see the coffee pot and we were not allowed to touch it.’

‘What was your first reaction when you saw it?’

Buckmaster hunched his shoulders. ‘I knew that I was looking at a work of art, Inspector.’

‘Was it really that good, sir?’

‘Don’t take my word for it. Miss Linnane is something of an expert on silver – perhaps because her admirers have showered her with gifts made of silver over the years – and she was entranced by it. I’m sure that she’ll tell you that when you speak to her. At the moment, alas,’ he said with a sigh, ‘she has this foolish notion that that murder only happened because we are staging a play that has a history of disasters associated with it.’

‘Macbeth is steeped in superstition.’

‘Superstition is the sign of a weak mind, Inspector. I have no truck with it. When this theatre opened in 1826, the first play presented was Macbeth with the great William Macready in the title role. I seek to emulate him.’

‘I have no doubt that you will, Mr Buckmaster,’ said Colbeck, admiringly. ‘I’ve always enjoyed your performances.’

The actor beamed. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘As for the choice of play, I’m inclined to agree with you. I fear that Mr Kellow would have met the same fate had you been staging A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

‘That’s well beyond our capabilities,’ admitted Buckmaster. ‘Even with strenuous doubling, it has far too many characters for a touring company. Actors need to be paid and our income is very restricted. That’s why we have to rely on patronage.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I noticed from your playbill that the first night is being sponsored by the mayor.’

‘There are three other bespoke performances so we can rely on an audience for those. The challenge is to fill the theatre on the other nights as well as at the matinee.’

‘Word of mouth will surely do that for you, sir. And there is no shame in patronage. Elizabethan theatre was built on it. Shakespeare and his ilk all needed patrons. However,’ he said, noting how satanic the actor looked in the flickering gaslight, ‘let’s return to Mr Kellow. Did he tell you anything about his private life?’

‘He didn’t seem to have much of a private life, Inspector,’ said Buckmaster. ‘His employer, Mr Voke, made him work long hours and the poor man could not afford much in the way of entertainment. Mr Kellow rented a room near the shop. I gather that his parents had both died years ago. He spoke of a sister who lived in London but they saw very little of each other.’

‘What did he tell you of Mr Voke?’

‘Oh, he spoke very fondly of him but I’d already observed the deep affection between the two of them. Mr Voke waved him off at the station. They seemed so close that I took them for father and son. As it turned out,’ he recalled, ‘Mr Kellow has been more of son to the old man than his own flesh and blood.’

Colbeck’s ears pricked up. ‘In what way, sir?’

‘Well, it transpires that the young Mr Voke, also a silversmith, expected to take over the business in time and resented the fact that his father gave some of the best commissions to Mr Kellow because he deemed him the superior craftsman. There were also constant rows between father and son about money. In the end, there was a serious rift in the lute and the son stalked off to work elsewhere.’

‘So he might bear a grudge against Mr Kellow.’

‘I think it unlikely that anyone would do that, Inspector.’

‘Why?’

‘He was so shy and self-effacing. He was the sort of person who would run a mile from an argument. At least,’ said Buckmaster, ‘that’s my estimate of him. Miss Linnane’s will be the same. The only way to get at the truth, of course, is to talk to Mr Voke himself.’

‘Precisely,’ agreed Colbeck, getting up from the chair. ‘I expect that my colleague, Sergeant Leeming, will be doing that very soon.’

It was late evening when Victor Leeming finally reached the little shop in Wood Street. His first duty on returning to London had been to call in at Scotland Yard in order to apprise Superintendent Tallis of the latest developments. Thanks to a message transmitted by telegraph, the superintendent was in possession of news that the sergeant had not heard. The South Wales Railway Company was offering a large reward for information leading to the capture of the person or persons responsible for the murder of Hugh Kellow. Notice of the reward would be carried the following morning in London newspapers as well as in more local periodicals. Leeming and Colbeck would not be working in the relative anonymity of Wales. The metropolitan press would now be watching them as well.

Chastened by this intelligence, Leeming went off in a hansom cab to visit Leonard Voke. It was now dark and the silversmith had retired early to bed. Roused from his sleep, Voke put on a dressing gown and spoke to the sergeant through an open upstairs window. Leeming removed his hat to address the man. Viewed from above in the half-dark, he was an unprepossessing visitor, his upturned face, illumined by the moon, looking more like that of a desperate criminal than of an officer of the law. It took the sergeant minutes to convince the old man of his identity. Only the mention of important news relating to Hugh Kellow persuaded Voke to come to the front door.

When he opened it a few inches, he peered through the crack to appraise Leeming. Holding an oil lamp in one hand, he eventually opened the door with the other. Once his visitor was inside the premises, Voke locked the door and pushed home three large bolts. He then took Leeming into a room at the rear of the shop and set the lamp down on the table. The silversmith’s bleary eyes blinked behind his spectacles.

‘What’s this about my assistant?’ he asked.

‘Perhaps you’d better sit down before I tell you, sir,’ advised Leeming. ‘I bring bad tidings.’

Voke lowered himself into a chair. ‘What sort of bad tidings?’ he said, worriedly. ‘Hugh hasn’t been involved in an accident, has he?’

‘It’s worse than that, Mr Voke. Prepare yourself for a shock. It’s my sad duty to tell you that Mr Kellow was murdered early today in a hotel room in Cardiff.’

Recoiling as if from a blow, Voke seemed about to fall off his chair. He put a steadying hand on the table. Tears streamed down his face and he removed his spectacles to brush them away with the back of his hand. During his years in the police force, Leeming had often been called upon to pass on dire news to grieving parents. It was always a distressing duty for him because there was no way to soften the pain. Voke was thunderstruck, reacting like a father whose favourite son had just been killed. Leeming gave him time to recover.

‘You have my deepest sympathy, sir,’ he said at length.

Voke was still stunned. ‘Who could possibly wish to harm Hugh?’ he said, helplessly. ‘A more likeable and blameless young man doesn’t exist upon this earth. Hugh Kellow was much more than an assistant to me, sergeant. He was my mainstay. I put absolute trust in him. That’s why I let him deliver a silver coffee pot to a client in Cardiff.’ Realisation suddenly hit him. ‘Dear God! Someone stole it, didn’t they? That was the reason Hugh was murdered!’

‘Yes, sir – the coffee pot has disappeared.’

‘Then it’s my fault,’ confessed the old man, beating his chest with a palm. ‘This is all my doing. I should have paid someone to act as an escort for him. I exposed him to unnecessary danger.’

‘You weren’t to know that someone had designs on the item. I gather that it was concealed in a leather bag.’

‘It was, Sergeant Leeming, and I told Hugh that he must not take it out for any reason whatsoever. I even went with him to Paddington Station to select a first class carriage in which he could travel safely. All that Hugh had to do,’ Voke went on, ‘was to deliver the coffee pot to Mrs Tomkins at the address I gave him.’

‘And, presumably, collect some money,’ noted Leeming.

‘Of course – fifty pounds had already been paid on deposit. The balance was to be collected by Hugh. That’s how much I trusted my assistant, you see. I let him collect a substantial amount of money on my behalf. I have to tell you,’ he said, replacing his spectacles, ‘that I couldn’t have entrusted my own son with such an errand. Stephen would have been liable to temptation.’