The Theatre Royal had been opened almost thirty years earlier by interested parties who formed a joint-stock company. What they got for their investment was a neat, rectangular structure with a Gothic facade whose plethora of arched windows gave it an inappropriately ecclesiastical air. Striking in appearance, it was not, however, known for its comfort and its interior lacked the sheer scope, luxury and embellishment of London theatres. Nigel Buckmaster made light of its deficiencies, confident that the brilliance of his performance would divert the minds of any audience from the hardness of the seats. He was reeling off some instructions to his stage manager when he was interrupted by Robert Colbeck. Hearing why the inspector had come, he immediately conducted him to the main dressing room at the rear of the stage.
Gas lighting gave the room a garish glow and created shifting patterns in the mirrors. Colbeck noticed that the actor's costume for Macbeth was already hanging up. A dirk and claymore lay on the table beside a large make-up box. Buckmaster waved him to a seat but remained standing in a position where the best of the light fell upon his face.
'I'd hoped to speak to Miss Linnane as well,' said Colbeck, 'but I was told that she was indisposed.'
'This hideous business at the hotel unnerved her,' explained Buckmaster, 'so she took to her bed. Kate – Miss Linnane – is a sensitive creature. It's ironic. Tomorrow, as Lady Macbeth, she'll urge me to slaughter the King of Scotland and she'll be utterly merciless in doing so. Yet when a real murder takes place so close to her, she is quite unable to cope with it. I, on the other hand,' he said, thrusting out his chin, 'am made of sterner stuff.'
'So I see, Mr Buckmaster.'
'I had the courage to identify the body when Superintendent Stockdale requested me to do so. It was a hideous sight but I didn't flinch. An actor must have complete self-control. Not that I didn't shed a tear for him,' he went on, inhaling deeply through his nose. 'Mr Kellow was a pleasant young man with a patent love of what he was doing. Apparently, he helped to make that silver coffee pot. It showed exceptional talent.'
'How would you describe him?'
'He struck me as an intelligent, well-spoken, responsible chap. He was somewhat unworldly, though, and felt uneasy at travelling in a first class railway carriage. It was obviously a rare treat for him. Miss Linanne and I are used to people being cowed by our presence – that's part of an actor's stock-in-trade, after all – but Mr Kellow was completely over-awed.'
'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.'
The detective was shaken. 'He would surely not have stolen from his own father?'
'It would not have been the first time, Sergeant. But enough of Stephen,' he said, bitterly. 'I've disowned him. He's no longer welcome here and has no claim on the business. Unlike Hugh, he would never apply himself. That's the secret of the silversmith's trade in one simple word – application.'
'I can't imagine ever disowning either of my children. I love them too dearly. In any case,' said Leeming, earnestly, 'my wife would never allow such a thing to happen. I'm surprised that Mrs Voke was ready to renounce her own child.'
Voke stifled a sob. 'My wife died a couple of years ago,' he said. 'While she was alive, Stephen was far less trouble. Alice knew how to handle him. Once she had gone, he became surly and disobedient.'
'When did you and he come to the parting of the ways?'
'It must have been two or three months ago.'
'Would you have started work on that coffee pot by then?'
'Oh, yes,' replied Voke, 'that was a bone of contention. Because my eyesight is fading a little, I needed someone else to do the more intricate work on that locomotive. Stephen expected that I'd turn to him but Hugh was always my first choice.'
'So your son was aware of the details of the commission?'
'Naturally – why do you ask?'
'Someone lay in wait for Mr Kellow,' said Leeming, 'so they must have known that he was carrying something of great value. Apart from your son, can you suggest anyone else who might have known what your assistant's movements would be?'
'No,' said Voke, 'I would never disclose such details. Hugh has delivered expensive items before without mishap, largely, I suspect, because nobody realised what he was carrying.'
'Could Mr Kellow have confided to anybody that he was going to Cardiff today?'
'I warned him against doing so, Sergeant. Besides, in whom could he confide? He had few friends and he never talked to his sister about his work here.'
'Does his sister live in London?'
'Yes – she's in service at a house in Mayfair.'
'Do you have an address for her, Mr Voke? She needs to be informed of what's happened – and so do his parents.'
'Hugh and Effie are orphans, I'm afraid. They lost their parents. As to her address, I can't help you. I only met Effie Kellow a couple of times. She was a pretty girl. This horrible news will destroy her,' said Voke, sorrowfully. 'She looked up to her brother and Hugh was very kind to her. I know that he gave her money from time to time.'
'Is there any way of finding her address?'
'You might ask Mrs Jennings. She was Hugh's landlady and has a house not far away from here. But don't call on her this late,' he cautioned. 'Mrs Jennings would never open the door to a stranger after dark even if he is a detective.' Voke reached across to open a drawer in a sideboard and took out a pencil and some paper. Closing the drawer again, he scribbled an address and handed it to Leeming. 'That's where Hugh lived,' he said. 'His landlady will be terribly upset at what happened. I know how fond she was of him.'
'I'll speak to her tomorrow,' decided Leeming. 'I'll also need to have a word with your son.'
Voke was peremptory. 'I no longer have a son,' he snapped. 'But the person you're after works for a silversmith in Hatton Garden. Look for Solomon Stern.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'What will happen to the body?'
'I assume that it will be reclaimed by his sister.'
'Effie Kellow is in no position to pay for the funeral,' said Voke with a surge of affection. 'I'll bear any costs involved.'
'That's very generous of you, Mr Voke.'
'Hugh was the best apprentice I ever had. When he stayed on as my assistant, he was loyal and hard-working. It's the least I can do for him, Sergeant.'
'I'll pass on that information,' said Leeming. 'I'm sorry to have disturbed you, sir, but I didn't only come to tell you what happened to Mr Kellow. There's another troubling matter.'
'My assistant is murdered and a silver coffee pot is stolen – what can be more troubling than that?'
'We believe that Mr Kellow may have had keys to the shop.'
'He did,' confirmed Voke. 'He had to let himself in.'
'Those keys have vanished. Inspector Colbeck, who is leading the investigation, sent me specifically to give you a warning. Look to your property, sir. It may be in danger.'
Robert Colbeck and Jeremiah Stockdale ended the day in the lounge of the Railway Hotel with a glass of malt whisky apiece. Before they compared notes about what they had learnt, Stockdale banged the arm of his chair with a fist and made his declaration.
'I want this man caught and caught quickly, Inspector,' he said. 'I won't tolerate murder in my town. I police Cardiff with a firm hand and villains fear me for that reason.'
'Your reputation is well-earned, Superintendent, but why do you think the killer must be a man?'
'It's what you suggested. You felt that a woman was involved to lure Mr Kellow here but that she needed a male accomplice to do the deed itself. How else could it have happened?'
'I've been mulling that over. The young woman could have been acting alone.'
Stockdale shook his head. 'No, I refuse to believe that.'
'Look at the way he was killed,' said Colbeck. 'He was struck on the head to daze him then acid was poured down his throat. Why choose that method? Remember that Mr Kellow was defenceless. A man would either have strangled him or battered him to death. A woman, on the other hand, would be less likely to turn to violence.'
'She could have stabbed him.'
'Most women would draw back from that. No, I think that she deliberately selected acid and I'll be interested to find out why. In doing so, of course, she does give us a definite line of enquiry.'
'How did she get hold of it?'
'Exactly,' said Colbeck.
'According to medical evidence, it was sulphuric acid.'
'Do you have many chemists and druggists in Cardiff?'
'Well over a dozen,' replied Stockdale, 'and many of them are in Butetown. There are people there who don't ask questions of their customers. They just give them what they want. It's the reason we had three poisonings in the district last year.'
'Mr Pugh was warning me about the perils of Butetown.'
'It can get lively,' conceded Stockdale with a grin, 'but that's part of its charm. Archelaus Pugh wouldn't venture anywhere near the docks without an armed guard but I know my way around. It was also the sight of one of my early triumphs. It must be almost fifteen years ago now,' he recalled with a nostalgic smile. 'A number of sea captains had been assaulted and robbed near the West Dock. So I dressed up as a sailor one night and acted as bait.'
'That was a bold thing to do, Superintendent.'
'Luckily, it worked. When I saw that three men were following me, I broke into a run and they gave chase. One of them was much faster than the others and got well clear of them. I stopped, punched him on the nose and knocked him to the floor. Seeing what I'd done, his friends turned tail.'
'What happened to the man himself?'
'I arrested him, charged him with robbery and sent him for trial. He was transported for seven years.' He gave a throaty chuckle. 'I was in court to savour the moment.'
'I hope that we'll both be able to savour the verdict that's passed on the killer.'
'Whether it's a man or a woman,' remarked Stockdale.
'Or, indeed, both,' said Colbeck. 'If two people were involved, they are both culpable and will end up side by side on the gallows.'
'It's where they deserve to be, Inspector.'
Colbeck took another sip of his drink then told his friend about the conversation with Nigel Buckmaster. Stockdale listened intently. He was amused by what the actor had told him about identifying the dead body.
'So he didn't flinch, did he?' he said. 'Mr Buckmaster took one look at the body, nodded his head to signal that it was indeed Mr Kellow then rushed off to be sick somewhere. He'd never make a policeman.'
'Murder victims are never pretty.'
'The ones hauled out of the River Taff are the worst. If they've been in there long enough, they're bloated. I doubt if Mr Buckmaster would even dare to look at such horrors.'
'The most useful thing he told me was that Mr Voke and his son had parted company.'
'It sounds to me as if the son needs more than a passing glance,' said Stockdale. 'There must have been bad blood between him and Hugh Kellow. That gives us a motive.'
'We'll certainly bear him in mind,' agreed Colbeck, 'though, in my experience, obvious suspects are often proved innocent.'
Stockdale guffawed. 'Not if they live in Butetown!'
'What did you find out, Superintendent?'
'Well, at least I discovered what was stolen,' said the other, taking out the sketch and handing it over. 'Mr Tomkins showed me this.'
Colbeck unfolded the paper. 'It's a locomotive based on the Great Western Railway's Firefly class,' he said after only a glance. 'It was designed by Daniel Gooch in 1840 and has proved a reliable workhorse. There are, however, some modifications. In some respects, it's been simplified but there are also refinements that never existed on the original engine – that crown on the smokestack, for example.'
'You seem very well-informed, Inspector.'
'I've always loved trains.'
'I thought I'd show this to every pawnbroker and silversmith in town just in case the killer is tempted to try and sell it.'
Colbeck handed the sketch back. 'I think that's highly unlikely,' he opined. 'How did Mrs Tomkins respond to the news that her coffee pot has gone astray?'
'She was livid,' replied Stockdale with a scowl. 'Nobody had told her that she ought to separate the message from the messenger. She more or less accused me of betraying her.'
'Did she give you any names?'
'Not at first – she refused to believe that anybody in her circle could be implicated in any way. It was only when I put it to her that one of them might inadvertently have passed on details of the coffee pot to someone else that she deigned to think again. Mrs Tomkins eventually provided the names of two people with a particular interest in that silver coffee pot.'
'Who are they?'
'The first one is Martha Pryde – she's the wife of Sir David Pryde, who owns the largest shipping line in Wales. Lady Pryde and Winifred Tomkins used to be very close but the frost seems to have got into that friendship. Heaven knows why,' he went on. 'I'd be interested to find out why the two of them fell out.'
'Would it be relevant to the investigation?'
'It could be, Inspector. Mrs Tomkins described Lady Pryde as acquisitive. I could add several other adjectives to that and none of them is very complimentary. Mrs Tomkins is only a well-bred harridan,' he said, 'whereas Lady Pryde is a venomous snake.'
'What about Sir David?'
'That's the curious thing. When I was leaving, Mr Tomkins mentioned something that might have a bearing on the case.'
Colbeck raised an eyebrow. 'Well?'
'Leonard Voke, the silversmith, was recommended to them by no less a person than Sir David Pryde.'
'Links of the chain are starting to join up,' said Colbeck, tasting more whisky. 'It must have been very galling for Lady Pryde if her former friend was boasting about a coffee pot locomotive made by someone suggested to her by Lady Pryde's own husband.'
Stockdale chuckled. 'Yes,' he said, 'I can imagine that Sir David got a flea in his ear for making that recommendation. Of course, that was at a time when they were friendly with Mr and Mrs Tomkins. Now they seem to be at daggers drawn. But,' he added, 'that's not the only link in the chain. Another name was mentioned.'
'Who was that?'
'Miss Carys Evans.'
'Do you know the lady?'
'Every red-blooded man in Cardiff knows Miss Evans.'
'An attractive young woman, then,' guessed Colbeck.
'She's rich, unmarried and obscenely beautiful,' said Stockdale, rolling a tongue around his lips. 'Carys Evans is the sort of woman who turns heads wherever she goes and who puts naughty thoughts into the purest minds.'
'And you say that she's another link in the chain?'
'She could be, Inspector.'
'Why is that?'
'One of the few compensations of this otherwise joyless life in uniform is that you get to know what happens beneath the surface of a town. That's how I come to know that the two names given to me by Mrs Tomkins are intimately connected. In short,' he said, leaning over to speak in a whisper, 'Carys Evans is Sir David Pryde's mistress.'
Leonard Voke was so heartbroken at the horrific news about his young assistant that he hardly slept a wink. When he was not recalling happier memories of Hugh Kellow, he was listening for the sound of any disturbance below. A silversmith's shop was always likely to be a target for burglars so he had taken care to secure his property. The most valuable items were locked away in a safe but there was nothing on display in the shop itself that was inexpensive. Voke produced quality work and expected to be paid for it. What continued to bore into his brain like a red hot drill was the thought that his own son might, in some way, be connected with the crime. They had parted after an acrimonious row and the father had let his tongue run away with him. Had his harsh words provoked a lust for revenge? Was he indirectly responsible for Kellow's murder? Such fears made any sustained slumber impossible.
Propped up on the pillows, he had an old musket across his lap, a relic of the days when his father had run the shop and kept the weapon in good working condition. The only time it had ever been discharged was when Voke Senior mistook the passing shadow of a policeman for a burglar about to enter the premises at night. Firing by instinct, he had shot out the shop window and sent glass in all directions. It was one of the many reasons why Leonard Voke prayed that he would not have to use the musket. Simply holding it, however, was a comfort and, if his silverware was being stolen, he would not hesitate to use the musket.
Fortunately, his proficiency with the weapon was never put to the test. A false alarm sent him creeping downstairs in the dark and he was mightily relieved to find the shop empty. It was half an hour before his heart stopped thudding. Dawn found him dozing fitfully. As soon as light penetrated the gap in the curtains, he came fully awake. Putting the musket aside, he got up, reached for his glasses, slipped on his dressing gown and opened the curtains. London was already wide awake, Carts, cabs and pedestrians were flashing noisily past. People were going to work or hurrying to the markets to get early bargains. The daily cacophony from yowling dogs, hissing cats and clattering hooves was set up. Leonard Voke yawned.
Grabbing a bunch of keys from a drawer, he put on his slippers and padded downstairs. He unlocked the door to the shop and saw, to his intense joy, everything safely in its place. It was the same in his workroom. Nobody had come, nothing had been touched. The sense of relief flooded through him and he chided himself for his anxieties. Just because someone had stolen Hugh Kellow's keys, it did not mean that his silverware was in danger of being stolen. The killer might have no idea what locks the keys would open. Voke had had an almost sleepless night for nothing. It was only later, when he went to the safe to collect some items to put on display in the shop, that he discovered his relief was premature. Inserting two keys into their respective locks, he turned each in turn then pulled the heavy door back on its hinges.
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.