After an early breakfast, Victor Leeming bestowed a farewell kiss on his wife and two children and gave each of them a warm hug. He set off for another day's work, uncertain if he would be returning home that night. His first port of call was the house in which Hugh Kellow had rented a room. When he found the address given him by Leonard Voke, he realised why the landlady would not have admitted him after dark. Mrs Jennings was embarrassingly nervous. She was a short, flat-faced, bosomy woman in her fifties with badly dyed hair and a look of permanent suspicion in her eyes. She questioned him on the doorstep for a long time before she agreed to let him into the house.
'My husband is at home,' she said, vibrating with tension, 'and so are two of my lodgers.'
What she did not mention was the fact that her husband was a bedridden invalid or that the lodgers were elderly females. Leeming could see how edgy she was. Telling him that she was not alone was a means of warning him that help could be summoned in the event of any physical threat to her. His unbecoming features clearly worried the landlady. It was a three-storeyed terraced house in urgent need of repair and there was a prevailing mustiness. Mrs Jennings showed him into a cluttered room with fading wallpaper and a threadbare carpet. She invited him to sit down and he perched on a chair beside an enormous aspidistra. She sat opposite him.
'What's this about Mr Kellow?' she asked, hands clasped tightly.
'Perhaps your husband ought to be here as well,' he suggested. 'You may need his support.'
'He's busy at the moment, Sergeant Leeming.'
'Is there someone else you'd like to be present?'
She began to tremble. 'It's bad news, isn't it?'
'I'm afraid that it is.'
'Something has happened to Mr Kellow – I knew it. He went off to Cardiff yesterday and never came back. I had supper waiting for him as usual but…'
Her voice trailed off and she brought out a handkerchief to stem the tears that were already forming. Leeming knew that he could not tell her the full truth because Mrs Jennings was not strong enough to cope with it. From the way that she mentioned her lodger's name, it was clear that she was fond of Hugh Kellow. The sergeant had to be tactful.
'He met with an accident, Mrs Jennings.'
'Was he badly hurt?'
'I'm afraid that he was killed.'
She gave a shudder and used the handkerchief to smother the cry that came from her lips. Swaying to and fro, she went off into a kind of trance, gazing at the ceiling and talking silently to herself. It was minutes before she remembered that she had company.
'I'm sorry, Sergeant,' she said. 'That was very rude of me.'
'No apology is required, Mrs Jennings,'
'I just can't believe it. Mr Kellow was such a nice young man. He's been with us for almost two years. He always paid the rent on time. We appreciated that, sir. He was so quiet,' she went on, 'and I can't say that about all the lodgers we've had. He spent most of his time reading those books.'
'What books would they be?'
'Books about silver,' she explained. 'He showed them to me one day. They had wonderful drawings of things that we could never afford to buy – silver tableware and such like. It's another world, Sergeant.'
'I know,' said the detective with feeling. 'Only the rich can buy such things. I certainly can't.'
'It was strange, really – Mr Kellow said so himself. He was living here in a rented room yet he was making silver ornaments that might end up in the homes of the aristocracy.'
'Did he talk much about his work?'
'Not really, sir – he kept to himself most of the time. I always looked in Mr Voke's window as I went past the shop in the hope of seeing him there. Mr Kellow waved to me once.'
'What about Mr Voke's son, Stephen? Was he mentioned at all?'
She brooded for a while. 'I don't think so.'
'But he must have talked about his sister.'
'Oh, he did. Effie was all he had in the world. They were close.'
'Did you ever meet her?'
'No, Sergeant,' she said. 'The girl was in service and that meant she had very little spare time. Mr Kellow used to walk all the way to Mayfair to get a glimpse of her. They sometimes went to church together on a Sunday. He had hopes that one day he'd own a shop of his own and be able to employ his sister in it.'
'Did he ever give you her address?'
She looked blank. 'He had no need to.'
'No, I suppose not. But, as you'll understand, I'm anxious to find her. Effie Kellow is his next of kin. She needs to be told that he's been…' He stopped to rephrase what he was going to say. '…that he met with an unfortunate accident.'
'My husband will be distraught when he hears,' she said, blowing her nose into the handkerchief. 'He's not in the best of health. I don't really know how to break it to him.'
'I'd wait until you get used to the idea yourself, Mrs Jennings,' advised Leeming. 'I can see that it's been a terrible shock for you.'
'It has, Sergeant. It's almost like losing a son.'
Tears which had threatened throughout suddenly came in a waterfall and Leeming could do nothing until she had cried her fill. He sat and watched helplessly. When she finally regained a modicum of composure, he rose from his seat and glanced upwards.
'Could I possibly see Mr Kellow's room?' he enquired.
Mrs Jennings stiffened. 'Why?'
'It would be interesting to see where he lived.'
'The room is cleaned regularly,' she said, striking a defensive note. 'I look after my lodgers, Sergeant. It's the reason they stay with me for so long. I'm not like some landladies.'
'Mr Kellow was obviously very happy here.'
Mollified by his comment, she got up, wiped away the last of her tears then led the way upstairs. Kellow's room was on the top floor. It was surprisingly large and its window gave him a clear view of the street below. Unlike the room downstairs, it was sparsely furnished. Apart from the bed and a sagging wardrobe, there was only a table and an upright chair. On the table were a couple of well-thumbed books on the art of the silversmith and a notebook with a few sketches in it. When Leeming tried to open the door of the wardrobe, Mrs Jennings was affronted.
'You can't look in there,' she chided. 'It's private.'
'Then perhaps you'll do so on my behalf, Mrs Jennings. I just wondered if there might be some letters from his sister that bore her address. Could you take a look, please?'
She rummaged reluctantly through every item in the wardrobe but there were no letters. Nor was there anything else to indicate where Effie Kellow lived. It troubled Leeming that she was still unaware of her brother's fate. As he took a last look around the room, a wave of sadness splashed over him. The young silversmith had lived modestly yet been murdered in possession of a highly expensive coffee pot that he had helped to make. His talent had been his undoing. Now he would never be able to fulfil his ambition of owning his own premises and rescuing his sister from the drudgery of service.
'Thank you, Mrs Jennings,' he said. 'I'll let myself out.'
But she did not even hear him. The landlady had gone off into another trance, lost in happy memories of her former lodger and pressing one of his beloved books against her ample breasts as if it was imparting warmth and reassurance.
Robert Colbeck was pleased to see that the manager was in a less hysterical state that morning. Now that the corpse had been removed, Archelaus Pugh felt that he was in charge again and could devote all his energies to the smooth running of the hotel. It was he who told the inspector that Kate Linnane was now able to see him at last. Colbeck went up to her room at once. He did not expect her to add much to what Nigel Buckmaster had already told him but he wanted to hear a woman's appraisal of the silversmith.
In response to his knock, he was invited into the room. He opened the door to find the actress reclining on the chaise longue with a book in her hands. Wearing a silk robe with a floral pattern on it, she looked up with an inquiring smile. Colbeck closed the door then introduced himself.
'I'm pleased to meet you, Inspector,' she said, smile remaining in place as she looked him up and down. 'I do apologise for not being able to see you yesterday but I was profoundly upset by what happened here yesterday. The murder was only three doors away.'
'I'm glad to see that you've recovered now, Miss Linnane.'
She put her book aside. 'You've spoken to Nigel, I gather.'
'Mr Buckmaster was very helpful.'
'I hope that I can be equally helpful,' she told him. 'But do please sit down.'
'Thank you,' said Colbeck, taking a seat and noting that she had been studying the text of Macbeth. 'I understand that you think this tragedy is in some way connected with the play you've chosen to perform in Cardiff.'
'I'm convinced of it, Inspector Colbeck.'
'Have you had bad experiences with Macbeth before?'
'More than once,' she replied with a slight grimace. 'The worst occasion was in Abergavenny last year. I was in the middle of the sleep-walking scene when a balcony at the rear of the hall collapsed. There was the most appalling amount of noise and dust so I simply raised my voice over it. Miraculously, nobody was badly injured but I was so grateful to get offstage at the end of the scene.'
'I don't think you'll have that problem in Cardiff, Miss Linnane.'
She rolled her eyes dramatically. 'I always have a problem in Wales,' she moaned. 'That's why I hate coming here. On our last visit, we performed The Merchant of Venice in Swansea.'
'Then you doubtless took the role of Portia.'
'I tried to, Inspector. During my speech in the trial scene one night, a dog suddenly scampered up on to the stage and bit Bassanio on the ankle. Laughter drowned out every subsequent line.'
'I'm sure you overcame the interruption like the consummate artiste you are,' he said, nobly. 'I had the good fortune to see your Desdemona and your Ophelia. Both were truly memorable.'
'Thank you!' she said with a delighted titter. 'I had a feeling that you might be a theatregoer though, judging by your appearance, you should be on the stage rather than in the audience. You have the look of a born actor, Inspector.'
'I did toil in an allied profession,' he admitted. 'For some years, I was a barrister and there's a histrionic element in every court case. To that extent, I was something of an actor though I could never aspire to the standard set by you and by Mr Buckmaster. However,' he went on, 'diverting as it would be, I haven't come to discuss the world of theatre. A more pressing business has brought me here.'
'Mr Kellow!' she sighed. 'It's terrifying to think that such a thing could happen to him. I was amazed to hear that he was in this hotel. When he left us at the station, he was going to deliver the coffee pot to a house on the outskirts of the town.'
'Someone clearly deflected him from that purpose.'
'How?'
'That's a matter for conjecture at this stage. Perhaps you could begin by telling me what impression Mr Kellow made on you.'
'To be quite frank,' she said, 'he made very little impression at first. He was out of his depth, Inspector. When he stepped into a first class carriage, he was floundering. We managed to bring him out of his shell eventually and he had a simple integrity that was rather touching. Nigel and I both had the feeling that he was being exploited by his employer, who under-paid and over-worked him, but Mr Kellow nevertheless spoke highly of him. And when he showed us that coffee pot,' she continued, eyebrows arching in unison, 'we were astonished. It was nothing short of magnificent.'
'Mr Buckmaster says that you have a penchant for silver.'
'I crave it, Inspector,' she confessed, using sensual fingers to caress her silver necklace. 'I love the sight, the feel, the gleam of it. I've been an avid collector for years. Fortunately, most of the pieces have come from admirers in whom I took the trouble to confide my life-long yearning for silver.' Getting up, she crossed the room to open a portmanteau, taking out a velvet-covered jewellery box. 'These are some of the gifts that Desdemona garnered for me.'
Opening the lid of the box, she showed him an array of rings, brooches and earrings, all superbly fashioned in silver. The most striking object was a small statue with arms outstretched. Colbeck was quick to identify it.
'That's you as Desdemona,' he said. 'I remember that gesture vividly as you pleaded with Othello.'
'Nigel presented it to me at the end of that season,' she said, taking the statue out to admire it. 'You can imagine how much the contents of this box cost, Inspector, and I travel with larger objects as well. It's the other reason I went to ground in here yesterday,' she told him, replacing the statue and closing the lid. 'If someone was prepared to kill for a silver coffee pot, I felt that my own collection might be in danger – not to mention my life.'
'The hotel has a safe, Miss Linnane.'
'That's where everything will go when I leave for the theatre.'
'A wise decision,' he said.
Admiring her as an actress, Colbeck found her less appealing as a woman, her self-absorption masking any finer qualities she might have. Her towering vanity matched that of Nigel Buckmaster. He waited until she had put the jewellery box away in the portmanteau and resumed her seat. She beamed at him with the confidence of a woman who could rely on her beauty to enchant any man.
'How would you describe Mr Kellow?' asked Colbeck.
'He was very reserved, Inspector,' she replied, 'and ill at ease in our company. As a rule, when I find myself travelling in public, men have a tendency to steal at least a glance at me. Some just stare blatantly. Mr Kellow barely raised his eyes. I felt that he was rather immature for his age – or perhaps naive would be a better word. He was certainly not a man of the world.'
'That may have been his downfall, Miss Linnane.'
'As a silversmith, however, he obviously had a promising future ahead of him. When he talked about that coffee pot, he came alive for the first time. I felt that he was a kindred spirit – bewitched by the magic of silver. He spoke with such intense pride about his work.'
'He also mentioned a sister, I hear.'
'Yes, Inspector. The poor creature only has one week's holiday a year. Mr Kellow was saving up to take her to Margate. He was a very caring brother.'
'So it seems,' said Colbeck. 'What else can you tell me about him? Did you see, for instance, if anyone was at the station to meet him when the train pulled in?'
'I saw nobody waiting for him.'
'But there might have been someone.'
'The platform was very crowded and I had to make sure that my luggage was unloaded properly. By the time we left the railway station,' she said, 'Mr Kellow had long disappeared. Yet instead of delivering that coffee pot, he was in this very hotel – being killed only yards from my door!' She put the back of her hand to her forehead as if about to swoon, an attitude, Colbeck recalled, that she had struck as Desdemona. 'Nigel actually identified the body. He told me that it was a frightening spectacle. I could never have gone into that room.'
'That's why the superintendent didn't call upon you.'
'I prefer to remember Mr Kellow as he was on the train.'
'That's a sensible policy, Miss Linnane.'
'It's the only way I can get over the shock of it all,' she said, then she seemed to dismiss Kellow entirely from her mind. Her manner was conversational. 'Will you be staying long in Cardiff, Inspector?'
'I'll be here until the case is solved.'
'Then you'll have the time to visit the Theatre Royal.'
'I'll make a point of doing so,' said Colbeck. 'On my way there yesterday, I was given a playbill by one of the company – a charming young lady named Miss Tremaine.'
Kate frowned. 'She has some decorative appeal on stage, I grant you,' she conceded, 'but she's far too wooden to be an actress. Handing our playbills is more suitable employment for her.'
Colbeck heard the note of contempt in her voice. For the second time, he had a surge of sympathy for Laura Tremaine. While the actor-manager and leading lady enjoyed the luxury of the Railway Hotel, Laura would be staying in some squalid boarding house in the suburbs, dreaming, probably in vain, of the time when she would take leading parts in the classical repertoire. One thing was clear. The young actress would get neither help nor encouragement from Kate Linnane. The only person in whom she was interested was herself.
'Thank you, Miss Linnane,' he said, getting up. 'You've been very helpful. I'll intrude on you no longer.'
'Having you here has reassured me greatly.'
'I'm glad to hear that.'
'If this case is left in the hands of bumbling local policemen, it would never be solved.'
Colbeck sprang to his friend's defence. 'You do Superintendent Stockdale a disservice,' he said with polite firmness. 'He's extremely competent and polices this town well.'
'I found him a trifle vulgar,' said Kate.
'We must agree to differ on that score.'
She produced her most bewitching smile. 'I suspect that we'd agree on most other things, Inspector.'
She offered her hand and he placed a token kiss on it before letting himself out. Colbeck felt as if he had been watching a performance rather than having a normal conversation. To a woman like Kate Linnane, even one person constituted an audience. As he walked along the passageway, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched and he threw a glance over his shoulder. Nobody was there yet he still sensed a presence. It was unsettling. When he turned the corner, therefore, he came to a sudden halt after a few steps then flattened his back against the wall. He inched his way towards the corner so that he could peer around the angle. He was just in time to see the shadowy figure of a man going into Kate Linnane's room before closing the door behind him.
'Where the devil have you been, man?' roared Edward Tallis from behind his desk. 'I expected you ages ago.'
'I had some calls to make, Superintendent,' said Leeming.
'Your first call should have been here so that you could tell me what happened yesterday evening. Instead of that, you stay away for hours. You'd better have a very good reason for doing so.'
'I visited the house where Mr Kellow lodged.'
'Did you learn anything pertinent to the investigation?'
'I believe so, sir.'
'Well, spit it out,' ordered Tallis. 'And don't stand there dithering like that – sit down.'
Victor Leeming obeyed, sinking on to the chair in front of the desk. It did not get any easier. No matter how many times he went into his superior's office, he still felt like an errant schoolboy hauled up before a tyrannical headmaster. Tallis had the authority of a man who had spent most of his career in the army, commanding soldiers in war-torn parts of the Empire. Now in his fifties, he was beak-nosed, broad-shouldered and portly, a shock of grey hair contrasting sharply with the rubicund hue of his cheeks. A well-trimmed moustache decorated his upper lip like a third eyebrow. His rasping voice made his question sound like an accusation.
'What have you done since you left here yesterday?'
'I did as you instructed, sir,' replied Leeming, 'and called on Mr Voke. Some interesting facts emerged.'
Tallis issued a challenge. 'Then interest me.'
The sergeant gave his report. Colbeck had taught him to keep a written account of every interview that he conducted so that it could be referred back to at a future date. Leeming had memorised what he had put down on paper yet – unsettled by the basilisk stare of the superintendent – he still stumbled over some of the words. When the report reached the point where Leeming had departed from Wood Street the night before, Tallis wanted to clarify one point.
'And you're sure that you warned Mr Voke that the duplicate set of keys had been stolen?'
'Inspector Colbeck sent me there for that express purpose.'
'Did you examine the premises before you left?'
'No, sir,' said Leeming.
'It never occurred to you to advise him about the security of his premises?'
'I didn't think it was my place to do so. Mr Voke has had that shop for many years. He knows how to guard his stock. A silversmith would not remain in business if he didn't lock all his doors at night.'
'Locks can be opened,' said Tallis.
'Only by the right keys, sir,' Leeming pointed out.
'Someone appears to have had them.'
'What do you mean?'
'According to this,' said Tallis, picking up a sheet of paper, 'a Mr Leonard Voke reported a burglary at his premises during the night. It appears that his safe was completely emptied.'
'I did tell him to be on his guard.'
'You obviously didn't tell him loudly enough. Nor did you have the sense to check every door to the premises to see if they could in any way be made more secure. Our task,' he went on, sententiously, 'is not merely to solve crime. We also exist to prevent it.'
Leeming was abashed. 'Yes, sir.'
'Since you chose to act on your own initiative this morning, the very least you could have done was to return to Mr Voke's shop to check if anything untoward had happened during the night.'
'I thought it was more important to visit Mrs Jennings.'
'Was she Mr Kellow's landlady?'
'Yes, Superintendent,' said Leeming. 'She showed me his room.'
He gave an account of his visit to the house, hoping to receive at least a hint of praise for what he had learnt. Tallis, however, was unimpressed. Stroking his moustache, he pondered.
'Mrs Jennings has told you little of practical use,' he announced at length. 'Your visit there was hardly productive.'
'I learnt much about the murder victim's character, sir.'
'That brings us no closer to identifying his killer.'
'I believe it does,' argued Leeming. 'It seems clear to me that the prime suspect is Mr Stephen Voke. He was fired by revenge. From what I can gather, Mr Kellow not only supplanted him as a silversmith, he also took young Mr Voke's place in his father's affections. That must have rankled with him.'
'Yes,' conceded Tallis, 'I can detect a plausible motive there.'
'Stephen Voke would also have known to whom that coffee pot locomotive was being delivered and had a very good idea as to when work on it would be completed. More to the point,' said Leeming, 'he would know his way around the premises in the dark.'
'Then he needs to be brought in for questioning.'
'That may be difficult, sir.'
'Why – Mr Voke told you where his son worked.'
'I called on the proprietor, Mr Solomon Stern. He didn't speak well of Stephen Voke. Apparently, his work was very satisfactory at first but he became lax. Also, his timekeeping was poor. He began to arrive late and leave early. What annoyed Mr Stern,' he remembered, 'was that a young lady was always loitering outside the shop in the evening. As soon as he saw her, Stephen Voke left.'
'Are you telling me that you never actually met Voke?'
'He no longer works in Hatton Garden.'
'Did his employer give him the sack?'
'Mr Stern never had the chance to do so,' replied Leeming. 'He has not seen hide nor hair of Stephen Voke for a week. The young man has terminated his employment there without warning.'
'Then you should have sought him at his lodgings.'
'I did, sir. I went to the address given to me by Mr Stern.'
'Was Stephen Voke there?'
'No, sir,' said Leeming, 'and he never has been. He gave a false address to his employer. Nobody seems to know where he is. Stephen Voke – and, presumably, the young lady – has vanished into thin air.'
Tegwyn Rees was a tall, angular, emaciated man who looked as if he should be lying on the slab beside the corpses he dissected. When he was introduced to Colbeck by Jeremiah Stockdale, he regarded the inspector through cold, almost colourless eyes.
'Why do we need detectives from London?' he said with undisguised resentment. 'The crime was committed on Welsh soil. I'm sure the superintendent could have solved it without interference.'
'I came to help, Dr Rees,' said Colbeck, 'and not to interfere. In any case, Superintendent Stockdale is very much involved in the investigation. His officers are making enquiries about the source of that sulphuric acid even as we speak.'
'Yet they are under the direction of a complete stranger.'
'Don't be so territorial, Tegwyn,' said Stockdale, jovially. 'The inspector is no stranger to me. And if you think a Welsh murder can only be tackled by Welsh policeman, it rules me out. I'm as English as Cheddar cheese – and just as delicious. Now tell us what the post-mortem revealed.'
They were in Rees's surgery, a room as neat, chilly and sterile as the man himself. He consulted a sheet of paper before speaking.
'The cause of death,' he began, 'was heart failure brought on by a massive dose of sulphuric acid. Its corrosive properties can be seen in the disfigurement around the mouth and in several internal organs. The wound on the scalp and the bruising were caused before death.'
'I realised that when I saw the blood,' said Colbeck. 'As soon as the heart stops, so does the circulation.'
'Let me finish, please,' said Rees, tetchily. 'There were also bruises on the chest and arms of the victim, suggesting that someone may have been kneeling on him.'
'That disposes of your idea that the killer was a female,' said Stockdale to Colbeck. 'No woman would have been strong enough to hold him down.'
'She wouldn't have needed strength if he'd willingly submitted to being tied up,' returned Colbeck before giving Rees an apologetic smile. 'Do go on, sir.'
Rees clicked his tongue. 'Thank you,' he said with sarcasm. 'Need I remind you that I was the one who conducted the autopsy? All that you saw were the more obvious external signs. As it happens, Inspector, your wild guess has some foundation. The victim's wrists were tied tightly enough to leave a mark and there were similar weals on his ankles. In other words, he was spread-eagled on the bed.'
'That's what Inspector Colbeck suggested,' said Stockdale. 'He felt that Mr Kellow may have been seduced by a woman and that being tied up was part of some ritual.'
'There is some supportive evidence for that theory,' said Rees, glancing at his notes. 'There was a discharge of semen in the victim's underwear, consistent with high sexual excitement. It may even be the case that some of the bruising was a deliberate part of any ritual. There are – believe it or not – people who actually derive pleasure from pain and who pay others to administer it.'
Stockdale grinned. 'You don't need to tell me that, Tegwyn,' he said. 'When we raided a house in Charlotte Street last month, we found a man hanging naked from the rafters while a woman in a black mask flayed him with a cat o'nine tails.' He pulled a face. 'I don't mind telling you that it's not my idea of pleasure.'
'We're still working on assumptions,' Colbeck reminded them. 'It would be mistake to build too much on them. Explain one thing to us, Dr Rees, if you can,' he went on. 'Even someone who enjoyed pain to a certain point would surely have cried out when he was struck on the head with a blunt instrument that broke open the scalp.
'You're quite right, Inspector.'
'Then why did nobody hear the noise?'
'You should have been there when I examined the back of the victim's neck,' said Rees, loftily. 'There were unmistakable marks of something having been tied very tightly against it. My considered opinion is that, before he was killed, the victim was bound and gagged. He could neither move nor speak. The gag was only removed when the acid was about to be poured down his throat.'
'That would explain the cry for help,' said Colbeck. 'One of the guests heard it as she walked past and it was quickly stifled.' He gritted his teeth. 'Whoever committed the murder did not simply wish to kill Hugh Kellow. They were determined to make him suffer.'