Edward Marston - The Silver Locomotive mystery

'I was struck by his appearance the moment I set eyes on him,' she said, taking her cue. 'You have presence, Mr Kellow, and that is the most important quality of all. Vocal tricks and histrionic gestures can be taught but stage presence is a natural gift. Come now, there must have been times when you felt the urge to perform in public.'

'Never, Miss Linnane,' said Kellow with a self-effacing laugh. 'The truth of it is I'm rather a timid fellow.'

'Timidity is something that can easily be shed.'

'Kate is right,' added Buckmaster, taking a silver case from his pocket and extracting a card. 'Here – take this. If ever you change your mind, there will always be a place for you in my company.' Kellow took the gold-edged card and inspected it. 'You would have to start at the bottom, you understand, with small parts and meagre rewards but think what glories might lie ahead – Hugh Kellow in Hamlet!'

The silversmith shrugged. 'I think I will stick to my trade, sir.'

'Keep my card and come to see us perform in Cardiff.'

'Oh, I am not staying in the town, sir.'

'No?'

'I simply have to make a delivery,' said Kellow, slipping the card into his pocket, 'then I catch a return train to London. On that journey, I fear, I will not have such distinguished company in first class. Mr Voke bought me a second class ticket.'

'I fancy that I see why,' said Kate, who had been watching the way his arm never left the bag. 'You must be carrying something of great value if you would not let your luggage be stowed on top of the carriage. May we ask what it is?'

Kellow bit his lip before speaking. 'It's a locomotive,' he said. 'To be more exact, it's a silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive.'

'How singular!' cried Buckmaster. 'Pray, let us see it.'

'Mr Voke forbade me to show it to anyone, sir.'

'But we are not anyone, Mr Kellow – we are friends.'

'Trusted friends, I hope,' said Kate, her appetite whetted. 'What harm is there in letting us have a peep at it? We are very discreet and it is not as if your employer will ever know.'

Hugh Kellow wrestled with his conscience for several minutes, unwilling to open the bag yet not wishing to let them down. He did not wish to spend the rest of a long journey in a strained atmosphere. They had offered him friendship and he needed to respond.

'Very well,' he said, capitulating. 'But you must promise not to touch it.' The others nodded their consent. Kellow undid the straps on the bag and took out an object that was wrapped in muslin. He drew back the folds of the material. 'Here it is – a replica of the Firefly class of 1840, exact in every particular.'

Buckmaster and Kate were astounded. What they were looking at was nothing less than a miniature masterpiece, a scale model that was well over a foot long and that had the substance and sheen of high quality silver. The boiler was fitted to a tall, domed, gleaming firebox. Either side of the two large driving wheels were much smaller carrying wheels. While Buckmaster whistled in amazement, Kate's eyes widened covetously. Kellow was pleased at their reaction.

'The framing has been simplified a little,' he explained, 'and we added some boiler mountings. As for this little embellishment,' he went on, indicating a silver crown at the top of the smokestack, 'it is not mere decoration. It has an important function.' He flicked the crown back on its hinge. 'It keeps the coffee warm before it is poured.'

'It's magnificent,' said Buckmaster. 'I've never seen such fine detail. It must have taken an age to make.'

'It did, sir. Mr Voke is a perfectionist. He worked for an eternity on this commission. He even sent me to Swindon to make some drawings of Firefly locomotives.'

Buckmaster's eye twinkled. 'Did you travel first class?'

'I had to make do with third class on that occasion,' admitted Kellow, sadly. 'Mr Voke is very careful with his money. Some call him mean – his son certainly did – but I think he's being sensible. He's taught me to manage my own income with similar caution.'

'I've never seen anything like it,' said Kate, feasting her eyes on the locomotive. 'Your employer has turned an ugly, dirty, noisy, iron contraption into a thing of real beauty. It must be an honour to work for such a superb craftsman.'

'It is, indeed,' returned Kellow, gratefully, 'though the coffee pot is not entirely Mr Voke's handiwork. The truth of it is that his eyesight is not what it was so he asked me to take over some of the more intricate work such as the crown and the insignia on the side of the firebox. I was also responsible for the pistons and for the railings on either side of the footplate.' A note of pride intruded. 'It was because I was so involved in making it that Mr Voke gave me the honour of delivering it to its new owner.'

'And who is that?'

'Mrs Tomkins of Cardiff – her name is on the boiler plate.'

'I envy her!' said Kate with feeling. 'I adore silver. No, no,' she went on quickly as Kellow tried to cover the locomotive up again. 'Don't hide it away, I beseech you. Let me gloat!'

Amid clouds of smoke, sulphur and soot, the train roared into Cardiff General Station and slowed to a juddering halt. The passengers alighted and waited for their luggage to be unloaded from the roofs of the carriages. Larger items had travelled in the guard's van. Before he stepped on to the platform, Nigel Buckmaster put on his hat, cloak and imperious expression. He helped Kate Linnane to get out then he shook hands with Hugh Kellow. The silversmith was anxious to deliver the coffee pot but Kate was reluctant to let him go, clutching his arm with one hand while surreptitiously stroking his bag with the other. When he finally pulled away, she let out an involuntary cry of distress.

'What ails you, my love?' asked Buckmaster.

She watched Kellow until he was swallowed up by the crowd.

'It's that silver coffee pot,' she confessed, a palm to her breast. 'It's stolen my heart, Nigel – I'd kill to own it!'

The corpse lay on the bed, impervious to the breeze that blew in through the open window to rustle the curtains. When a fly came into the room, it described endless circles in the air before settling on the top of a large, open, empty leather bag.

'Why do we have to go to Cardiff?' asked Victor Leeming, grumpily.

'Because that's where the murder occurred,' said Colbeck.

'But Cardiff is in Wales.'

'You don't need to lecture me in geography, Victor. I know exactly where it is and how long it will take a train to get us there.'

'Far too long,' moaned Leeming.

'A change of air will do you good.'

'Don't they have their own police force?'

'We were expressly requested by the South Wales Railway.'

'You mean that you were, Inspector. Every railway company in the country is after your services. At the first sign of trouble, they send for Robert Colbeck, the Railway Detective.'

'A murder is rather more than a sign of trouble.'

'What exactly happened?'

'The telegraph gave us only the merest details,' said Colbeck. 'A guest at the Railway Hotel was killed in his room. That's all we need to know at this stage. The summons had me reaching for my Bradshaw and that's why we're on our way to Paddington.'

Leeming grimaced. 'I detest boring train journeys.'

'That's a contradiction in terms. To a trained observer – such as a detective sergeant like you – no train journey should ever be boring. It's a delight to the eye and a continual stimulus to the brain. Travel broadens the mind, Victor.'

Leeming grunted mutinously. Colbeck knew why he was being so churlish. The sergeant was a married man with a wife and two children on whom he doted. He hated having to be absent from them at night and an investigation in Cardiff could well mean days away. As soon as the telegraph arrived at Scotland Yard, Colbeck had told Leeming to grab the valise he kept at the office in case of an assignment away from London. It contained a change of clothing. The two men were now ensconced in a cab as it rolled noisily towards the railway station over a cobbled street. They were, in appearance, an ill-assorted pair. Colbeck was tall, slim, debonair, impeccably dressed and with an almost flashy handsomeness while Leeming was stocky, of medium height, inelegant even in a frock coat and top hat, and with the startling ugliness of a fairground bruiser who has come off worst in a brawl. Yet his family loved him deeply and Colbeck admired him for his sterling qualities as a policeman. Leeming had the tenacity of a man who, once set on the right path, would never deviate from it until a case was solved.