Edward Marston - The Silver Locomotive mystery

'I'll be as silent as the grave,' he promised.

'You must be, Father. If you keep prying, you'll upset Robert as well as me. As I've told you a dozen times,' she went on, 'we're close friends but there's a point beyond which our friendship never goes. He hasn't put it into words but I sense there's some kind of obstruction. It's to do with his past.'

'You mean that he's already married?' said Andrews, worriedly. 'I won't have any man trifling with your affections, Maddie, however high and mighty he might be,'

'He's not married and he never has been. And Robert is certainly not leading me astray. But there was someone in his past and, every so often, that person comes into his mind. At least, that's what I think. It's the only way to explain them.'

'Explain what?'

'Those odd moments,' she said, pursing her lips, 'when he seems to be in mourning for someone.'

The passage of time had not served to calm down Archelaus Pugh. When Colbeck spoke to the manager in his office, Pugh was still in a state of shock, body tense, face pallid, his Welsh lilt exploring higher octaves.

'This could be the ruination of us, Inspector,' he said, dabbing at the perspiration on his brow with a handkerchief. 'The hotel has not long been opened. Murder is bound to affect our business.'

'Temporarily perhaps,' said Colbeck. 'The important thing is to solve the crime as soon as possible so that it does not remain at the forefront of the public's mind. You'll be pleased to hear that I've sanctioned the removal of the body.'

'Thank goodness for that!'

'I'd recommend that you keep that room unoccupied for a while.'

Pugh gave a hollow laugh. 'Who'd want to stay there?'

'I think you'd be surprised, sir. Never underestimate the ghoulish curiosity of some people. Now,' he went on, 'I need some details from you. When was that particular room reserved?'

'This very morning, Inspector,' replied the manager. 'Mr Jones, who was on duty at the time, believes that it was around ten o'clock. The room was booked for one night by a Mr Hugh Kellow.'

'Except that it couldn't have been the real Mr Kellow because his train did not arrive in Cardiff until almost an hour later. The man was patently an impostor.'

Pugh was defensive. 'Mr Jones was not to know that.'

'Of course not,' said Colbeck. 'He acted in good faith. What can he tell us about this bogus Mr Kellow?'

'Very little, I fear,' said Pugh. 'He's an observant man – I teach all my staff to be alert – but other guests were arriving at the same time. All that Mr Jones can remember is that he was a personable young man with a ready smile.'

'Did he have a Welsh or an English accent?'

'English.'

'Was it an educated voice?'

'Oh, yes. We don't cater for riffraff here. It's one of the reasons I moved to Cardiff from a hotel in Merthyr. We had to cope with a lower class of person there at times.'

'Did Mr Jones notice if the man was carrying any luggage?'

'He had a large bag with him, Inspector.'

'Then what happened?'

'He signed his name in the register and was shown up to his room. About half an hour later, this so-called Mr Kellow was seen to leave the hotel by the front door.'

'Did anyone see him returning?'

'Not to my knowledge, Inspector,' said Pugh. 'He might have come in through the rear entrance, of course, or even slipped in during the rush. The London train brought in a number of guests so there was a small crowd at the desk for a while.'

'When did you become aware of a problem?' asked Colbeck.

'It must have been a little after noon. A Mrs Anstey, one of the guests, happened to be passing the room in question when she heard clear sounds of distress as if someone was calling for help. She came to report the incident and I went upstairs to investigate.' He gave a low gurgle. 'I think you know the rest.'

'I do, Mr Pugh. What you've told me is very helpful. It's in accord with my early suspicions.' He sat back and studied the manager with interest. 'You come from Merthyr Tydfil then?'

'Yes, Inspector,' Pugh told him, pocketing the handkerchief. 'I was born and brought up there. It's a dirty, brawling, boisterous industrial town with a lot of immigrants – Irish, Spanish and Italian, mostly. Merthyr was always far bigger than Cardiff. Indeed, until recent years, Cardiff couldn't hold a candle to Merthyr, Swansea or Newport. It was a sort of poor relation.'

'Things have certainly changed. It's a thriving coal port now. Superintendent Stockdale was telling me how the population has trebled in the time he's been living here. Inevitably,' said Colbeck with a shrug, 'it's meant a sharp increase in the amount of crime.'

Pugh was rueful. 'The worst excesses occur in Butetown – that's the dockland area. It's a vile place, filled with the dross of humanity who believe they were put on this earth to do nothing but drink, fight, gamble and enjoy carnal pleasures in sordid dens of wickedness. You'll not want to be in Butetown when foreign ships come in,' he warned. 'It's like hell on earth. You'd expect a murder there but not,' he continued, spreading his arms wide, 'in a respectable hotel like this. Oh, Inspector, please tell me that you'll be able to catch the villain who inflicted this horror upon us.'

Colbeck was confident. 'I think I can guarantee it, Mr Pugh.'

Jeremiah Stockdale was not looking forward to the visit. Being the bearer of bad news always made him feel uncomfortable. Since the bad news had to be passed on to Clifford Tomkins and his wife, Stockdale had reason to be even more uneasy. He steeled himself to bear the onslaught of anger, bitterness and criticism that was bound to come. Winifred Tomkins, a plump, pampered middle-aged woman, dripping with expensive jewellery, led the attack. No sooner had he given them the salient details of the crime than she pounced.

'My coffee pot has been stolen!' she cried, outrage making her already bulbous eyes move even further out of their sockets. 'How on earth could you let this happen, Superintendent?'

'I think it's unfair to blame me, Mrs Tomkins,' said Stockdale, stoutly. 'Neither I nor my men were engaged to guard the item.'

'Well, you should have been.'

'This is most distressing,' said Tomkins, oozing disapproval. 'Do you know how much that coffee pot cost?'

'Yes, sir – I've seen the invoice.'

'Then you'll have noticed that I had already paid fifty pounds deposit. Money does not grow on trees, you know.'

Stockdale was about to point out that, in a sense, it did. The ironmaster had cultivated a small forest out of the blood, sweat and early deaths of the poor wretches who toiled in his ironworks, leaving him to pluck metaphorical banknotes from every branch. The vast neo-Gothic residence that Tomkins had had built on the outskirts of Cardiff bore testimony to his wealth and the drawing room in which they were now standing was awash with Regency furniture, silver ornaments and gilt-framed portraits. Forthright on most occasions, Stockdale held his tongue. There was no virtue in alienating them even more.

'I want that coffee pot back!' insisted Winifred.

'An investigation has already been set in motion,' said the visitor, 'but please bear in mind that the theft was only a secondary crime. Cold-blooded murder was committed in that hotel.'

'That's immaterial.'

'Not in my view.'

'Nor in mine,' said Tomkins, reasonably. 'I know that you're upset, my dear, but the fate of that young man compels attention. It's a dreadful thing to happen to him.'

Winifred was dismissive. 'He's beyond help,' she said, waving a hand, 'so let's not waste time on him. After all, he was only the silversmith's assistant. I shall be writing to Mr Voke to ask him why he didn't take more steps to ensure the safety of my coffee pot.'

She continued to complain loudly and to upbraid Stockdale as if he had been the thief. He weathered the storm and collected an apologetic glance from Tomkins as he did so. Though he disliked the man intensely, Stockdale had compassion for any husband wedded to such a garrulous termagant. Clifford Tomkins was a tall, skinny, straight-backed man in his sixties with a mane of silver hair that reinforced his air of distinction. Callous to the point of brutality as a captain of industry, he was more restrained in a domestic setting. Over the years, his cheeks had been reddened by heavy drinking and hollowed by a dissipation about which his wife knew absolutely nothing. Stockdale, however, had his true measure, having once caught the old man in a compromising position during a raid on one of Cardiff's more exclusive brothels.