Edward Marston - The Silver Locomotive mystery

'Thank you, Winifred,' said Tomkins when his wife's tirade finally came to an end. 'Now let's hear what the superintendent is doing to solve these appalling crimes.'

'I've done the most sensible thing possible, sir,' explained Stockdale. 'Since the crimes occurred on the property of the South Wales Railway, I advised the managing director to send for Detective Inspector Colbeck of the Metropolitan Police Force.'

'Why on earth did you do that, man?'

'I can see that you're not familiar with his reputation. The inspector has dealt with crimes relating to the railway system all over the country. His record of success is unparalleled. I've worked beside him so I know what a brilliant detective he is.'

'Can he recover my coffee pot?' challenged Winifred, eyes at the extremity of their bulge. 'That's what I wish to know.'

'Inspector Colbeck is certain of it. No pawnbroker would touch an object as distinctive as that and I venture to suggest that there are very few ladies with your abiding interest in locomotives.'

'Years ago,' she announced, grandly, 'my father was a major investor in the Great Western Railway. I inherited his passion for trains. I always preferred to play with my brother's toy engine rather than with my dolls. It was partly in memory of my late father that I wanted that silver coffee pot made and my husband was kind enough to commission it.'

'Mr Voke was highly recommended,' added Tomkins, 'so we put our trust in him. He sent us a series of sketches and my wife chose the one that she wanted. We didn't want to buy a pig in a poke.'

'Do you still have the sketch, sir?' asked Stockdale. 'It would be helpful to know exactly what we're looking for.'

'It's in the library, Superintendent. I'll get it for you.'

As Tomkins went out, Stockdale turned to the still fuming Winifred. Nothing but the instant return of her coffee pot would placate her. The murder did not somehow impinge on her consciousness.

'Mrs Tomkins,' he began, 'Inspector Colbeck pointed out that whoever stole your coffee pot must have been aware of the time of its arrival in the town. They knew exactly when to strike. Is there anyone of your acquaintance in whom you confided such a detail?'

She was enraged. 'Are you suggesting that one of my friends is a thief?' she cried. 'Our social circle is above reproach.'

'I realise that. But if you'd described the item to anyone and told them when it would be delivered, they might accidentally have let slip that information to someone else.'

'That's quite out of the question.'

'Somebody must have known,' he pointed out. 'Think carefully, Mrs Tomkins. Who did you tell? I know, for instance, that you number Sir David and Lady Pryde among your acquaintances.'

'Not any more,' she rejoined with controlled vehemence. 'Lady Pryde has proved herself unworthy of my friendship. She is no longer welcome here. However,' she said as a thought struck her, 'she did see the sketch of the coffee pot and knew when it would be coming. And she has always had an acquisitive streak. Not that I'm accusing her, mind you,' she added, hurriedly, 'but it might be worth bearing her name in mind.'

'Is that the only name you can offer me?'

'It is, Superintendent. Unless, that is…'

'Go on,' he coaxed.

'Well, now that I think of it, someone was extremely interested in the sketch when I showed it to her. Like me, she collects silver.'

'Who is the lady?'

'Miss Evans,' she said. 'Miss Carys Evans.'

Before Stockdale could pass a comment, Tomkins came back into the room with sheet of cartridge paper. He handed it to the superintendent who was impressed by the meticulous detail of the sketch, noting the name of Hugh Kellow in a bottom corner. The young silversmith had also been a competent artist.

'Thank you, sir,' said Stockdale. 'May I hold on to this?'

'If you wish,' answered Tomkins.

'It's a highly individual item and very difficult to sell.'

'Heavens!' exclaimed Mrs Tomkins, clutching at her throat. 'Surely, the thief wouldn't destroy my precious coffee pot and have something else made out of the silver?'

'Not according to Inspector Colbeck,' said Stockdale, firmly. 'He believes that the villain has a much better plan.' Pausing for effect, he cleared his throat. 'He intends to let you buy it back from him.'

Winifred emitted a howl of indignation and her husband's jaw dropped. The last time Stockdale had seen such an expression of comprehensive dismay on the old man's face was when he had found him writhing naked between the thighs of a young Welsh prostitute.

As Colbeck walked along St Mary Street, he saw very little of its fine buildings, its plentiful shops, its clean pavements and its gas lamps. He was preoccupied with thoughts of Madeleine Andrews. But for the urgent summons to Cardiff, he would have taken her out to dine that evening and luxuriated in her company for hours. Instead, he was a hundred and sixty miles away, a distance that only intensified his regret. He knew that she would be sorely disappointed but there was nothing he could do about it. His private life was always subsidiary to professional demands. Victor Leeming frequently talked about his family and Colbeck encouraged him to do so. He was very fond of Estelle Leeming and the two children. Yet he never discussed Madeleine with the sergeant. Leeming wore his heart on his sleeve. Colbeck's heart could beat just as fast even though it was kept discreetly from view.

When he reached the end of High Street, he was jerked out of his reverie by something that sprung up before him to demand his attention. Cardiff Castle was a daunting structure. Beginning as a Roman fortress, it had been rebuilt by the Normans then extended and embroidered by successive owners. Some of its interior had fallen into disrepair but its high walls and massive gatehouse remained. For hundreds of years, it had dominated the town completely. Cardiff was now slowly fighting back, surrounding it with houses, encroaching on its margins, laying siege architecturally. A castle with a town had become a town with a castle. Colbeck took a few minutes to appraise it and to speculate on how much misery its dungeons must have known in the time when they were the home of any local malefactors.

Turning right and with the castle on his left, Colbeck strode in the direction of the Theatre Royal. Stockdale had told him that it was situated in Crockerton but that turned out to be his pronunciation of Crockherbtown. It was only a short walk from the castle. What had once been a leafy suburb of Cardiff was now an integral part, linked to the centre by a series of houses, shops, inns, chapels and other buildings. Colbeck had not gone very far beyond the castle when he was accosted by a young woman whose bonnet framed a face of exceptional loveliness.

'May I give you one of these, sir?' she said, sweetly, offering him a playbill. 'Buckmaster's Players are performing here this week.'

'I know,' he said, taking the handbill and glancing at it. 'As it happens, I'm on my way to the theatre right now to speak to Mr Buckmaster.'

'He's been there all afternoon.'

'I take it that you're a member of the company.'

'Oh, yes,' she replied, showing a perfect set of teeth in a broad smile. 'I have two parts in Macbeth – I play one of the witches, then I reappear as Lady Macduff.'

'Then I must question the casting,' he said, gallantly. 'You're far too beautiful to be a witch.' She laughed gaily at the compliment. 'What is not in doubt is your boldness in staging a play that has a reputation of bringing back luck. Mr Buckmaster is a brave man.'

Her face ignited with ardour. 'I think he's a genius!'

'He's an outstanding actor, to be sure. I marvelled at his Othello and recall his Romeo with fondness.'

'Every part he touches, he makes his own.'