‘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.’