‘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.
CHAPTER TWO
‘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.
Colbeck sought to cheer up his jaded companion.
‘There are consolations,’ he argued. ‘For a start, we’ll be out of reach of Superintendent Tallis for a while.’
‘That’s always a bonus,’ agreed Leeming. ‘He’s been very liverish these past few weeks.’
‘It’s understandable – there have been far too many crimes and far too few convictions. The superintendent expects us to catch every single law-breaker and put him or her behind bars. We both know that it’s an impossible demand.’
‘If he wants us patrolling the streets of London, why is he letting us charge off across the Welsh border?’
‘I think that vanity comes into it, Victor,’ decided Colbeck. ‘The fact that we’ve been sought by name indicates that the reputation of the Detective Department has spread far and wide. That feeds his self-importance. In that uninhabitable waste land known as his heart, I fancy that he rather likes the notion of despatching his men to solve crimes in different parts of the country – as long as we are quick about it, naturally.’
‘It can’t be quick enough for me this time.’
‘There’s no call for alarm. Estelle and the children will survive without you for a night or two.’
‘That’s not what irks me, Inspector,’ confided Leeming. ‘My worry is that I won’t be able to survive without them.’
The brisk clip-clop of the horse changed to a slow tap-tap of hooves as the driver pulled on the reins. The cab soon stopped and the two men got out. Colbeck paid the fare then led his companion into the maelstrom that was Paddington Station on a busy afternoon. Over the tumult, he called out to Leeming.
‘Then there’s the other consolation, Victor.’
‘Is there, sir?’
‘When we get to Cardiff, we’ll meet an old friend.’
‘Oh – and who might that be?’
‘Jeremiah Stockdale.’
Leeming brightened instantly. ‘Now that is a consolation.’
And for the first time in his life, he stepped into a railway carriage with something resembling a smile on his face.
Archelaus Pugh had many virtues but he was not a man for a crisis. As the manager of the Railway Hotel in Cardiff, he was unfailingly efficient. Faced with everyday problems – awkward guests, mistakes over reservations, indolence among his staff – he was calm, patient and decisive. Confronted with a dead body in one of his rooms, however, Pugh swiftly deteriorated. Sweat broke out on his corrugated brow, his eyes darted uncontrollably and his clothing was suddenly too tight for him. He was a short, neat man in his forties with a crisp and authoritative voice that had now become a baleful croak.
‘You can’t leave him there, Superintendent,’ he wailed.
‘I can do and I will do, Mr Pugh,’ said Jeremiah Stockdale.
‘Think what it looks like. If a policeman stands outside that room all day, it will frighten my other guests.’
‘It’s more likely to reassure them, sir. And it also prevents any of them from stumbling into the room by mistake. Think how horrified they’d be if that happened.’
Pugh tried to assert himself. ‘I have a hotel to run.’
‘And I have a crime to solve,’ retorted Stockdale, looming over him. ‘That takes precedence over everything.’
‘Can’t you at least move the corpse out of here?’
‘No, Mr Pugh.’
‘Why ever not – it’s the most dreadful advertisement for us.’
‘My sympathies are with the victim. He stays where he is until Inspector Colbeck arrives from London. I want him to see exactly what we found when we went into that room.’
Stockdale was adamant. He was a big, brawny, bluff individual in his forties with a thick, dark moustache and a fringe beard. English by birth, he had had a brief military career as a mercenary in Spain before being invalided home. Recovering from his wounds, he had joined the recently formed Metropolitan Police Force. As a result of the training and experience acquired on the dangerous streets of London, he had secured, when only twenty-four, the post of Superintendent of the Cardiff Borough Police. That made him, in effect, the town’s Chief Constable. For almost two decades, he had been a very successful law-enforcement officer in spite of an inadequate budget, limited manpower and the constant criticism of the Watch Committee.
It was pointless to argue with Jeremiah Box Stockdale. He was his own man. He did not suffer fools gladly or bend to the wishes of panic-stricken hotel managers. Archelaus Pugh could bleat at him all day but it was a futile exercise. The corpse would stay where it was and the policeman would remain on guard.