‘Then why are you bothering to go to Mayfair?’
‘Because the name of her employer was genuine,’ said Colbeck. ‘At least, I believe it is. She showed us a letter from her so-called brother. It was all part of the deception, of course, and was never actually sent through the post. But it was written by him. It was addressed to Miss Effie Kellow, c/o Mr Dalrymple, Chesterfield Street. When she met Victor and Superintendent Tallis, she showed them another letter from Kellow, explaining that he was going to Cardiff. It seemed very convincing. Mr Kellow thought of everything and planned ahead meticulously.’
‘Then he must have planned his escape as well.’
‘If he’s still in this country, we’ll track him down.’
‘What if he and this young woman have gone abroad?’
Colbeck was determined. ‘Then we’ll go after them, Madeleine. They can run as far as they wish but we’ll stay on their tail.’
* * *
Hugh Kellow rubbed the silver to a high sheen then stood back to admire the effect. Effie came into the room and saw him.
‘Have you been polishing it again?’ she said, clicking her tongue. ‘You’ll wear it away if you keep doing that, Hugh.’
‘It’s all mine now,’ he told her, admiring the detail. ‘And so it should be. I did nine-tenths of the work and Mr Voke passed it off as his. He always did that. Stephen and I slaved over lots of pieces on our own then, when they were sold in the shop, we’d hear Mr Voke taking all the praise for them. It was unfair.’
‘You got your own back.’
‘He won’t ever do that again, Effie.’
Kellow lifted the coffee pot and placed it on the sideboard where it could catch the light from the window. They were in the parlour at the back of a shop that had not yet opened for business. It was a large room with a floral-patterned wallpaper that had appealed to Effie. There were only a few items of furniture at the moment but they had enough money to buy what they wanted now. They intended to go in search of some armchairs that very morning. The one thing they did not need was a bed. It was their first purchase and had been delivered on the day when they moved into their new home. After scattering their spoils on the coverlet, they had made love with celebratory passion in a flurry of banknotes.
‘We’re going to be so happy here,’ she said, looking around.
‘It will be worth all the effort.’
‘Yes, it was an effort, Hugh. It took me weeks to persuade Martin Henley to meet me in Cardiff and book that hotel room in your name. I had to offer him all sorts of temptations.’
‘As long as they were only offered,’ he said.
‘You know me better than that, Hugh. You’re the only man for me. And you told me to pick someone who looked very much like you. That made it a lot easier,’ she recalled. ‘I could forget that it was Martin and pretend that it was Hugh Kellow.’
‘Hugh Kellow is dead.’
She smiled. ‘Well, you seemed to be alive enough last night.’
‘As far as everyone is concerned,’ he boasted, ‘I was murdered in a hotel room. They’ve probably buried me by now with that miser, Mr Voke, weeping tears over my coffin. That’s the beauty of it, Effie. We’re in no danger because nobody knows that I still exist.’
‘What about Martin?’
‘He got what he deserved for chasing my girl.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ she told him. ‘He lived at home with his parents. They’ll have started to worry about him. They’ll go to the police to report him missing.’
‘So?’ He gave an elaborate shrug. ‘People go missing all the time. Nobody will connect him with the corpse at the hotel because they know that was me. His parents will just think Martin ran away – you told me that he hated living at home.’
‘He had no real privacy there.’
‘Well, he’ll have all the privacy he wants in the grave.’
They laughed harshly and hugged each other. Effie was wearing a new dress that made her look older and more elegant. There was no hint of the servant about her now. She was mistress of her own house. Kellow broke away and appraised the silver coffee pot again.
‘I hope you’re not expecting me to make coffee in that,’ she warned, ‘because it’s far too big.’
‘I prefer tea, Effie.’
‘Mrs Tomkins will have to order a new one.’
‘Well, it won’t be from Mr Voke because he could never make it. His eyesight is really bad now. Without me, he’s completely lost.’ He smirked. ‘I wish I could have seen the look on Mrs Tomkins’ face when she took that tin replica out of the bag. That would have been a sight to behold.’
‘There’s no crime in taking money from rich people.’
‘That’s what I believe.’
‘We earned every penny, Hugh.’
‘We did,’ he said, ‘and when the shop is open and I start to have customers, we’ll earn a lot more. Being my own master has always been my ambition and, when I realised that Mr Voke was not going to let me take over his shop, I knew I had to do something drastic. Shall I tell you something, Effie?’
‘What?’
His eyes sparkled. ‘I enjoyed every moment of what we did.’
‘So did I – except when I had to let Martin Henley touch me, that is. I hated that bit. He was so desperate. What I did like,’ she went on with a giggle, ‘was the fun of deceiving people. They believed every word I said – even those detectives.’
‘We can forget about them now. Inspector Colbeck will never know the truth of what happened. We’re free to live exactly as we want, Effie,’ he declared, lifting her up by the waist and swinging her in a circle, ‘and that’s what we’ll do.’
Victor Leeming had never liked venturing into Mayfair. Its abiding whiff of prosperity offended his nostrils. He was much more at ease in the rougher districts of the city, the teeming rookeries and the dark alleys festering with crime. As he and Colbeck sat in a cab that morning, he looked at the fine Georgian houses that went past.
‘This area always brings out the Chartist in me,’ he said. ‘Why should some people have so much money when most of us don’t? I can’t believe they got it honestly.’
‘You can raise the subject with Mr Dalrymple.’
‘I still don’t believe that he exists, sir.’
‘Then you’re going to be surprised,’ said Colbeck. ‘A good liar always uses enough truth to make a lie convincing. I don’t think that Effie plucked a name like Dalrymple out of the air.’
‘That doesn’t mean she actually worked for him.’
‘No, Victor, but I’m ready to bet that she did.’
Leeming ignored the offer of a wager. The cab turned into Chesterfield Street with its tall, symmetrical houses of plain brick. Some of the dwellings had been altered by the addition of porticos, stucco facings, window dressings and even extra storeys. The overall impression was that it was a fashionable and civilised place in which to live. They went to the address they remembered seeing on the letters supposedly sent there by Hugh Kellow. When they explained who they were, they were invited into the house and shown into the library. Eliot Dalrymple soon joined them. He was a portly man of medium height with an excessively pale and well-scrubbed face. They also noticed how white his hands were. Although in his sixties, he looked very well-preserved. After introductions had been made, Colbeck took over.
‘I believe that you once employed an Effie Kellow,’ he said.
‘That’s not a name I recognise,’ replied Dalrymple, ‘though I did have a servant who was called Effie below stairs because she hated her given name. Her grandmother had been called Effie, it seems, and she preferred that.’
‘What was her real name, sir?’
‘Haggs – Bridget Haggs.’