‘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.
‘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.’