‘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.’
‘I daresay that’s also true of you – may I know your name?’
‘Of course, sir – it’s Laura Tremaine.’
‘I hope I have the chance to see you perform, Miss Tremaine. But let me give you a warning,’ he went on, looking around. ‘Light will start to fade before too long. It’s not wise for an unaccompanied young lady to be on the streets. Cardiff is not short of public houses, as you can see. I’d hate to think of your being harassed by drunkards.’
‘There’s no danger of that,’ she said, chirpily. ‘I’m called for a rehearsal quite soon. Besides, I’m not alone. Duncan and the Porter are keeping watch on me.’ She indicated the figure of a stout, stooping, middle-aged man some thirty yards away. That’s Sydney Hobbs. He plays both parts. In a small company like ours, we have a lot of doubling. Mr Buckmaster says that it’s good experience for us.’
Laura Tremaine had the burning conviction of a true Thespian. Colbeck felt a pang of sympathy for her. Not for the first time, he thought how gruelling the life of a touring actress must be. Laura would be constantly on the move, going from place to place in search of an audience, travelling cheaply, eating poorly, staying in drab accommodation, living on a pittance and paying for her brief moments of glory on stage by doing such mundane chores as handing out playbills to passing strangers and running the risk of molestation.
She seemed to read his mind. ‘Do not worry about me, sir,’ she said, happily. ‘I would gladly suffer all the indignities that the world can subject me to for the privilege of working with Mr Buckmaster.’
Colbeck was touched by her blazing sincerity. ‘He is evidently a remarkable man,’ he said. ‘I look forward to meeting him.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The Theatre Royal had been opened almost thirty years earlier by interested parties who formed a joint-stock company. What they got for their investment was a neat, rectangular structure with a Gothic façade whose plethora of arched windows gave it an inappropriately ecclesiastical air. Striking in appearance, it was not, however, known for its comfort and its interior lacked the sheer scope, luxury and embellishment of London theatres. Nigel Buckmaster made light of its deficiencies, confident that the brilliance of his performance would divert the minds of any audience from the hardness of the seats. He was reeling off some instructions to his stage manager when he was interrupted by Robert Colbeck. Hearing why the inspector had come, he immediately conducted him to the main dressing room at the rear of the stage.