Gas lighting gave the room a garish glow and created shifting patterns in the mirrors. Colbeck noticed that the actor’s costume for Macbeth was already hanging up. A dirk and claymore lay on the table beside a large make-up box. Buckmaster waved him to a seat but remained standing in a position where the best of the light fell upon his face.
‘I’d hoped to speak to Miss Linnane as well,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I was told that she was indisposed.’
‘This hideous business at the hotel unnerved her,’ explained Buckmaster, ‘so she took to her bed. Kate – Miss Linnane – is a sensitive creature. It’s ironic. Tomorrow, as Lady Macbeth, she’ll urge me to slaughter the King of Scotland and she’ll be utterly merciless in doing so. Yet when a real murder takes place so close to her, she is quite unable to cope with it. I, on the other hand,’ he said, thrusting out his chin, ‘am made of sterner stuff.’
‘So I see, Mr Buckmaster.’
‘I had the courage to identify the body when Superintendent Stockdale requested me to do so. It was a hideous sight but I didn’t flinch. An actor must have complete self-control. Not that I didn’t shed a tear for him,’ he went on, inhaling deeply through his nose. ‘Mr Kellow was a pleasant young man with a patent love of what he was doing. Apparently, he helped to make that silver coffee pot. It showed exceptional talent.’
‘How would you describe him?’
‘He struck me as an intelligent, well-spoken, responsible chap. He was somewhat unworldly, though, and felt uneasy at travelling in a first class railway carriage. It was obviously a rare treat for him. Miss Linanne and I are used to people being cowed by our presence – that’s part of an actor’s stock-in-trade, after all – but Mr Kellow was completely over-awed.’
‘Did he tell you anything about his work?’ probed Colbeck.
‘Not at first,’ replied Buckmaster. ‘We found it hard to get more than two words out of him – and he kept hugging his leather bag as it if contained the Crown Jewels. We had great difficulty persuading him to let us see the coffee pot and we were not allowed to touch it.’
‘What was your first reaction when you saw it?’
Buckmaster hunched his shoulders. ‘I knew that I was looking at a work of art, Inspector.’
‘Was it really that good, sir?’
‘Don’t take my word for it. Miss Linnane is something of an expert on silver – perhaps because her admirers have showered her with gifts made of silver over the years – and she was entranced by it. I’m sure that she’ll tell you that when you speak to her. At the moment, alas,’ he said with a sigh, ‘she has this foolish notion that that murder only happened because we are staging a play that has a history of disasters associated with it.’
‘Macbeth is steeped in superstition.’
‘Superstition is the sign of a weak mind, Inspector. I have no truck with it. When this theatre opened in 1826, the first play presented was Macbeth with the great William Macready in the title role. I seek to emulate him.’
‘I have no doubt that you will, Mr Buckmaster,’ said Colbeck, admiringly. ‘I’ve always enjoyed your performances.’
The actor beamed. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘As for the choice of play, I’m inclined to agree with you. I fear that Mr Kellow would have met the same fate had you been staging A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’
‘That’s well beyond our capabilities,’ admitted Buckmaster. ‘Even with strenuous doubling, it has far too many characters for a touring company. Actors need to be paid and our income is very restricted. That’s why we have to rely on patronage.’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I noticed from your playbill that the first night is being sponsored by the mayor.’
‘There are three other bespoke performances so we can rely on an audience for those. The challenge is to fill the theatre on the other nights as well as at the matinee.’
‘Word of mouth will surely do that for you, sir. And there is no shame in patronage. Elizabethan theatre was built on it. Shakespeare and his ilk all needed patrons. However,’ he said, noting how satanic the actor looked in the flickering gaslight, ‘let’s return to Mr Kellow. Did he tell you anything about his private life?’
‘He didn’t seem to have much of a private life, Inspector,’ said Buckmaster. ‘His employer, Mr Voke, made him work long hours and the poor man could not afford much in the way of entertainment. Mr Kellow rented a room near the shop. I gather that his parents had both died years ago. He spoke of a sister who lived in London but they saw very little of each other.’
‘What did he tell you of Mr Voke?’
‘Oh, he spoke very fondly of him but I’d already observed the deep affection between the two of them. Mr Voke waved him off at the station. They seemed so close that I took them for father and son. As it turned out,’ he recalled, ‘Mr Kellow has been more of son to the old man than his own flesh and blood.’
Colbeck’s ears pricked up. ‘In what way, sir?’
‘Well, it transpires that the young Mr Voke, also a silversmith, expected to take over the business in time and resented the fact that his father gave some of the best commissions to Mr Kellow because he deemed him the superior craftsman. There were also constant rows between father and son about money. In the end, there was a serious rift in the lute and the son stalked off to work elsewhere.’
‘So he might bear a grudge against Mr Kellow.’
‘I think it unlikely that anyone would do that, Inspector.’
‘Why?’
‘He was so shy and self-effacing. He was the sort of person who would run a mile from an argument. At least,’ said Buckmaster, ‘that’s my estimate of him. Miss Linnane’s will be the same. The only way to get at the truth, of course, is to talk to Mr Voke himself.’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Colbeck, getting up from the chair. ‘I expect that my colleague, Sergeant Leeming, will be doing that very soon.’
It was late evening when Victor Leeming finally reached the little shop in Wood Street. His first duty on returning to London had been to call in at Scotland Yard in order to apprise Superintendent Tallis of the latest developments. Thanks to a message transmitted by telegraph, the superintendent was in possession of news that the sergeant had not heard. The South Wales Railway Company was offering a large reward for information leading to the capture of the person or persons responsible for the murder of Hugh Kellow. Notice of the reward would be carried the following morning in London newspapers as well as in more local periodicals. Leeming and Colbeck would not be working in the relative anonymity of Wales. The metropolitan press would now be watching them as well.
Chastened by this intelligence, Leeming went off in a hansom cab to visit Leonard Voke. It was now dark and the silversmith had retired early to bed. Roused from his sleep, Voke put on a dressing gown and spoke to the sergeant through an open upstairs window. Leeming removed his hat to address the man. Viewed from above in the half-dark, he was an unprepossessing visitor, his upturned face, illumined by the moon, looking more like that of a desperate criminal than of an officer of the law. It took the sergeant minutes to convince the old man of his identity. Only the mention of important news relating to Hugh Kellow persuaded Voke to come to the front door.
When he opened it a few inches, he peered through the crack to appraise Leeming. Holding an oil lamp in one hand, he eventually opened the door with the other. Once his visitor was inside the premises, Voke locked the door and pushed home three large bolts. He then took Leeming into a room at the rear of the shop and set the lamp down on the table. The silversmith’s bleary eyes blinked behind his spectacles.