‘What else can I show you, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘While I’m here, I’d be interested to see the whole process.’
‘It will be a pleasure to show you.’
‘Thank you.’
Omber waddled off and Leeming fell in beside him. After passing the weighing room, where the amounts of bullion were carefully recorded, they went through some steel doors into the hot metallic atmosphere of the refining shop. Leeming brought up a hand to shield his eyes from the startling brilliance of the furnaces where molten gold was simmering in crucibles like over-heated soup. With long-handled dipping cups, refiners stood in their shirtsleeves before the furnaces to scoop out the liquid gold and pour it into zinc vats of water. Even those who were used to the heat and the noise had to use their bare forearms to wipe the sweat from their faces. Leeming was loosening his collar with a finger within seconds.
Charles Omber took him on to the corroding shop, where they were met with billowing steam from the porcelain vats in which the golden granules sizzled in hot nitric acid. It was like walking into a golden fog. When his eyes grew accustomed to the haze, Leeming watched the muscular men in their leather aprons and noticed that they all wore hats to protect them from the fumes. Interested to see every stage of the process, he was nevertheless relieved when they moved out of the room, enabling him to breathe more easily.
In the casting shop, with its arched furnace bricked into a wall, he saw the gold being melted again before being poured with utmost care into the moulds of the ingots. Standing at his shoulder, Omber explained what was happening then took his visitor on into the rolling room, the largest and most deafening part of the establishment. The massive steam-driven mill, powered by iron wheels on each side, thundered ceaselessly on, enabling the brick-like ingots to be pressed into long strips from which coins could be punched.
It was when they moved into the coining shop that Leeming suddenly realised something. He had to shout above the metallic chatter of the machines.
‘I think I know why the robbers stole coin from that train,’ he yelled. ‘What is the melting point of gold?’
‘That depends on its source and composition,’ replied Omber, ‘but it is usually between 1,200 and 1,420 degrees centigrade. Why do you ask, Sergeant Leeming?’
‘They would need a furnace to handle gold bullion so the robbers let the Royal Mint do their work for them and waited until a shipment of coin was being made. They chose carefully,’ he said, watching the blank discs being cut out of the metal. ‘Had the train been carrying an issue of notes from the Bank of England, they would have ignored them because they might be traced by their serial numbers. Gold sovereigns are more easily disposed of, Mr Omber.’
‘That is certainly true.’
‘Then how did they know that you were only sending gold coin yesterday?’ wondered Leeming. ‘I have an uncomfortable feeling that someone found a way to get past all these steel doors of yours.’
The journey to Wolverhampton obliged Colbeck to travel second class on the Birmingham, Lancaster and Carlisle Railway. It took him through the heart of the Black Country and he looked out with dismay at the forges, mills, foundries, nail factories, coal mines and ironstone pits that stretched for miles beneath the curling dark smoke that spewed from a thousand brick chimneys. Cutting through the smoke, filling the sky with a fierce glare, were lurid flames from countless burning heaps of rubbish. Those who laboured for long hours in heavy industry were unacquainted with the light of day and vulnerable to hideous accidents or cruel diseases. Above the thunder of his train, Colbeck could hear the pounding of hammers and the booming explosion of a blast furnace.
Wolverhampton was a large, dirty, sprawling industrial town that was celebrated for the manufacture of locks, brass, tin, japanned wares, tools and nails. The immaculate detective looked rather incongruous in its workaday atmosphere. Given directions by the stationmaster, he elected to walk to his destination so that he could take a closer look at the people and place. By the time that he arrived at the Chubb Factory, he felt that he had the measure of Wolverhampton.
Silas Harcutt, the manager at the factory, could not understand why someone had come all the way from London to question him. He was a slim individual of middle height with the look of a man who had worked his way up to his position with a slowness that had left a residual resentment. Harcutt was abrupt.
‘Your visit is pointless, Inspector,’ he declared.
‘Not at all,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve always been curious to see the inside of the Chubb factory. I once had the privilege of a visit to the Bramah Works and it was a revelation.’
‘Bramah locks are nothing compared to ours.’
‘Your competitors would disagree. At the forthcoming Great Exhibition, they are to display a lock that is impossible to pick.’
‘We, too, will have our best lock on show,’ boasted Harcutt, ‘and we will challenge anyone to open it. I can tell you now that nobody will.’
‘You obviously have faith in your product.’
‘The Chubb name is a guarantee of quality.’
‘Nobody disputes that, Mr Harcutt,’ said Colbeck, ignoring the man’s brusque manner. ‘For professional reasons, I try to keep abreast of developments in the locksmith’s trade and I’m always interested to read about your progress. The railway safe that you devised was a marvel of its kind. Even so,’ he went on, ‘I fear that it was not able to prevent a consignment of money from being stolen.’
‘The locks were not picked,’ insisted the manager, huffily. ‘The safe is specifically designed so that a burglar has nothing to work upon but the keyholes with their protective internal barrels and the steel curtain at their mouths. Do not dare to blame us, Inspector. We were not at fault.’
‘I hope that turns out to be the case, sir.’
‘It is the case, Inspector. Let me show you why.’
Opening the door of his office, he led Colbeck down a corridor to a room that housed dozens of safes and locks. Harcutt walked across to a replica of the safe that the detective had seen on board the train.
‘You see?’ said the manager, patting the safe. ‘Far too heavy to lift without the aid of a crane and resistant to any amount of gunpowder. It is solid and commodious, able to carry a quarter of a ton of gold, coin, or a mixture of both.’
‘The robbers showed due respect for the Chubb name,’ said Colbeck. ‘Instead of trying to pick the locks, they opened them with the keys and the combination number. I am certain that they got neither from Spurling’s Bank and security at the Royal Mint is very tight.’
Harcutt was offended. ‘Are you suggesting that the keys came from here?’ he said, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘I regard that as an insult, Inspector.’
‘It was not meant to be. If I may examine the keys to this safe, I can tell you at once whether there has been subterfuge in your factory.’
‘That is inconceivable.’
‘I must press you on this point,’ said Colbeck, meaningfully.
Lips pursed, Harcutt turned away and strode back to his office with the detective at his heels. He had to use two keys and a combination number to open the wall safe, making sure that he kept his back to his visitor so that Colbeck could see nothing of the operation. Extracting a metal box, the manager unlocked it with a third key and handed it over.
Colbeck took out the keys. Unable to detect anything suspicious with the naked eye, he brought his magnifying glass out again. He saw exactly what he had expected to find.