Sir David Pryde was a big, bluff, middle-aged man with a mop of sandy hair and a full beard. He reminded Colbeck of a businessman he had once prosecuted for embezzlement during his time at the bar. Pryde had the same booming voice and easy pomposity. He was not pleased with what his two visitors had told him.
‘Why bother me?’ he demanded. ‘You surely can’t think that I have anything to do with the theft of Winifred Tomkins’ infernal coffee pot? I have no interest in it at all.’
‘I understand that you recommended the silversmith,’ said Colbeck, ‘so we were bound to wonder why.’
‘Isn’t the answer obvious, Inspector? I felt that Voke had earned the kind word I put in for him. See for yourself,’ he urged, pointing to a large silver yacht that stood on the mantelpiece above the huge fireplace. ‘That’s only one of the things he made for me. Voke is a genuine craftsman and his prices are not as exorbitant as most London silversmiths.’
The three men were in the drawing room of the Pryde residence, a Regency mansion standing in its own estate. It was impossible to miss its owner’s connection with the sea. Model ships, boats and yachts stood on almost every surface in the room, turning it into a kind of naval museum. Pryde himself was evidently a sailor in his own right. Silver cups that he had won in yachting races occupied the remaining space on the mantelpiece.
Jeremiah Stockdale stood with his peaked cap under his arm.
‘When exactly did you make the recommendation, Sir David?’ he asked with elaborate respect. ‘Can you remember the date?’
‘What relevance has that got?’ rejoined the other.
‘It must have been some time ago. According to Mrs Tomkins, you and Lady Pryde are no longer regular guests at their home.’
‘It’s the other way around, Stockdale – not that it’s any of your business. Mr and Mrs Tomkins have ceased to be part of our circle.’
‘I find that surprising,’ said Stockdale, fishing gently.
‘I’m not interested in your reaction. It’s a private matter and will always remain so. Now, Inspector,’ he said, confronting Colbeck. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me exactly why you came here?’
‘Of course, sir,’ replied Colbeck. ‘I wish to speak to anyone who was aware that the coffee pot locomotive had been commissioned by Mrs Tomkins.’
Pryde laughed harshly. ‘Then you’d better speak to half the people in Cardiff,’ he advised, ‘because they all heard her bragging about it. Winifred Tomkins is a woman with a compulsion to impress all and sundry.’
‘Several people may have heard about it, Sir David,’ said Stockdale, ‘but very few knew when it would be delivered. Mrs Tomkins said that you and Lady Pryde were among them.’
‘The devil she did!’ snorted Pryde. ‘You should have known better than to listen to her, Stockdale. Winifred is just trying to stir up trouble. That’s typical of the woman.’
‘Did you know that the item was being delivered yesterday, Sir David?’ asked Colbeck, levelly.
‘No, I did not.’
‘What about Lady Pryde?’
‘I can’t speak for my wife,’ said Pryde after some hesitation. ‘It is conceivable that she’d been given that information but she most certainly did not commit a murder in order to lay her hands on the silver coffee pot. That’s a preposterous notion.’
‘I’m sure that it is,’ agreed Colbeck. ‘I just wondered if you or Lady Pryde happened, in an unguarded moment – and I mean this as no criticism of either of you – to have mentioned details of its arrival to anyone else.’
‘My wife and I do not consort with criminals, Inspector.’
‘That’s not what I’m suggesting. In a public place, you may have been overheard, that’s all I’m saying. Such information patently got into the wrong hands.’
‘Well, neither I nor my wife put it there.’
‘Lady Pryde does have a large circle,’ noted Stockdale.
‘If you mean that she’s involved in many charities and sits on several committees, then you’re right. But we are very selective about whom we allow into our home and it is only in the ears of close friends that comments about the silver coffee pot would be made.’
‘It is a highly unusual item,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s probably unique. It was bound to arouse comment. Is there any chance that we might talk to Lady Pryde about it?’
‘No, there isn’t,’ said Pryde, sharply. ‘I refuse to let you bother my wife in this way and I resent your taking up my time.’ He put his hands on his hips and took a combative stance. ‘Was there anything else, Inspector?’
‘You have our apologies, Sir David,’ said Colbeck, signalling to Stockdale that it was time to withdraw. ‘You’ve told us all that we needed to know, sir. Thank you.’
Stockdale waited until the two of them had left the house.
‘What did you make of him?’ he said.
‘He reminded me of a businessman I once prosecuted. The physical resemblance is very close. They both resort to bluster in an identical way.’
‘Sir David always does that when he’s hiding something.’
‘Yes, I felt that he was not entirely honest with us.’
‘He’s the kind of man who swallows nails and shits screws,’ said Stockdale, heartily. ‘I wouldn’t trust him an inch. Can you imagine what Carys Evans sees in that ogre?’
Colbeck smiled. ‘I’m sure that his bank account is very fetching,’ he said, wryly. ‘Wealth has a remarkable power to improve someone’s appeal.’
‘There are few people wealthier than Sir David Pryde – though Clifford Tomkins would run him close and so would the Marquis of Bute when he finally comes of age. By the way,’ he said, turning to Colbeck, ‘what happened to that businessman you prosecuted?’
‘He went to gaol for six years,’ said Colbeck.
The Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police Force had an uneasy relationship with the press. When it came into being in 1842, the new branch was greeted with cynicism. Its failures were cruelly mocked and its successes, Superintendent Tallis felt, were not trumpeted as they should have been. His dealings with newspapers usually left him in a state bordering on apoplexy and he had never forgiven one of them for ridiculing him in a cartoon. What added insult to injury was that he had caught some of his detectives sniggering at the pictorial attack on their superior. Notwithstanding his ingrained dislike of the press, he accepted that it had its uses. When he and Victor Leeming returned to Scotland Yard by cab, he was given ample proof of the fact.
A young woman was waiting to see him. She was sitting on the edge of a chair with a folded newspaper in her lap. Informed that the superintendent had come back, she leapt to her feet and intercepted him in the corridor.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said, deferentially, ‘but I’ve come about that reward notice in the newspaper. My name is Effie Kellow.’
‘Then you must be Hugh Kellow’s sister,’ said Leeming.
She gasped in horror. ‘It was him, then,’ she said. ‘I was afraid that it might be. No name was given in the report but I feared the worst when I saw that the crime happened in Cardiff. That’s where he was going yesterday.’ She began to sway. ‘My brother was murdered.’
Leeming nodded sadly then moved swiftly to catch her as she collapsed. Tallis ordered him to bring her into his office, going ahead to open the door then finding a bottle of brandy in a desk drawer. As Leeming lowered her gently on to a chair, her eyelids fluttered. The superintendent supported her with one hand and, as she slowly recovered, held a glass to her lips. One sip of the brandy made her cough and sit up. Leeming was amazed at the tenderness shown by Tallis. He was a confirmed bachelor who avoided female company as a rule yet here he was, treating their visitor with all the care of a doting father. It was an aspect of his character that had not been caught by the newspaper cartoonist.