‘And they wouldn’t be able to tell you anything useful about the man who asked them to carry the message,’ said Leeming, ‘because they’d have no idea who he is. We had a case like this last year in London. The person who delivered the ransom note on that occasion was a child, picked at random off the street.’
‘I can see that I’d better leave it to you, Sergeant,’ said Stockdale. ‘As long as you promise that you’ll give the bastard one good punch from me.’
‘I will, Superintendent.’
‘Don’t be so sure, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘What if, as I fancy, you may be dealing with a young woman? You’re far too chivalrous to strike a member of the fair sex.’
‘I’ll clap handcuffs on her and make her lead us to Stephen Voke. He’s behind the whole thing. I’m certain of it.’
‘I agree with the inspector,’ said Stockdale, downing some whisky. ‘Only a very attractive woman could have tricked Mr Kellow into that hotel room. I think he was tempted by her blandishments. And that raises an interesting possibility.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Mr Pugh happened to mention something to me when I arrived this evening. It may have nothing to do with the crime, of course, and the manager clearly thinks so. But it is an odd coincidence.’
‘Tell us more,’ said Colbeck.
‘Well, what you’re looking for is a beautiful woman who has a passion for silver. I know that because I’ve often seen her wearing it in some form or other. Around the time of the murder,’ Stockdale went on, ‘there was someone in this hotel fitting that description perfectly. The manager remembers seeing her leave.’
‘Who is she, Superintendent?’
‘Miss Carys Evans.’
When the performance of Macbeth was over, Carys Evans mingled with the other guests at a reception given by the mayor and mayoress. Nigel Buckmaster and Kate Linnane joined them on behalf of the company, wallowing in the unstinting praise from all sides. Carys managed to speak to the actor-manager alone for a couple of minutes and he was clearly drawn to her. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of his leading lady, smiling benignly but unable to hide the proprietary glint in her eye. Carys observed that, when Lady Pryde cornered Buckmaster, Kate made no effort to intervene. An obese, waddling, over-dressed, middle-aged woman with a braying voice offered no threat.
As the guests began to disperse, Carys thanked her hosts and withdrew. But she did not return to her cottage even though it was less than a hundred yards away. Instead, she got into a waiting chaise and was driven out of the town in the direction of Llandaff. It was a pleasant night for a drive with the moon conjuring trees out of the darkness. Largely hidden behind a copse, the house was near the cathedral. Gaslight burnt in the ground floor windows. When she let herself in, Carys was pleased to see that the fire in the drawing room had also been lit to ward off the evening chill. Wine and glasses stood on the table. Everything was in readiness. Slipping off her stole, she closed the curtains then settled down on the couch, arranging her crinoline with care. While she waited, she read through the theatre programme, reviving memories of a performance that had stirred her to the marrow. Nigel Buckmaster had been striking at close quarters but had been far more arresting onstage. It was a Macbeth to lodge in the brain for a long time. Kate Linnane, too, as his wife, had had some magnificent moments and Carys had also been moved by Laura Tremaine in the small part of Lady Macduff. The Porter, she felt, had been deliciously vulgar.
It was almost an hour before someone let himself into the house and locked the door behind him. As he entered the drawing room, he was given a welcoming smile.
‘What have you brought me this time?’ she asked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It had been a full day for Madeleine Andrews. She was up early to prepare breakfast and to make her father sandwiches to take to work. Once she had seen him off on his walk to Euston Station, she picked up a large basket and went off to do the first of her chores. She spent a couple of pleasant hours, haggling in the market, window-gazing among the shops, buying some artists’ materials and talking to friends and neighbours she encountered along the way. The afternoon was largely taken up with a visit to relatives in Chalk Farm, consoling her aunt over the recent death of a much-loved family pet and chatting with her uncle, a retired stationmaster, about her latest lithographs. It was not until early evening that Madeleine was finally able to do some work at her easel.
By the time that her father returned home, she had a meal ready for him. Caleb Andrews followed a regular pattern. At the end of his working day, he liked to have a pint or two of beer in a public house frequented by railwaymen before strolling back to Camden. More often than not, he brought the day’s newspaper with him. His daughter therefore never got to read it until late evening. As he came into the house, he gave her his usual cheerful greeting before hanging up his coat and his hat. The newspaper remained folded up in his coat pocket.
‘Where have you been today?’ asked Madeleine.
‘Crewe was the farthest we went,’ he told her, ‘and we had an hour or more to look around. It’s a railway town in the best sense, Maddy. I really feel at home there. I wouldn’t mind living somewhere like that one day. Mind you,’ he went on with a chuckle, ‘the station does have one problem. If you’re not careful, you can trip over a severed head on the platform.’
‘That only happened once, Father.’
‘It pays to keep your eyes open in Crewe.’
Madeleine understood the jocular reference. The previous year, a hatbox had burst open on the platform when a porter accidentally dropped a trunk on it. Out of the hatbox came a human head. The incident provoked a murder investigation led by Robert Colbeck and culminating in some arrests in the wake of the running of the Derby. Madeleine had been directly involved in the case, finding out vital information for Colbeck and being taken to Epsom on Derby Day by way of thanks. Unfortunately, it was different this time. She could not contribute. A new case had taken him across the Welsh border and excluded her in every way.
‘What about you, Maddy?’ asked Andrews. ‘What have you been doing all day?’
‘I’d like to say that I’ve been sitting down with my feet up,’ she replied, ‘but there was far too much to do.’
‘Did you get across to Chalk Farm?’
‘Yes, Father – Uncle Tom and Auntie Dolly send their love.’
‘Have they got over losing that mangy dog of theirs yet?’
‘Uncle Tom has but Auntie Dolly is still very upset. They had Chum for twelve years and he was like one of the family. Auntie Dolly says that she can’t sleep properly, knowing that Chum is not curled up at the foot of the bed.’
Andrews wrinkled his nose. ‘It was unhealthy,’ he said with disgust, ‘having that smelly old dog in their bedroom at night. A kennel is the proper place for an animal like that. Chum should have been in the back yard, guarding the property, not snoring away on the bedroom carpet. Apart from anything else, Chum had fleas.’
‘His death distressed Auntie Dolly, that’s all I know.’
‘My sister should have had him put down years ago.’
‘Father!’
‘People get too sentimental about animals.’
‘You worshipped Blackie when we had him,’ she recalled.
‘Cats are different,’ he said. ‘They don’t wag their tails at you all the time and expect to share your bedroom. They’ve got self-respect and they know how to look after themselves. Blackie was easy to have around the house but a dog takes over your life.’
Madeleine did not argue. Her father had a deep dislike of dogs, fuelled by the fact that he was often bothered by stray mongrels on his way to and from work. It explained why he so rarely visited his sister and brother-in-law in Chalk Farm. Now that Chum had passed away, Madeleine hoped, he might feel able to enter their house with a measure of enthusiasm.