The Silver Locomotive Mystery by Edward Marston Page B

Evans.’
    ‘An attractive young woman, then,’ guessed Colbeck.
    ‘She’s rich, unmarried and obscenely beautiful,’ said Stockdale, rolling a tongue around his lips. ‘Carys Evans is the sort of woman who turns heads wherever she goes and who puts naughty thoughts into the purest minds.’
    ‘And you say that she’s another link in the chain?’
    ‘She could be, Inspector.’
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘One of the few compensations of this otherwise joyless life in uniform is that you get to know what happens beneath the surface of a town. That’s how I come to know that the two names given to me by Mrs Tomkins are intimately connected. In short,’ he said, leaning over to speak in a whisper, ‘Carys Evans is Sir David Pryde’s mistress.’
     
    Leonard Voke was so heartbroken at the horrific news about his young assistant that he hardly slept a wink. When he was not recalling happier memories of Hugh Kellow, he was listening for the sound of any disturbance below. A silversmith’s shop was always likely to be a target for burglars so he had taken care to secure his property. The most valuable items were locked away in a safe but there was nothing on display in the shop itself that was inexpensive.Voke produced quality work and expected to be paid for it. What continued to bore into his brain like a red hot drill was the thought that his own son might, in some way, be connected with the crime. They had parted after an acrimonious row and the father had let his tongue run away with him. Had his harsh words provoked a lust for revenge? Was he indirectly responsible for Kellow’s murder? Such fears made any sustained slumber impossible.
    Propped up on the pillows, he had an old musket across his lap, a relic of the days when his father had run the shop and kept the weapon in good working condition. The only time it had ever been discharged was when Voke Senior mistook the passing shadow of a policeman for a burglar about to enter the premises at night. Firing by instinct, he had shot out the shop window and sent glass in all directions. It was one of the many reasons why Leonard Voke prayed that he would not have to use the musket. Simply holding it, however, was a comfort and, if his silverware was being stolen, he would not hesitate to use the musket.
    Fortunately, his proficiency with the weapon was never put to the test. A false alarm sent him creeping downstairs in the dark and he was mightily relieved to find the shop empty. It was half an hour before his heart stopped thudding. Dawn found him dozing fitfully. As soon as light penetrated the gap in the curtains, he came fully awake. Putting the musket aside, he got up, reached for his glasses, slipped on his dressing gown and opened the curtains. London was already wide awake, Carts, cabs and pedestrians were flashing noisily past. People were going to work or hurrying to the markets to get early bargains. The daily cacophonyfrom yowling dogs, hissing cats and clattering hooves was set up. Leonard Voke yawned.
    Grabbing a bunch of keys from a drawer, he put on his slippers and padded downstairs. He unlocked the door to the shop and saw, to his intense joy, everything safely in its place. It was the same in his workroom. Nobody had come, nothing had been touched. The sense of relief flooded through him and he chided himself for his anxieties. Just because someone had stolen Hugh Kellow’s keys, it did not mean that his silverware was in danger of being stolen. The killer might have no idea what locks the keys would open. Voke had had an almost sleepless night for nothing. It was only later, when he went to the safe to collect some items to put on display in the shop, that he discovered his relief was premature. Inserting two keys into their respective locks, he turned each in turn then pulled the heavy door back on its hinges.
    Calamity awaited him. The safe had been full of cherished objects, made over the years with an amalgam of skill, patience and a