'I think it's unfair to blame me, Mrs Tomkins,' said Stockdale, stoutly. 'Neither I nor my men were engaged to guard the item.'

'Well, you should have been.'

'This is most distressing,' said Tomkins, oozing disapproval. 'Do you know how much that coffee pot cost?'

'Yes, sir – I've seen the invoice.'

'Then you'll have noticed that I had already paid fifty pounds deposit. Money does not grow on trees, you know.'

Stockdale was about to point out that, in a sense, it did. The ironmaster had cultivated a small forest out of the blood, sweat and early deaths of the poor wretches who toiled in his ironworks, leaving him to pluck metaphorical banknotes from every branch. The vast neo-Gothic residence that Tomkins had had built on the outskirts of Cardiff bore testimony to his wealth and the drawing room in which they were now standing was awash with Regency furniture, silver ornaments and gilt-framed portraits. Forthright on most occasions, Stockdale held his tongue. There was no virtue in alienating them even more.

'I want that coffee pot back!' insisted Winifred.

'An investigation has already been set in motion,' said the visitor, 'but please bear in mind that the theft was only a secondary crime. Cold-blooded murder was committed in that hotel.'

'That's immaterial.'

'Not in my view.'

'Nor in mine,' said Tomkins, reasonably. 'I know that you're upset, my dear, but the fate of that young man compels attention. It's a dreadful thing to happen to him.'

Winifred was dismissive. 'He's beyond help,' she said, waving a hand, 'so let's not waste time on him. After all, he was only the silversmith's assistant. I shall be writing to Mr Voke to ask him why he didn't take more steps to ensure the safety of my coffee pot.'

She continued to complain loudly and to upbraid Stockdale as if he had been the thief. He weathered the storm and collected an apologetic glance from Tomkins as he did so.