Though he disliked the man intensely, Stockdale had compassion for any husband wedded to such a garrulous termagant. Clifford Tomkins was a tall, skinny, straight-backed man in his sixties with a mane of silver hair that reinforced his air of distinction. Callous to the point of brutality as a captain of industry, he was more restrained in a domestic setting. Over the years, his cheeks had been reddened by heavy drinking and hollowed by a dissipation about which his wife knew absolutely nothing. Stockdale, however, had his true measure, having once caught the old man in a compromising position during a raid on one of Cardiff's more exclusive brothels.

'Thank you, Winifred,' said Tomkins when his wife's tirade finally came to an end. 'Now let's hear what the superintendent is doing to solve these appalling crimes.'

'I've done the most sensible thing possible, sir,' explained Stockdale. 'Since the crimes occurred on the property of the South Wales Railway, I advised the managing director to send for Detective Inspector Colbeck of the Metropolitan Police Force.'

'Why on earth did you do that, man?'

'I can see that you're not familiar with his reputation. The inspector has dealt with crimes relating to the railway system all over the country. His record of success is unparalleled. I've worked beside him so I know what a brilliant detective he is.'

'Can he recover my coffee pot?' challenged Winifred, eyes at the extremity of their bulge. 'That's what I wish to know.'

'Inspector Colbeck is certain of it. No pawnbroker would touch an object as distinctive as that and I venture to suggest that there are very few ladies with your abiding interest in locomotives.'

'Years ago,' she announced, grandly, 'my father was a major investor in the Great Western Railway. I inherited his passion for trains. I always preferred to play with my brother's toy engine rather than with my dolls. It was partly in memory of my late father that I wanted that silver coffee pot made and my husband was kind enough to commission it.'