Tears which had threatened throughout suddenly came in a waterfall and Leeming could do nothing until she had cried her fill. He sat and watched helplessly. When she finally regained a modicum of composure, he rose from his seat and glanced upwards.

'Could I possibly see Mr Kellow's room?' he enquired.

Mrs Jennings stiffened. 'Why?'

'It would be interesting to see where he lived.'

'The room is cleaned regularly,' she said, striking a defensive note. 'I look after my lodgers, Sergeant. It's the reason they stay with me for so long. I'm not like some landladies.'

'Mr Kellow was obviously very happy here.'

Mollified by his comment, she got up, wiped away the last of her tears then led the way upstairs. Kellow's room was on the top floor. It was surprisingly large and its window gave him a clear view of the street below. Unlike the room downstairs, it was sparsely furnished. Apart from the bed and a sagging wardrobe, there was only a table and an upright chair. On the table were a couple of well-thumbed books on the art of the silversmith and a notebook with a few sketches in it. When Leeming tried to open the door of the wardrobe, Mrs Jennings was affronted.

'You can't look in there,' she chided. 'It's private.'

'Then perhaps you'll do so on my behalf, Mrs Jennings. I just wondered if there might be some letters from his sister that bore her address. Could you take a look, please?'

She rummaged reluctantly through every item in the wardrobe but there were no letters. Nor was there anything else to indicate where Effie Kellow lived. It troubled Leeming that she was still unaware of her brother's fate. As he took a last look around the room, a wave of sadness splashed over him. The young silversmith had lived modestly yet been murdered in possession of a highly expensive coffee pot that he had helped to make. His talent had been his undoing. Now he would never be able to fulfil his ambition of owning his own premises and rescuing his sister from the drudgery of service.