11 - Ticket to Oblivion (14 page)

‘Exactly,’ said Colbeck, endorsing the remark. ‘What we’ve been told was very interesting but of no practical value. The fact that a soldier greeted the train that day is pure coincidence.’

Since she knew for certain that her husband would not return home that evening, Madeleine Colbeck elected to visit her father. Light had faded from the sky so it was impossible for her to work at her easel and, in any case, she wanted some company. It was several weeks since she’d gone back to the little house in Camden Town and, as the cab drew up outside it, she felt a nostalgic pull. It disappeared the moment that she stepped inside. Now that she lived in a much larger and more comfortable abode, the house in which she’d been born seemed impossibly cramped. As her horizons had broadened, her old home had diminished in size. Yet she’d enjoyed her childhood there and, after the death of her mother, virtually ran the house. Caleb Andrews was very pleased to see her and she, in turn, was glad to find the place looking as neat and tidy as it had been during her time there.

‘Where’s Robert this evening?’ he asked.

‘He’s spending the night at Burnhope Manor. Victor
Leeming brought me a letter from him. There have been complications.’

‘What sort of complications?’

‘I don’t know, Father, and I wouldn’t tell you even if I did.’

‘But I might be able to help, Maddy.’

‘You can help Robert best by letting him do his job unimpeded.’

‘I wouldn’t impede him,’ he protested. ‘I’d just give him the benefit of my superior judgement. Yes,’ he continued, quashing her attempt at a reply, ‘I know that you think I’m senile enough to be measured for my coffin but there’s nothing to compare with experience and I’ve had plenty of it. Who provided Robert with a vital clue when he was up in Scotland earlier this year?’

‘You did very well,’ she conceded. ‘But this is a different case altogether.’

‘If it’s connected to the railways, I’m the man they need.’

‘Robert is well aware of that,’ she said with a smile. ‘Every time you set eyes on him, you remind him of the fact.’

‘Then why doesn’t he call on me?’

‘Victor Leeming provides all the assistance he needs, Father. He’s a good detective. Robert has taught him everything he knows.’

‘I wish he’d teach the sergeant to wear a mask,’ said Andrews with a dry laugh. ‘That face of his would frighten anybody.’

‘Victor has a heart of gold.’

‘What use is that when he looks like something out of Regent’s Park Zoo?’

‘His wife doesn’t think so, Father, and neither do his
children. Anyway,’ she went on, weighing her words, ‘Victor is not ugly – it’s just that he’s not as handsome as some men. When you get to know him, you forget his appearance.’

‘Speak for yourself, Maddy.’

It was always the same. Whenever his son-in-law embarked on a new case, Andrews craved involvement. Because it was invariably denied him, he found something or someone to criticise out of pique. Leeming was the victim this time. Tallis had also been the whipping boy on occasion. Madeleine herself had attracted adverse comment from him though she’d defended herself robustly and forced an apology out of him. Before her father could make further comments about Leeming’s face, she diverted him by crossing to the picture that hung over the mantelpiece. It was one of her earliest paintings and she could see the distinct signs of the amateur she’d been at the time. Andrews, however, would hear no disparagement of her work. It occupied a unique position in his memoirs.

‘I had a grand time when I drove
Cornwall
,’ he said, fondly. ‘She was built at Crewe for the LNWR and was a joy to drive.’

‘I only wish that my painting had been more accurate.’

‘You caught the spirit of the locomotive, Maddy, and that’s why I love it. I’ve spent hours just staring at her. What made her different was the combination of inner plate frames, with the cylinder mounted outside and securely held by a double frame at the front end. We used to have a problem with fractures in the crank axle,’ he recalled. ‘
Cornwall
avoided that because the drive
from the cylinders was delivered to the driving wheels by means of connecting rods attached to the crank pins on the wheels.’

‘I wasn’t able to show technical aspects like that,’ she confessed.

‘You showed enough for me to recognise a fine locomotive and a wonderful artist. Who’d have thought you could bring her to life like this?’

‘I did my best, Father, but I can do much better now. That’s why I’m painting her again in a very different setting. I hope you approve.’

‘I’m proud of you, Maddy,’ he said, giving her a hug, ‘and I was proud to drive
Cornwall
. You won’t find a locomotive as good as this on the Old Worse and Worse. It’s a shambles. I’m amazed that company is still in business if they lose passengers while the train is steaming along. Talking of which,’ he continued, ‘did Robert’s letter say that he hoped to find the missing women?’

‘Robert always sounds hopeful. Even in the most difficult investigations, he remains optimistic.’

‘So why is he staying at this big house in Worcestershire?’

She clicked her tongue. ‘Stop probing. I’ve told you all I know.’

‘Does he just want the pleasure of sleeping in a four-poster bed?’

‘Oh, I don’t think Robert will get much sleep,’ she confided. ‘That’s one of the things he
did
say in his letter. He has to maintain a vigil all night.’

Colbeck knew that somebody would come. Whenever he was in pursuit of a criminal, he tried to put himself inside
that person’s mind, considering the available options before choosing the most advantageous. The kidnapper would be annoyed at the failure of his original plan and would want to extort an even larger ransom the next time. He would act quickly because the longer he delayed, the greater the opportunity to track him down and rescue his two captives. At the earlier exchange, the man he’d employed as a go-between had been shot. Careful not to expose another intermediary to danger, he would be more likely to send him under cover of darkness. That was why Colbeck was sitting beside a window on the ground floor of Burnhope Manor. If he could intercept the messenger, he might learn more about the man who’d sent the message. The long wait began.

Though he’d never met the Honourable Imogen Burnhope, he’d built up a composite portrait of her from the comments made by various members of the family. She was young, beautiful but largely ignorant of the ways of the world. Her innocence was her potential weakness. The coachman had given Colbeck a good description of Rhoda Wills. Because of her loyalty to her mistress, her plight was equally dire but it was Imogen’s reckless decision that had imperilled them. Colbeck had begun to understand her urge to escape. For all its opulence, Burnhope Manor had a hollow feeling to it. Since her father was away most of the time, Imogen would have been kept under the close supervision of her mother. It must have been oppressive.

Sir Marcus’s one major intrusion into his daughter’s life was to select a husband for her. That, Colbeck believed, was what might have tipped the balance in favour of
flight. While there might have been fleeting delight when the match was made – and when Tunnadine seemed an appealing bridegroom – even someone as naive as Imogen would have soon entertained doubts about him. The unfavourable reaction to him of members of the Vaughan family would have influenced her. In getting married, she must have realised, she would simply be moving from one unhappy situation to another. When an avenue of escape appeared, therefore, she was minded to take it, and her maid had apparently encouraged her to do so. Yet only an offer of overwhelming appeal would have made Imogen shun the countless privileges bestowed upon her by her family.

Colbeck was convinced that the offer had been made by the soldier whom she met in Christ Church Meadow. He was also convinced that the man’s appearance at precisely the right moment to rescue the women had not been fortuitous. Stage management had been involved. The ruffian who’d leapt from the bushes had probably been an accomplice of the soldier who beat him off. Imogen and her maid would have been relieved and thankful. On the walk back to the college, Captain Whiteside – if that was his real name – had no doubt further ingratiated himself and set in motion a process that had culminated in the abduction.

Acutely aware that it was all supposition, Colbeck nevertheless believed that there was more than a germ of truth in his theory. He wished that Madeleine had been there to offer her advice. While he felt confident about entering the warped minds of villains, he was less
sure-footed
when trying to determine how a young woman
thought and acted. There were other reasons why he longed to be beside his wife.

When the clock chimed in the hall, he shook off his fatigue. It was three o’clock in the morning and all he could see through the window was a vast expanse of gloom. Yet he kept his eyes peeled and was eventually rewarded. A figure was conjured out of the darkness, approaching the house with furtive steps. Colbeck jumped up from his chair and went into the hall. He reached the front door in time to see a letter being slipped under it. That was all the prompting he required. After pulling back the bolts, he turned the massive key in its lock and opened the door. Alarmed at the unexpected noise, the visitor took to his heels. Colbeck went after him, guided by the noise of his footsteps on the gravel path and judging by their evident speed that the postman was young and fit.

Colbeck was fast but his anonymous quarry was even swifter and he might well have escaped had he not decided to leave the path and plunge into the cover of the trees. Almost as soon as he did so, he tripped over an exposed root and dived headlong to the ground. His cry of surprise told Colbeck exactly where he was. Before he could haul himself up, the man felt the full weight of the inspector on his back.

‘Let me go,’ he cried.

‘We must first have a talk, my friend.’

After lifting him to his feet by his collar, Colbeck introduced himself and elicited the name of Dick Rudder from the messenger. The young man was terrified. He was an apprentice at a flour mill and had been approached by a stranger while drinking at an inn.

‘All I had to do was to deliver a letter after dark,’ he said.

‘Why did you come so late?’

‘He paid me well, sir. I spent it on drink and fell asleep.’

‘Describe the man to me.’

‘He was about my height and I’d put him at thirty or more. And he had a way about him, sir. He made you feel that you were a friend. It was so with me, anyway, and we only talked for five or ten minutes.’

‘Was he well spoken and smartly dressed?’

‘Yes – that’s right, Inspector.’

‘What else can you tell me about him?’

‘I took him for a soldier.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘My uncle was in the army,’ replied Rudder. ‘He had the same straight back and the same swagger as this man. At least, my uncle did until he got killed in the Crimea. You’d never get me in an army uniform.’

‘Tell me exactly what this stranger said to you.’

‘Will you let me go then?’

‘Yes, Dick – you’re not in any trouble.’

Rudder was so pleased that he shook Colbeck’s hand as if operating a village pump. He then launched into an account of the conversation he’d had. Sobered by his capture, he recalled almost all the details of his chat. Colbeck now had a much clearer image of the kidnapper. He was grateful to the apprentice.

‘How much did he give you, Dick?’

‘I got half a sovereign, sir – just for delivering a letter.’

‘Then I’ll match that amount,’ said Colbeck, reaching into his pocket and handing the money over. ‘It will help to soothe your bruises. Now, away with you and don’t
tell a soul about what happened here tonight. Is that a promise?’

Rudder nodded repeatedly then slipped away into the darkness.

Dominic Vaughan sat beside his elder son on a bench in the Master’s garden. It was a sunny day but the fine weather did not dispel their mutual sadness. The fate of Imogen and her maid was a weight that pressed down heavily on both of them. The curate was particularly despondent. His father sought to distract him from his grief.

‘How are things in North Cerney?’ he asked.

‘I am very contented, looking after my flock.’

‘Have you no greater ambitions, Percy?’

‘In time, as you well know, I’ll become rector there.’

‘I’d hoped that you’d set your sights higher,’ said Vaughan. ‘There’s only so much one can do in a parish church.’

‘It suits my temperament, Father. Small and insignificant as it may appear, All Saints has an intriguing history. If you look at the rectors’ board, you’ll see that the first incumbent was John de Belvale in the year 1269. When I become the next link in that long chain of worship,’ said the curate, ‘I intend to write a history of the clergy who’ve served North Cerney over the centuries.’

‘Why confine yourself to a church when a cathedral might beckon?’

‘I lack the qualities for high office.’

‘You are clever enough to acquire them, Percy. Look at me,’ said his father. ‘When I was an undergraduate, I was so meek that people thought I was waiting to inherit the
earth.’ His son smiled wanly at the biblical reference. ‘But I applied myself and eventually learnt the skills needed to become a fellow. When I rose to be Master, of course, I had to become more adept at political dagger-work and less tolerant of my colleagues’ prejudices.’

‘My memory is that Mother helped to stiffen your resolve.’

‘A good woman is a blessing to any man.’ His son lowered his head. ‘In time, you will find someone to share your life then you can enjoy the benison that only marriage can bring.’

‘I have no plans to take a wife, Father.’

‘Neither did I until I met your mother.’

‘My case is different,’ explained his son, looking at him. ‘If I cannot have the wife of my own choosing, I’d prefer to remain celibate.’

Vaughan understood. Though his elder son had tried to keep his love for Imogen a secret, it had become clear to all members of the family. Percy Vaughan’s passions ran deep. Losing her to a man like Clive Tunnadine had been a shuddering blow to him but discovering that she’d been abducted was far worse. The curate was suffering agonies.