11 - Ticket to Oblivion (2 page)

When he entered his office at Scotland Yard, the first thing that Robert Colbeck did was to doff his top hat and stand in front of the mirror so that he could check his appearance. He used a hand to smooth down his hair then he adjusted his cravat and brushed some specks of dust from the shoulder of his frock coat. Satisfied that he looked at his best, he became aware of the faintest aroma of cigar smoke. It meant that Tallis had been in the room and he would only have come there if he wanted to see the inspector as a matter of urgency. Colbeck didn’t keep him waiting any longer. Marching off, he knocked on the superintendent’s door and entered the room in answer to a gruff invitation. Edward Tallis was seated at his desk, poring over a map. As he looked up, there was an accusatory note in his voice.

‘So – you finally got here, did you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Colbeck.

‘Where, in the name of all that’s holy, have you
been
?’

‘I had a prior commitment, Superintendent.’

‘Nothing takes precedence over your work here.’

‘It was my work at Scotland Yard that led to the arrest and conviction of Amos Redwood,’ explained Colbeck. ‘He preyed on unaccompanied young women on the South Eastern Railway until we caught him. I was in court all morning, giving evidence at his trial. You should have remembered that, sir.’

Tallis was nettled. ‘Don’t tell me what I should have remembered. It was your duty to remind me that you were unavailable this morning. You failed to do so.’

Colbeck deflected the criticism with an appeasing smile. Because of the unresolved tension between them, Tallis was always ready to pick a fight with him. While he admired the inspector’s unrivalled skills as a detective, he resented the fame and approbation that they brought him, contrasting, as they did, with the censure that Tallis routinely encountered from a hostile press. Colbeck had learnt to avoid conflict with his superior by pretending to take the blame.

‘The fault was, indeed, mine, sir,’ he conceded, shutting the door and crossing to look down at the map. ‘I see that you are studying some of the most beautiful counties in England. Does this mean that you are searching for somewhere to spend a well-earned holiday?’

‘Holiday?’ repeated the other, testily. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. With all the heavy responsibilities I bear, I never have time for a holiday.’

‘Yet you obviously need one, Superintendent.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You push yourself too hard, sir. Nobody can work continuously throughout the year, as you strive to do. Your health and judgement are bound to suffer.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my health or my judgement,’ said Tallis, stung by the comment. ‘Do I look unhealthy to you?’

‘No, no – of course not, sir,’ said Colbeck, tactfully.

In fact, the superintendent did look more than usually careworn. He was a big, solid man with iron-grey hair and a neat moustache. The pouches under his eyes had darkened and his normal straight-backed posture had acquired a pronounced droop.

‘Nevertheless,’ added Colbeck, ‘a week or even a fortnight in some rural retreat would be the making of you.’ Hearing a warning growl in the other man’s throat, he quickly changed the subject. ‘You have a new case for me, sir?’

‘It’s one that needs immediate attention.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘It concerns the disappearance of Sir Marcus Burnhope’s daughter.’

‘That name sounds familiar.’

‘And so it should. If you perused the newspapers as thoroughly as I do, you’d know that Sir Marcus is a member of the Cabinet. He is President of the Board of Control.’

‘Forgive my correcting you,’ said Colbeck, smoothly, ‘but there’s something that you missed in your thorough perusal of the press. That particular Cabinet post will soon be abolished. Sir Marcus will instead become Secretary of State for India.’ He raised a teasing eyebrow. ‘Since your army career took you to the subcontinent, I’m surprised that you didn’t pick up that important detail.’

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ said Tallis, blustering. ‘The point is that Sir Marcus is a man of immense influence. There’s a crisis in his family. We must solve it and do so with speed.’

‘How much information do we have?’

‘There’s precious little, I fear.’

‘Did you receive a telegraph?’

‘I’ve had three so far,’ said Tallis, lifting the map so that he could pick them up. ‘They’ll tell you enough to send you off to Worcestershire. Take the map as well. I’ve marked the approximate location of Burnhope Manor.’

While Tallis folded up the ordnance survey map, Colbeck read the telegraphs handed to him. They were terse and peremptory.

‘There’s no actual proof that a crime was committed,’ he argued.

‘Use your eyes, man – his daughter has been abducted.’

‘With respect, sir, you’re making a hasty assumption.’

‘How else can you explain it?’ challenged Tallis. ‘Sir Marcus’s daughter gets onto a train yet fails to reach the destination. What do you think happened?’

‘There are a number of possibilities,’ said Colbeck, taking the map from him. ‘I’ll be interested to find out which is the correct one.’

Tallis was on his feet. ‘Bear in mind what I told you. Sir Marcus wields great power. If we fail, he’s in a position to inflict untold damage on our reputation. Handle him with extreme care.’

‘I will, sir,’ said Colbeck, opening the door. ‘I’d never willingly offend the future Secretary of State for India.’

He sailed out and left Tallis throbbing with anger.

Sir Marcus Burnhope walked endlessly up and down the room like a caged animal looking for a means of escape. In his case, he was held behind bars of the mind and they
induced a mingled sense of rage, fear and impotence. Habituated to authority, he was for once in a situation that he could not control. It was a highly uncomfortable place to be. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t even hear the door of the library open. It was only when he turned to walk in the opposite direction that he saw his wife holding on to the frame for support. He rushed towards her.

‘You shouldn’t be here, Paulina,’ he said, slipping an arm around her. ‘You’re supposed to rest.’

‘How can I rest at a time like this?’ she asked, hopelessly.

‘Go back to bed and leave everything to me.’

‘I’m not going until I know the truth. Don’t try to fob me off, Marcus. I’m not so ill that I can’t cope with unpleasant facts.’ Her eyelids narrowed. ‘It’s Imogen, isn’t it?’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t lie to me. She’s my daughter as well. Now help me across to that chair and tell me what’s going on.’

Sir Marcus was a tall, lean man in his fifties with an air of distinction about him and a luxurious grey moustache that blended with his long, curling hair. Only a few years younger, his wife was a stately woman with the classical beauty that her daughter had inherited. It looked slightly ravished at the moment but had not been obliterated by the wasting disease that was lapping at her.

After helping her across the room, Sir Marcus lowered her into an armchair and remained standing. Not wishing to alarm her, he chose his words with care.

‘There was a problem with the train,’ he began.

Paulina tensed. ‘There hasn’t been an accident, has there?’

‘No, no – nothing like that.’

‘What happened?’

‘Imogen caught the train at Shrub Hill with Rhoda Wills.’

‘And …?’ When he turned away, her tone hardened. ‘I’m staying until I hear exactly what occurred,’ she said stoutly. ‘Who was the man who came here at a gallop earlier on? I caught a glimpse of him through the bedroom window. He was in uniform.’

Sir Marcus moistened his lips. ‘It was a policeman,’ he said at length.

‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is our daughter in trouble with the law?’

‘Keep calm,’ he advised. ‘The doctor said that you were not to get excited.’

‘I’m not excited, Marcus. I’m just burning with frustration because you won’t tell me what I’m entitled to hear. It’s cruel of you. I have a right to know.’

Producing a handkerchief, she dabbed at the tears that started to flow. Her husband realised that he couldn’t hide the full facts from her any longer. Going down on one knee, he put a consoling hand on her shoulder and soothed her as best he could. When she stopped crying, he dragged an upright chair across so that he could sit beside her. She looked imploringly up at him.

He cleared his throat before speaking in a low voice.

‘Imogen caught the train – there’s no doubt about that. When it arrived in Oxford, neither she nor Rhoda got off it. Your sister looked into every single carriage. They were not there.’

Paulina was trembling. ‘Wherever can they be?’

‘That’s what I intend to find out,’ he said, firmly. ‘We have Cassandra to thank for taking prompt action. She was
so convinced that Imogen would have caught the train that she made the stationmaster send a railway policeman on the return journey to Shrub Hill in order to make enquiries.’

He hesitated for a few seconds. ‘Go on, go on – don’t stop.’

‘The two of them did catch the train. The policeman spoke to a porter who put their luggage on board. He knew Imogen by sight. Hearing that, the policeman did what Cassandra had ordered him to do. He hired a horse and brought word here as fast as he could. The man is to be commended – and so, of course, is your sister.’

‘But wait a moment,’ she said, raising a palm. ‘I thought that the train didn’t stop anywhere between Worcester and Oxford.’

‘It didn’t. The driver confirmed that.’

‘So how did Imogen get off it?’

He shrugged. ‘I wish I knew, my dear.’

Paulina’s mind was aflame. Her imagination conjured up all sorts of horrors. On the one occasion that her mother didn’t travel to Oxford with her, Imogen had vanished into thin air. It was therefore her mother’s fault. Racked by guilt, she began to quiver with apprehension.

‘She must have been attacked,’ she wailed. ‘Someone got into the carriage and assaulted both Imogen and Rhoda before throwing them out of the train.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ he said. ‘Tolley obeyed my orders to the letter. He put them into an empty first-class compartment and waited until the train had departed.’

‘Then Imogen must have fallen out accidentally.’

‘Paulina—’

‘That’s what must have happened, Marcus. Perhaps
the door wasn’t closed properly. When she got up to see to it, the door suddenly opened and Imogen somehow fell through onto the track.’

‘Stop torturing yourself with fevered speculation.’

‘It could easily have happened. I’ve read about incidents like that.’

‘There’s someone you’re forgetting,’ he told her, squeezing both of her hands, ‘and that’s Rhoda. If there had been a problem with the door, Rhoda would certainly have dealt with it. She’d never let Imogen struggle with something like that. And – even supposing that our daughter
did
somehow fall out – her maid would still have been in the carriage to report what happened.’ He leant forward to kiss her on the temple. ‘It would have been far better if I’d kept you in the dark until this mystery has been solved.’

‘But I
had
to know,’ she insisted. ‘After all, I’m the culprit.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘It was my decision to let her go alone. I should have made her wait until I was fit enough to accompany her. I should have cancelled the trip to Oxford.’

‘But that would have been a terrible disappointment to all concerned. You know how much Imogen enjoys seeing her cousins and vice versa. It would have been wrong to call off the visit.’

‘But it would have saved our daughter’s life!’

‘There’s no need to be so melodramatic.’

‘She’s dead, Marcus. I sense it.’

‘And I have an equally strong feeling that Imogen is still alive,’ he said with far more confidence than he actually possessed.

‘Then where on earth can she be?’ she cried.

‘I’ve engaged the services of the one man who can find her for us.’

‘And who is that?’

‘His name is Inspector Colbeck. He’s being sent here from Scotland Yard.’

‘Do you really think that he can help us?’

‘I’m certain of it,’ he said, sitting up. ‘Because of his unblemished record of success, Colbeck is known as the Railway Detective. Earlier this year, he saved the royal family from being blown up on a train taking them to Balmoral.’

‘Goodness!’

‘Can you think of a better recommendation than that?’

Detective Sergeant Victor Leeming was a realist. He knew that his luck could not last indefinitely. It had given him precious, uninterrupted weeks when he was able to spend every night at home with his wife and two children. Since their investigations had been confined to London, he and Colbeck could go everywhere on foot or by cab. It was a far cry from the cases that had taken them to places like Wales, Scotland and France, separating him from his family in the process. Leeming had revelled in the joy of being back on the territory he knew best. His good fortune had now come to an abrupt halt. Instead of walking through familiar streets in the capital, he was forced to use a mode of travel that he detested. The sergeant found trains noisy, smelly, uncomfortable and potentially dangerous. What made his reluctant journeys even more trying was the fact that Colbeck was always singing the praises of a railway network that had spread all over the country. To him it was a cause
for celebration; to Leeming it was a source of unrelieved anguish.

They were an incongruous pair. Colbeck, the dandy of Scotland Yard, was impeccably dressed and sporting a dazzling new waistcoat. He was tall, sinewy and debonair. Leeming, by contrast, looked more like a fairground ruffian than someone involved in law enforcement. He was shorter, stockier, less well proportioned and had a face that was almost intriguingly ugly. While the inspector exuded refinement, the sergeant was unapologetically down to earth. Though his apparel was vaguely similar to that of his companion, it was baggy and crumpled. His top hat had lost much of its sheen. Anyone seeing them for the first time would have identified Colbeck as a member of the gentry with a bodyguard in tow.