11 - Ticket to Oblivion (4 page)

Tunnadine was on the point of a volcanic eruption and the molten words trembled on his tongue. What held him back was the superintendent’s firm stance and unyielding stare. It had terrified soldiers of lower rank during his army days and it was enough to warn Tunnadine that he’d met his match. The visitor curled his lip, waited a full minute, then sat reluctantly down. Walking around him, Tallis closed the door then returned to his own chair behind the desk.

‘First of all,’ he began, ‘let me offer you my sympathy. It must have come as a great shock to you.’

‘It did, Superintendent. Word arrived by courier sent from Worcestershire. I became aware of it when I returned home less than fifteen minutes ago. Sir Marcus informs me that he sent telegraphs to Scotland Yard.’

‘There were three of them in all, sir.’

Tallis told him that he was treating the case as a matter of priority and that the detectives would probably have already
reached Burnhope Manor. Tunnadine listened with a mingled rage and impatience. Whenever he tried to speak, however, he was interrupted by Tallis, determined to keep the upper hand. Though arrogant and high-handed himself, he hated those traits in others and saw both in his visitor. When the superintendent finally relented, Tunnadine pounced on him.

‘You dispatched only
two
detectives?’ he asked, aghast.

‘They are highly experienced, sir.’

‘Scores of men will be needed to comb the area between Shrub Hill and Oxford. How can two individuals cover an area that vast?’

‘Any search of the line would be undertaken by railway policemen. They do not answer to me. Since he is on the board of the railway company, I’ve no doubt that Sir Marcus will already have cracked the whip and instigated a methodical search. What my detectives will be doing,’ said Tallis, ‘is to gather evidence painstakingly before reaching a conclusion.’

‘What more evidence is there?’ said Tunnadine, slapping a knee. ‘Two people board a train then vanish before it reaches its destination.’

‘It’s not as simple as that, sir.’

‘They must somehow have fallen out of the train.’

‘That’s only supposition.’

‘Can you suggest an alternative explanation?’

‘I can think of a few,’ Tallis told him, ‘but then I’m rather more acquainted than you with seemingly impenetrable mysteries. Your concern is understandable and may – to a limited extent – excuse the way that you barged unannounced into my office. I would advise you to keep calm and have confidence in Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Has he ever handled a case like this before?’

‘No, I don’t believe that he has, sir.’

‘Then he is just groping in the dark,’ said Tunnadine, hotly.

Tallis smiled. ‘I can see that you’ve never met the inspector.’

‘I insist on doing so at the earliest possible time.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘What are his movements?’

‘When he’s finished at Burnhope Manor, he intends to visit Oxford to meet the family with whom the two ladies were intending to stay.’

‘What use is that?’ asked Tunnadine. ‘Imogen never even reached them. They can tell him absolutely nothing of value.’

‘You underestimate Inspector Colbeck,’ said Tallis, speaking about him with a fleeting affection. ‘He is a master of the unorthodox. His methods may at times seem odd – not to say perverse – but I can assure you that they invariably bear fruit.’

When the detectives found him, Vernon Tolley was polishing the landau in a desultory way. His mind was clearly on other things and it didn’t take them long to find out what they were. Because he’d driven Imogen and her maid to the station, he felt obscurely to blame for the tragedy and knew that Sir Marcus took the same view. If the missing passengers were not found alive and well, Tolley expected to be dismissed summarily. What really concerned him, however, was the fate of Rhoda Wills. When Colbeck asked him to describe the appearance and character of the two women, he spoke with undisguised fondness of Imogen’s
maid. He was too loyal to be drawn into any criticism of Sir Marcus and his wife, though he did admit that the latter kept their daughter under constant surveillance.

‘Let’s go back to the start,’ suggested Colbeck. ‘When the two ladies left the house, were both parents there to see them off?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Tolley, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth. ‘Lady Burnhope was too ill to come out so she waved them off from an upstairs window.’

‘Which one?’ asked Leeming. ‘There must be twenty or more to choose from.’

‘People in the village call this the Glass House.’

‘What about Sir Marcus?’ wondered Colbeck. ‘Did he wave them off?’

‘He was busy somewhere inside the house.’

‘Was that typical of him? Does Sir Marcus always show such little interest in his daughter’s movements?’

‘He’s a very important man, Inspector.’

‘It would only have taken a matter of minutes,’ observed Leeming.

‘This was the first time his daughter had travelled to Oxford without her mother,’ said Colbeck. ‘That made the visit rather special.’

‘It did, Inspector,’ agreed Tolley. ‘It was unusual not to have Lady Burnhope holding forth in the carriage. I could see that Rhoda – Miss Wills, that is – was very pleased that they were alone.’

‘What else was unusual, Mr Tolley?’

The coachman shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘There must have been
something
,’ pressed Colbeck. ‘Think hard.’

‘The tiniest detail may be of interest to us,’ said Leeming.

‘Tell us about any variation from the norm.’

Tolley frowned. ‘Well, there was the money,’ he recalled. ‘When Sir Marcus and Lady Burnhope travel by train, they never give money to me or to the porter who stows their luggage aboard. Their daughter was different. Both of us got a sovereign for our pains. Imagine that – a whole sovereign apiece’ His face clouded. ‘I’d sooner lose the money and have the two of them safely back here again.’

‘I’m sure that you would,’ said Colbeck, touched by his distress. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr Tolley? What made this journey a little different?’

Tolley removed his hat to scratch his head. He had been over the events of the morning countless times in his head and thought that he had a complete picture of what had happened. It took a long time before one more detail popped out.

‘There was the valise,’ he remembered.

‘What about it?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Well, it’s rather large and heavy. Whenever they’ve travelled with it before, it was always loaded onto the roof of the carriage with the other luggage. For some reason, it travelled inside with them this time.’ His eyes widened hopefully. ‘Is that the kind of thing you mean, Inspector?’

Colbeck was grinning. ‘It is, indeed,’ he said.

‘Will it help you to find them?’

‘Let me put it this way, Mr Tolley. You may take heart. I have a strange feeling that your job will be safe, after all.’

Bent on pursuing his political career, Sir Marcus Burnhope had left the upbringing of their daughter almost wholly to his wife. He put in a token appearance at crucial moments in Imogen’s young life but otherwise saw very little of her. To atone for his frequent absences, he gave her a generous allowance and plied her with gifts. Paulina, too, had been neglected in favour of parliamentary affairs and he was very conscious of that as he climbed the staircase to her bedchamber. It had taken Imogen’s dire predicament to remind him of his many shortcomings as a husband and father. For once in his life, the future Secretary of State for India was compelled to put the family first. It was a novel experience and deeply unsettling as a consequence.

‘How did you find her?’ he asked the doctor.

‘Lady Burnhope is still very agitated,’ replied the other.

‘I tried to conceal the news from her but she insisted on hearing it.’

‘She talked of nothing else.’

‘Is there some way to calm her down?’

‘I’ve given her a sedative, Sir Marcus. She’ll soon be asleep.’

‘Thank you. Call again tomorrow. You may well be needed’

They’d met on the landing. Doctor Ferris was a white-haired old man with sharp instincts acquired over many years of sitting at the bedsides of the sick and dying. Though softly spoken and deferential, he made it clear that his patient was to be given the medication prescribed.

‘I’ve left my instructions on the bedside table,’ he said.

‘They’ll be obeyed to the letter.’

‘In that case, Sir Marcus, I’ll take my leave.’ The doctor looked over his shoulder. ‘If you wish to speak to Lady Burnhope, I suggest that you do so very soon. She’s already drowsy.’

While the doctor padded off down the staircase, Sir Marcus knocked gently on the door of his wife’s bedchamber then let himself in. Paulina was propped up on some pillows, mind in turmoil. When she saw her husband enter, she reached out a desperate hand. He moved across to hold it between both palms.

‘How do you feel, my dear?’ he asked with awkward tenderness.

‘Is there any news?’ she gasped.

‘Not as yet, I fear.’

‘It’s been hours and hours. Will our torment never end?’

‘Fretting about it will not help, Paulina.’

‘But I’m bound to fret. Any mother would do so in the circumstances – and any father as well. Don’t
you
fret, Marcus?’

‘I am naturally anxious,’ he told her, ‘but I’m schooling myself to remain calm and to allow for a modicum of optimism.’

‘Optimism?’ she echoed in surprise. ‘I see no cause for that.’

‘Hope is a better medicine than despondency.’

But his wife was well beyond the reach of hope, still less of optimism. From the moment she learnt of her daughter’s disappearance, she’d been plunged into an unrelieved misery. To her rheumy eyes, the situation was impossibly bleak.

‘She’s gone, Marcus. We have to accept it – Imogen has gone.’

‘I refuse even to countenance the thought,’ he said, decisively.

‘She was our one and only child – truly, a gift from God. Need I remind you of the difficulties attending her birth?’

‘This is no time to dwell on such matters, my dear.’

‘But the memories come flooding back to me.’

They were not memories that he chose to share. Complications arising from Imogen’s birth had meant that she would have no siblings. It was a bitter blow to a man who’d longed for a son to follow in his footsteps and preserve the traditions of the Burnhope dynasty. Imogen might have her mother’s exquisite beauty but she could never inherit her father’s baronetcy, join him as a Member of Parliament or take part in the manly country pursuits he enjoyed during occasional moments of leisure. A son would have been bursting with ambition to make his mark and achieve something of note; his daughter’s talents lay chiefly in being decorative.

Paulina was on the point of dozing off when she shook herself awake again.

‘What about poor Clive?’ she asked. ‘Have you told him?’

‘I sent a letter by courier.’

‘He’ll be desolate.’

‘Clive will do what I have done, my dear,’ said Sir Marcus, pompously. ‘He’ll substitute action for anguish. Instead of wallowing in despair, he’ll want to join the search for Imogen. Clive Tunnadine is a splendid fellow – that’s why I chose him as our prospective son-in-law.’

She heaved a sigh. ‘We’ve lost a daughter and he’s lost a wife.’ As her eyelids began to flutter, a thought made her fight off sleep. ‘You mentioned a detective to me. Has he arrived yet?’

‘Inspector Colbeck has come and gone,’ he said, shielding from her his disappointment with the visit. ‘He and his sergeant gathered information here before taking the train back to Oxford. For some reason, Colbeck felt that it would be valuable to speak to your sister and her husband.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘We can only pray that the so-called Railway Detective knows what he’s doing.’

When they reached the railway station in Worcester, the detectives were met by a happy coincidence. Not only could they catch an express train to Oxford, the locomotive that pulled it was
Will Shakspere
. According to the porter who’d put their luggage on the train, it was the self-same one that had taken Imogen and her maid off on their travels. Colbeck and Leeming were thus able to recreate their journey, very confident that they wouldn’t disappear into a void as the
women had apparently done. The hectic dash to Shrub Hill in the cab had left little opportunity for reflection on what they’d so far discovered. In the privacy of a railway compartment, they were able to compare notes properly.

‘What did you make of Sir Marcus?’ asked Colbeck.

‘People like that always frighten me, sir.’

‘I don’t see why they should. You’re never frightened when you take on a ruffian armed with a cudgel or arrest an obstreperous drunk. When it comes to a brawl, you’re the most fearless person I’ve ever met.’

‘Sir Marcus is rich, he’s titled, he’s important. I’m none of those things.’

‘You’re rich in the things that matter, Victor. As for a title, “detective sergeant” is something of which to be proud when attached to your name. Then we come to importance,’ said Colbeck. ‘Answer me this. When someone’s daughter vanishes from the face of the earth, which is more important – her father or the man who helps to find her?’

‘I never thought of it that way,’ admitted Leeming with a chuckle. ‘Sir Marcus
needs
us. He may look down on us but we are the ones leading the chase.’

‘What did you learn at Burnhope Manor?’

‘I learnt that I don’t belong there, sir. I felt like an intruder. I was also in awe of that portrait of him over the fireplace. It made him look so … majestic.’

‘It flattered his vanity,’ said Colbeck, ‘which is why he paid the artist a large amount of money to give prominence to his better features while, at the same time, concealing the less appealing ones – and there were several of those. What struck me,’ he continued, ‘was how little he knew of his daughter’s life and movements. Evidently, she’s led an
isolated existence under the aegis of Lady Burnhope.’

‘Why did you ask to see her bedchamber?’

‘I wanted some idea of what she’d taken on the trip.’

‘Your request really upset Sir Marcus.’

‘I was prepared for such a reaction. It’s a great pity. We could have learnt a lot from seeing what apparel she’d taken, but my principal interest was in her jewellery. Had she simply been going to stay at an Oxford college for a relatively short time, she wouldn’t have needed to take it. Academic institutions give a young lady little scope for display. If,’ Colbeck went on, ‘she nevertheless
did
take her most precious possessions, then a whole new line of enquiry opens up.’

‘Does it?’ Leeming was bewildered. ‘I fail to see it, sir.’

‘Remember what the coachman told us. He and the porter were each given a handsome tip. What does that tell you?’

‘The young lady was uncommonly kind-hearted.’

‘I prefer to think that she was excessively grateful.’

‘Yet all that they did was to put her on a train.’

‘Without realising it,’ said Colbeck, thinking it through, ‘they might have been doing a lot more than that. This was the first time that Lady Burnside’s daughter was travelling unsupervised. Imagine the sense of independence she must have felt.’ He looked across at the sergeant. ‘What else did the coachman tell us?’

‘He told us that he was sweet on Rhoda Wills. Not that he said it in so many words,’ Leeming recalled, ‘but I could read that fond smile of his. He was far less upset about the disappearance of Sir Marcus’s daughter than he was of her maid.’

‘He gave us a vital clue, Victor.’

‘Did he?’

‘Think hard.’

Face puckered in concentration, Leeming went through the meeting with Vernon Tolley in his mind. A smile slowly spread across his face and he snapped his fingers.

‘It was that valise,’ he said. ‘It went inside the carriage instead of on top of it.’

‘And why do you think that was?’

‘It contained something needed on the journey.’

‘Well done!’

Leeming’s smile froze. ‘But that still doesn’t explain how they disappeared.’

‘Perhaps they didn’t,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then where did they go?’

‘They stayed exactly where they were, Victor.’ He laughed at the sergeant’s expression of complete bafflement. ‘They got on the train at Worcester and left it at its terminus in Oxford.’

‘Then why didn’t Mrs Vaughan and her daughter see them?’

‘It’s because – and this is merely guesswork on my part – they didn’t recognise Sir Marcus’s daughter and her maid.’

‘That’s impossible. They knew both of them well.’

‘Mrs Vaughan and her daughter were expecting two women to get off the train. It was a crowded platform, remember. They wouldn’t have looked twice if a man and a woman had alighted together – or if two men stepped out of a carriage.’

Leeming snapped his fingers. ‘It’s that valise again!’

‘Suppose that it contained a means of disguise.’

‘They’d have plenty of time to change on their way to
Oxford and they could easily have lost themselves in the crowd when they got there. I think you’ve hit on the solution, sir.’ The excitement drained out of Leeming’s voice. ‘There’s just one thing,’ he said, dully. ‘I can’t think of a single reason why Sir Marcus’s daughter should want to sneak past her aunt and her cousin. She enjoyed her visits to Oxford. The coachman confirmed that. Why deceive her relatives in that way?’

‘Imogen Burnhope was seizing her one chance of escape.’

‘Why should she want to escape from a life of such privilege?’

‘I’m not certain, Victor, but it may be related to that book of Shakespeare sonnets in the library.
She
was the person who’d been reading them, not her parents. Poetry would seem to be signally absent from the Burnhope marriage.’

‘I’ve never read any sonnets,’ confessed Leeming. ‘In fact, I don’t even know what a sonnet is. What’s so special about them?’

‘The overriding theme of Shakespeare’s sonnets is love.’

‘Then someone about to get married would be likely to read them.’

‘Only if she was pleased with the wedding plans,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I fancy that she may have had reservations.’

‘Yet her father insisted that she’d never been happier.’

‘That only means that the marriage had
his
blessing. His daughter would have had no freedom of choice in the matter. I doubt very much if her happiness was even considered. It was just assumed by her father. We heard how beautiful Imogen Burnhope was. She must have had many admirers. Being trapped on the estate for most of the time, she’d have been unable to enjoy their admiration unless …’ Colbeck hunched his shoulders. ‘… unless she found a way
to circumvent her mother’s control of her life. If that were the case, she’d be in a position to make her own choice.’

Leeming goggled. ‘You think that the young lady is on the run?’

‘Yes, Victor, I do. I wouldn’t dare mention it to her family or to her relatives but her behaviour smacks of calculation. Her reading of the sonnets suggests that Imogen Burnhope is in love but it may not be with the man she is destined to marry.’

‘Yet she accepted his proposal.’

‘So it seems.’

‘She can’t renounce that.’

‘It’s highly unusual, I grant you. It would take a great deal of courage for her to make such a momentous decision but love can embolden even the meekest of individuals. The truth will only emerge when we meet the man to whom she is betrothed. Is she running
to
him?’ asked Colbeck, stroking his chin meditatively, ‘or running
away
from him?’

Clive Tunnadine was an unwelcome visitor to Oxford. He stormed into University College and ordered the head porter to take him at once to the Master’s Lodging. He was received politely by Dominic Vaughan and offered refreshment that he spurned rudely as if he’d just been invited to drink poison. Before he could explain why he’d descended on the college in such an ill-tempered way, Tunnadine was interrupted by the arrival of Cassandra and obliged to go through ritual greetings. Her presence made him moderate his tone somewhat.

‘I saw you through the window,’ she said, ‘and guessed why you must have come. It’s this terrible business about Imogen. We are quite distraught.’

‘We are also mystified,’ said her husband. ‘The OWWR is capable of some catastrophic errors but it has, to my mind, never before contrived to lose two of its passengers in transit. Sir Marcus will take the company to task.’

‘The fault may not lie at their door, Mr Vaughan.’

‘Where else, I pray?’

Tunnadine looked from one to the other. He’d met them only twice before at social gatherings and formed a clear view of the couple. Vaughan struck him as a refugee from a real life in which he was too timid to thrive, preferring instead to inhabit the alternative universe of scholarship with its mild intellectual joys and its monastic affinities. Cassandra, however, was too forceful and opinionated to blend easily into the surroundings. While her husband may have withdrawn from the workaday world, she still kept one foot in it and felt able to pass judgement on major events of the day in a way that Tunnadine found annoying and unbecoming in a woman. It was something he was determined to prevent Imogen Burnhope from ever doing when she eventually became his wife.