11 - Ticket to Oblivion (7 page)

After resting and watering his horse at a wayside inn, he set off again through pleasant countryside and weighed up all the information he’d so far accumulated. In meeting the irascible Clive Tunnadine, his belief that Imogen Burnhope might not be wholly committed to the notion of marrying him had been strengthened. Tunnadine might be an effective politician but he was not an appealing bridegroom. Markedly older than Imogen, he was harsh and peremptory, talking about her as if she were a valuable property that had gone astray rather than as the woman he loved enough to want as his wife. Colbeck could imagine only too well how
he’d feel if Madeleine ever went missing. Unlike Tunnadine, he’d be at the mercy of swirling emotions, not venting his anger on someone who was trying to find her. To his credit, Sir Marcus Burnhope had shown genuine fondness for his daughter. There was no corresponding affection in Imogen’s future husband. The love match proclaimed by her father no longer existed.

If she and her maid had been smuggled off the train at Oxford, then the women would have needed both a disguise and an accomplice. Since she was the tall, lithe young woman of report, Imogen might be able to pass for a soldier, especially if her face was partly hidden by a bandage. Rhoda Wills would have been invisible on the wounded soldier’s arm. They could have been whisked away by a waiting accomplice with military connections and the two red uniforms would have melted into the crowd, unseen by Cassandra and Emma Vaughan. The deception had been an undoubted success. But what had happened then? Where had the women been taken and how would they survive now that they’d apparently severed their links with the Burnhope family? Only something – or someone – of irresistible desirability could provoke the Honourable Imogen Burnhope into taking the momentous step of turning her back on her family to seek a life elsewhere. Colbeck hoped that Percy Vaughan would be able to shed light on the mystery.

North Cerney was little more than a straggle of houses and a cluster of farms. Bathed in sunshine, All Saints Church was perched on a hillside overlooking the village and was one of the most picturesque buildings in the whole of the Churn valley. At first glance, Colbeck
judged it to have an ideal location and he appreciated its abundant charm. Closer inspection revealed the medieval structure to be slightly disproportionate. Cruciform in shape, it had a saddle-backed west tower of Norman origin. Transepts had been added at a later date but the different architectural elements combined to give the church an almost tangled appearance. Tethering his horse at the gate, Colbeck went up the winding path in the churchyard to the sound of buzzing bees. Birds on the slate-covered roof added their individual songs to the chorus. Discordant notes were occasionally provided by the sheep grazing between the headstones. It was a place of rural enchantment and Colbeck could understand why Percy Vaughan had chosen it.

Carved into the wall where the chancel met the southern transept was a manticore, a beast with human head, the arms and body of a lion and a scorpion’s sting in its tail. It seemed an unlikely decoration to find on the exterior of a church. Colbeck was still trying to work out why it had been put there when he heard a voice behind him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked Percy Vaughan.

‘Good day to you,’ said Colbeck, turning round to see the curate walking towards him. ‘I suspect that you may well be the person I came to see.’

After introducing himself, he explained why he’d come. The curate was both shocked and wounded. He was a lanky, rather sallow man in his mid twenties with a scholarly intensity. He peered at Colbeck through narrowed lids as if scrutinising a problematical passage of Scripture.

‘Imogen has
disappeared
?’

‘I fear so,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve yet to decide if she was
abducted or if the young lady disappeared of her own volition.’

‘Why, pray, should she do that?’

‘I was hoping that you might be able to provide an answer.’

‘I’m afraid that I can’t.’

‘Mr Tunnadine thought it might be some jape devised by your brother.’

‘No,’ said the curate, forcefully. ‘Even George wouldn’t stoop that low. He loves Imogen – we all do. He’d never do anything to frighten her like that. Tunnadine is quite wrong.’

‘Have you met the gentleman?’

‘Indeed, I have, Inspector.’

‘Did he strike you as a fit husband for your cousin?’

‘It’s not for me to pronounce upon that. He was Imogen’s choice.’

‘I fancy that Sir Marcus might have brought his influence to bear.’

‘Well,’ said the other, guardedly, ‘that’s inevitable, I fear. He’s always taken the major decisions at Burnhope Manor. And if
he
hasn’t done so, then my aunt has been a willing deputy.’

‘In other words,’ said Colbeck, watching him carefully, ‘their daughter had no control over her life. Do you think she found that irksome?’

Percy Vaughan made no reply. His sister had told Colbeck that her elder brother was in love with Imogen but the curate did not wear his heart on his sleeve. From his blank expression, it was impossible to tell what he might be thinking. There was a lengthy pause. To break
the silence, Colbeck nodded towards the church.

‘I was just admiring your manticore,’ he said.

‘I’m impressed that you know what it is, Inspector. Very few people do. It’s supposed to hail from Abyssinia. We have a second one at the foot of the tower. They add something to the church. Some believe that they were put there to ward off evil spirits.’

‘Or to ward off questions from Scotland Yard detectives,’ suggested Colbeck, with a mischievous gleam. ‘Your father told me that you were keen to come to North Cerney. It has a link to his college, I gather.’

‘It’s true,’ said the curate, showing some animation at last. ‘The college bought the advowson in 1753. It cost an immense amount of money. At the time, of course, theology was the main subject of study at the college. I’m by no means the first person to move from there to North Cerney.’

‘But you’re only a curate here.’

‘The rector will retire in due course and I will take his place. At the moment, I have a small cottage in the village. I look forward to moving closer to the church.’ He glanced covetously at the nearby rectory. ‘As it is, the rector spends a lot of time elsewhere. I have to take most of the services.’

‘That seems a trifle unfair.’

‘One has to earn one’s spurs, Inspector.’

‘That’s a curious phrase for a man of God to use.’

‘I don’t see why. When I visit my parishioners, I spend a lot of time in the saddle. Some of them live in outlying farms and hamlets.’

Colbeck looked across at the rectory. It was a long, low, capacious house with a thatched roof and an ample garden
in full flower. At times when he’d contemplated ending his life in a rural retreat, the rectory – in size, shape and position – was exactly the image that had come into his mind.

‘It will be a fine place to live,’ he observed. ‘The rectory will make an ideal family house. I envy you. Tell me,’ he went on, probing gently, ‘has your cousin ever visited you here?’

‘Unfortunately,’ said the curate, sadly, ‘she has not. However,’ he added with the first hint of a smile, ‘when I was ordained as a deacon in Gloucester Cathedral, both Imogen and Lady Burnhope attended the service. I was touched by their support.’

‘No doubt your own family was there as well.’

‘My parents came and so did my sister, Emma, but it was too much to ask of my brother. George is something of an apostate. My own view is that it’s more of a posture than anything else. He keeps rather unsavoury company in London and has to treat religion scornfully to stay in with his cronies.’

‘Is he a good artist?’

‘He has a talent, assuredly, but I’m not certain that he knows how best to develop it. Artists are peculiar individuals.’

‘I know,’ said Colbeck, fondly. ‘I live with one. Though the kind of paintings that my wife produces are, I suspect, far distant from anything your brother might choose to put on canvas.’

A sudden look of panic came into the curate’s eye. He grabbed Colbeck’s arm.

‘You will find Imogen, won’t you?’ he asked.

‘Without question, I will – and I expect her to be unharmed.’

‘That’s a relief,’ said the other, leaving go of him. ‘But you won’t find her in North Cerney. That much is certain. What exactly prompted this visit?’

‘I was interested to hear your opinion of the young lady and of the man to whom she is betrothed. Anything you can tell me about her life at Burnhope Manor would be of use. I’m sorry that you feel unable to talk about it.’

Percy Vaughan studied him for a long time before finally speaking.

‘I will answer your questions, Inspector,’ he promised, ‘but I have a more urgent summons. Forgive me while I go into the church to pray for Imogen and her maid. The Almighty must be enlisted in the search for her.’

‘I’ll gladly join you,’ said Colbeck, following him towards the door. ‘And afterwards, I trust, you’ll talk more freely.’

‘I give you my word.’

‘Thank you.’

They walked on together. The curate stopped him at the door.

‘Do you have any clues at all as to the reason for her disappearance?’

‘We have a number of clues,’ said Colbeck, ‘and others will certainly turn up.’

Sir Marcus Burnhope held it in his hands and examined it from all angles. When he put it back on the table, he walked around it in a circle and kept his eyes fixed on it. Eventually, there was a tap on the door and the butler
ushered in Vernon Tolley. After nodding obsequiously, the coachman approached his master.

‘You sent for me, Sir Marcus?’

‘Yes,’ replied the other. ‘Something was found yesterday evening in the Mickleton tunnel.’ He pointed to the table. ‘I’ve never set eyes on it before so it can’t belong to my daughter. What about you, Tolley?’

The coachman recognised the hat at once and leapt forward to snatch it up. He stroked it lovingly and even held it to his cheek for a second. Aware that he was being watched, he carefully replaced the hat upon the table.

‘It belongs to Rhoda Wills, Sir Marcus,’ he explained.

‘Are you quite certain of that?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tolley. ‘I’d know it anywhere.’

A night in the bosom of his family had left Victor Leeming feeling restored and refreshed. On the previous day, he’d quailed in the presence of aristocracy, felt the weight of his ignorance in an Oxford college and experienced sheer terror when subjected to the full force of Edward Tallis’s ire. As he left the house to continue the investigation, therefore, he braced himself. From all that he’d heard about it, the artistic community lived by strange and often scandalous rules. The only artist he knew was Madeleine Colbeck but she was an exception to the rule, pursuing her career in the privacy and comfort of her home and leading a blameless existence. That, he suspected, was not the case with George Vaughan. He would be going into enemy territory once more.

His first problem was to find the artist. The address they’d been given by Emma Vaughan turned out to be that of a house that her brother had vacated weeks earlier. Leeming was given a forwarding address but, when he got there, he learnt that George Vaughan had moved on from that place
as well and stayed odd nights with a succession of friends. It was not until late morning that Leeming finally ran him to earth. The artist occupied the attic of a crumbling old house in Chelsea. When the sergeant was admitted to the room, he was startled to find a beautiful young woman posing naked on a chair. Unabashed at his entrance, she gave him a roguish smile. He was too embarrassed even to look at her.

George Vaughan laughed. ‘Don’t mind Dolly,’ he said. ‘She’s my model.’

‘That may be so, sir, but I find the young lady … distracting.’

‘Most men would love to see me like this,’ she boasted.

‘And so they shall,’ said the artist, indicating his easel. ‘When my painting is finished, you’ll be the toast of London.’ He smiled at Leeming. ‘You, sir, are in the privileged position of being able to make a first offer for the portrait. Wouldn’t you like to have Dolly hanging on the wall of your bedroom?’

Leeming gurgled.

‘I want to be on display in a grand house,’ she said, standing on her toes and spreading her arms wide. ‘What about that uncle of yours, George? You’re always saying how wealthy he must be. Is Sir Marcus a man with a taste for art?’

‘No, my angel, my uncle is a born philistine.’

‘Sir Marcus has other matters on his mind at the moment,’ Leeming blurted out. ‘His daughter has disappeared.’

The artist gaped. ‘Can you be serious, sir?’

‘My name is Sergeant Leeming and I’m a detective from Scotland Yard, engaged in the search for your cousin. May I speak to you in private, please?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

He gestured to his model. Gathering up a robe, Dolly pulled it around her shoulders and swept past Leeming, giggling at his discomfort. When she’d left the room, he took a quick look around the attic. It was large, low-ceilinged and cheerless, having no carpet or curtains and only a few sticks of furniture. At one end of the room was a large bed with rumpled sheets. Half-finished paintings stood against the walls. Artist’s materials were scattered everywhere.

‘What’s this about Imogen?’ asked George Vaughan.

‘We’re very concerned about her whereabouts, sir.’

‘Tell me all, man.’

While Leeming gave him the details of the case, George Vaughan was both attentive and alarmed. He was tall, angular and smelt of oil paint. There was a faint resemblance to his father but his face was largely hidden beneath a straggly beard and by the mop of hair that cascaded down to his shoulders. He wore a loose-fitting shirt opened to expose some of his chest and a pair of incongruous red breeches with silver buttons down the sides. His feet were bare. When he’d heard the full story, he was shaking with exasperation.

‘I’ll kill the villain who did this to her!’ he vowed.

‘Mr Tunnadine felt that
you
might be the villain in question, sir.’

‘What!’

‘It seems that you have a reputation for playing practical jokes.’

‘I’d never go to those lengths,’ said the other, hotly. ‘That’s a wicked allegation to make against me, but it’s typical of Tunnadine.’

‘You’ve met him, I believe.’

‘I saw enough of him to take a rooted dislike. Imogen is a delightful person. She has every virtue that a young woman should possess. It’s cruel to sacrifice her to an ogre like Clive Tunnadine. Men like him don’t love and cherish their wives. They simply acquire them for the purposes of adornment.’

‘You seem to have upset the gentleman, sir. He spoke of you unkindly.’

The artist laughed. ‘That was because I provoked his jealousy. When I met him with my cousin, I swooped on Imogen and embraced her warmly, pleading that she should have married me instead. Tunnadine was outraged.’ He became serious. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be?’

‘Inspector Colbeck, who leads the investigation, is convinced that she’s still alive and unharmed.’

‘In short, she’s run away from Tunnadine!’ George Vaughan clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Imogen! I’d do the same in your position. Wherever you are, you can rely on my love and support.’

‘Don’t get carried away, Mr Vaughan,’ warned Leeming. ‘Bear in mind that we are still at the stage of conjecture. It could equally well be the case that the young lady and her maid have been abducted.’

‘Perish the thought!’

‘How much did you see of her?’

‘Not nearly enough, Sergeant,’ said the other, sorrowfully. ‘Imogen only came to Oxford twice a year. I went on occasional visits with my family, of course, and always relished her company. She’s a wonderful person, fun-loving and full of spirit. It’s such a shame that she was cooped up in Burnhope Manor all the time.’

‘Did she resent that?’

‘She did more than resent it – she plotted her escape.’

Leeming’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’

‘Imogen dreamt of freedom, Sergeant. Who would not do so in those circumstances? But I never thought that she would actually pluck up the courage to act. In fact, I put her to the test last year,’ said the artist with a nostalgic smile. ‘I contrived to be alone with her when she stayed in Oxford. I offered to carry her off so that she could experience a taste of freedom at last. Naturally, it was all in fun but Imogen was not amused by the idea. She was too concerned about what she stood to lose than by what she might gain. There’d have been dreadful repercussions. I know what you’re thinking,’ he added, as suspicion came into Leeming’s eyes. ‘You’re thinking that Tunnadine may not have been so wide of the mark when he accused me of kidnapping my cousin on that train. But this would have been no jape. It would have been an honest attempt to let Imogen flap her wings and fly for once.’

‘Yet you say that she spurned the idea.’

‘Her parents exert too strong a hold, Sergeant. That was the trouble.’

‘I don’t understand, Mr Vaughan.’

‘Well,’ said the other, airily, ‘to atone for a single day of freedom, she’d have had to endure even tighter control over her movements. That would be an unfair punishment but it was bound to follow. Imogen thanked me but rejected my offer. In retrospect, it might have been just as well. An artist’s studio is not the ideal place in which to hide. Someone like Dolly is at home here; my cousin, alas, would
be almost as uneasy as you are in the libertarian world that I inhabit.’

‘It’s not for me, sir, I know that.’

‘We obey no rules, Sergeant. We simply follow our instincts.’

‘I spend most of my time arresting people who follow their instincts, Mr Vaughan. Criminals break laws because it’s second nature to do so.’

‘There’s nothing criminal about creative art,’ declared the other. ‘We fill the world with beauty and excite the mind. Well, look at my latest work,’ he went on, taking the portrait from the easel and holding it under his visitor’s nose. ‘Is that not something to gladden the heart of any red-blooded man?’

Dolly looked up from the canvas with her chin tilted high. One whole arm was missing but the rest of her body was there in all of its alluring glory. Notwithstanding his embarrassment, Leeming had to admit that it was work of some quality. Radical changes had occurred. A squalid attic had been transformed into a palace, the chair became a throne and the model had a regal presence. Dolly was now a princess. The brushwork was uneven but the overall effect was nevertheless stunning. The sergeant had to make a conscious effort to turn away.

‘Do you have any idea where your cousin might be?’ he asked.

‘You’re the detective.’

‘Inspector Colbeck feels that this whole episode has been triggered by something from within the family.’

‘It has,’ said the artist, replacing the portrait on the easel. ‘Imogen has fled from tyrannical parents who keep
her locked to a ball and chain. As to where she might have gone—’ George Vaughan stopped as a new possibility presented itself. ‘Why, yes,’ he cried, ‘it
could
be a family matter, after all. Lovely as she might be, Imogen was always too pure and unworldly for me. I prefer someone like Dolly Wrenson, an uninhibited woman with real fire and passion. But there is someone in the family who revered Imogen as a saint. That’s the person you want, Sergeant. Speak to my brother, Percy. He’s been longing for Imogen to marry him one day.’

After kneeling in prayer at the high altar, Colbeck and Percy Vaughan rose to their feet. Though relatively small, the church had an abundance of interesting features and the curate enjoyed pointing them out. Colbeck’s attention was drawn to the finely carved corbels in the perpendicular roof, the heads on the north side being identified as William Whitchurch, a former rector, Henry VI, the reigning monarch when the roof was built, and the Duke of Buckingham, the contemporaneous landowner and lord of the manor. The pulpit dated from the late fifteenth century, its bowl carved from one piece of stone. Like many other things in the church, the lectern came from the Continent, the top being of Flemish brass and the steel pedestal hailing from Spain. The seventeenth-century reading desk was made out of an old box pew. The most unusual item was a barrel organ, reached by a quaint little staircase and able to play a couple of dozen tunes to the congregation.

Interested as Colbeck was, he felt that his guide was deliberately keeping him there because he was reluctant to talk about his family. The church was Percy Vaughan’s
domain. Inside it, he felt safe, in charge, at peace. When they came back out into the churchyard, however, he was tense and anxious.

‘You promised me that you’d talk more openly after we prayed,’ Colbeck reminded him. ‘Your church is a delight but I didn’t come all this way simply to admire it.’

‘I’m grateful that you
did
come, Inspector. I’d hate to have been left unaware of dear Imogen’s plight.’ The curate moistened his lips before continuing. ‘If you’ve spoken to my sister, she might well have told you that I was very fond of my cousin. So was my brother, for that matter, but George’s yearning is for ladies of a less virtuous kind. When I took him to task on the subject, he simply laughed at me.’ He pulled a face. ‘I suppose that every family must have its black sheep.’

‘In your case, the family also has a good shepherd.’

‘I took holy orders out of inner conviction,’ said Percy Vaughan, ‘but there was a degree of penance involved.’

‘I can’t imagine that you were in need of repentance.’

‘My mind was not as settled as it now is, Inspector. It was once occupied by a vision of life with Imogen, a hopeless vision because my feelings were not requited and because her parents had higher ambitions than to see their daughter married to a humble curate. But strong emotions can overpower us,’ he continued, ‘and I was in their grip for a long while.’

‘Your sister indicated something of the kind, sir.’

‘Poor Emma never understood what I was
really
feeling and I was unable to confide in her lest she should tell Imogen in an unguarded moment. That would have been humiliating.’ He looked at Colbeck. ‘You said that you were married?’

‘I am and happily so.’

‘Then you were able to follow your heart and choose freely.’

‘It was so in both our cases.’

‘You were fortunate – I am not.’ He let out a groan of pain. ‘Imogen is lost to me forever.’

‘She will be found,’ affirmed Colbeck. ‘Of that I have no doubt.’

‘Then you must have received a different answer when you knelt at the altar,’ said the curate, solemnly, ‘for all I heard was silence. Whenever I’ve prayed in the past, there was always a sign – however slight – that God was listening. He may not have been able to grant me my wishes but at least God was aware of them and that in itself was a consolation. Today in church, I prayed in earnest for Imogen and her maid to be returned to us without delay.’ Percy Vaughan looked bereft. ‘I got no answer, no hint even that my words had been heard. Do you know what that means? It’s too late, Inspector. They are beyond saving.’ He bit his lip. ‘Imogen and her maid must be dead.’

‘How are you feeling now, Paulina?’

‘I feel very frail and very confused.’

‘There’s no colour in your cheeks.’

‘The doctor says that all I can do is rest.’

‘Well,’ said Cassandra, ‘at least do so where you can breathe in fresh air. It’s far too stuffy in here.’ Crossing the bedchamber, she flung open a window. ‘That’s better. It will do you good to be fanned by a light breeze.’

‘Thank you for coming, sister. I do appreciate it.’

‘There was no point in staying in Oxford. Dominic is
preoccupied with college matters and Emma has a fit of weeping whenever she thinks of her cousin. I left both of them to their own devices. My place is here. I’d like to think that Marcus has been looking after you,’ she added, tartly, ‘but that’s too much to expect.’

‘He’s done his best.’

‘It’s not good enough, Paulina, and never has been.’

Cassandra Vaughan had never been in awe of her brother-in-law. While others admired Sir Marcus as a man of distinction, she saw his deficiencies as a husband and had the courage to tackle him about them. Her comments were invariably brushed aside with a lordly wave of the hand but that didn’t stop her continuing to speak up on behalf of her sister. Paulina was clearly ailing and there was a marked deterioration in her condition since Cassandra’s last visit to Burnhope Manor.