11 - Ticket to Oblivion Read online

  ‘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.

  The inspector watched the fields of crops and green pastures scudding past.

  ‘We’d never have been able to get there so quickly by stagecoach,’ he said, turning to his friend. ‘Trains have revolutionised the way that we work.’

  ‘Not for the better,’ said Leeming, sourly. ‘All that trains have done is to give villains new ways to commit crimes. They’ve blown them up, robbed them, damaged them, assaulted women on them and done all manner of dreadful things. Stagecoaches were far safer and much more reliable.’ He folded his arms. ‘That’s my opinion, anyway.’

  ‘I respect it, Victor.’

  Leeming bristled. ‘Are you mocking me, sir?’

  ‘I’d never do that.’

  Colbeck was sincere. He was too fond of his sergeant to deliberately upset him by poking fun at him. The two detectives were seated alone in a compartment of a jolting train taking them to Worcester. Having set out from London, their first port of call had been Oxford where they’d interviewed both the stationmaster and the porter who’d stood beside Cassandra Vaughan and her daughter awaiting what turned out to be phantom passengers. Neither man could offer any convincing explanation of how the two ladies had disappeared in transit. Unlike the train from London, the one on the OWWR was slow, jerky and inclined to stop at almost every station it came to. As they began to lose speed yet again, Leeming stared hopefully through the window.

  ‘Have we got there at last?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Colbeck, consulting the open copy of Bradshaw in his lap. ‘This will be Moreton-in-Marsh. The station was opened in 1853.’

  ‘I can live quite happily without that information, sir.’

  ‘Knowledge is power, Victor.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ grumbled Leeming.

  ‘Travel is an education in itself.’

  ‘That’s the main reason I prefer to stay in London.’

  ‘Doesn’t this investigation appeal to you in any way?’

  ‘Not when it involves spending hours on the railway.’

  ‘A real challenge confronts us,’ said Colbeck, enthusiastically, ‘and it’s one that’s brimming with interest. In the course of a non-stop train journey of just under sixty miles, two young women disappear as if in a puff of smoke. Surely that fact excites your curiosity?

  Leeming grimaced. ‘To be honest, sir, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Why not, may I ask?’

  ‘It’s because we both know how this investigation will end.’

  ‘Do we?’ Colbeck was surprised. ‘Please enlighten me.’

  ‘Those women must have left the train while it was travelling at speed,’ said Leeming. ‘It’s only a matter of time before their dead bodies are found in the bushes somewhere along the line.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that they had a bizarre suicide pact?’

  ‘No, sir – I believe that they fell out by accident.’

  ‘In that case, the entire train must have been occupied by blind passengers. Evidently, they were also deaf. As the two women tumbled out of their carriage, nobody managed to see them or hear their terrified screams. And then there’s the guard,’ added Colbeck. ‘He’s paid to keep his eyes peeled for anything untoward.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry, Victor. Your theory doesn’t hold water.’

  Leeming was hurt. ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘I prefer to keep an open mind. Strange things happen on the OWWR. It’s no wonder my father-in-law calls it the Old Worse and Worse. But then, of course, he’s biased. Until he retired, he drove locomotives for the LNWR and looks with disdain on rival companies. In his view,’ Colbeck went on, ‘the OWWR had a fatal defect.’

  ‘What was that, sir?’

  ‘In its early stages, Brunel was heavily involved.’

  ‘Mr Andrews has no time for Brunel, does he?’

  ‘Let’s just say that he’s yet to recognise Brunel’s undoubted genius. I suspect that you’d agree with him on that score, Victor.’

  ‘People who build railways have ruined this country,’ asserted Leeming.

  ‘I see them as far-sighted men who are pioneers of progress. The day will come when their achievement is fully appreciated. Admittedly,’ said Colbeck, ‘the development of the railway system has attracted its fair share of rogues, men like George Hudson who sought to exploit it for his own ends and who was involved in all manner of financial malpractice. It remains to be seen if Sir Marcus Burnhope views railways as a priceless national asset or merely as a source of personal income.’

  ‘Why do you say that, sir?’

  ‘Read these telegraphs, Victor,’ said the other, extracting them from an inside pocket. Leeming took them and studied each one. ‘What do you notice about them?’

  ‘They tell us very little about his missing daughter,’ noted Leeming.

  ‘But they reveal something important about Sir Marcus himself.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘He’s very frugal with words until we reach his name. Then he feels obliged – in all three cases – to state that he’s on the board of directors of the OWWR.’ Colbeck gave a questioning smile. ‘What sort of man does that?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dominic Vaughan had been wrong about the Beckford sisters. Of the two, he’d found Cassandra infinitely more patient, intelligent yet submissive and therefore far more suitable as the wife of a husband drawn to the groves of academe. It was not that he thought Paulina unattractive. On the contrary, he willingly conceded that, in purely physical terms, she was unequalled but it was a glaring beauty that unnerved instead of enticed him. Paulina also had a patrician air that was much more at home in Burnhope Manor than in the cloistered world of the Oxford college where Vaughan had been a fellow at the time. While one sister would surely have rejected his proposal of marriage, the other had accepted it with muted pleasure and been – in the early years – exactly the sort of spouse he’d envisaged as his preferred partner in life.

  Motherhood had wrought a profound change in both sisters. The arrival of Imogen, an only child, turned the serene Paulina into a nervous, ever-watchful chaperone, determined to protect her daughter from what she perceived as the rampant wickedness of the outside world. Cassandra, too, had undergone a kind of metamorphosis. Having given birth to three children, she’d become more strident, more assertive and less ready to accept her husband’s decisions without first questioning them. Since he hated confrontation of any kind, Vaughan had given ground to her time and again. Even though he now enjoyed the elevated status of being Master of University – the oldest college endowment in Oxford – he lacked authority on the domestic front. Cassandra was always prone to challenge his judgement and advance her own plausible alternatives to his plans. Everyone at the college was aware of the marital imbalance in the Master’s Lodging. It had led to waspish comments from his detractors in the Senior Common Room.

  ‘Don’t just sit there, Dominic,’ she complained. ‘Do something.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do, my love?’

&nbs
p; ‘Anything is better than hiding away in your study.’

  ‘I need to check these accounts from the bursar.’

  ‘Heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘Must the safety of our niece take second place to the erratic mathematics of the bursar? Don’t you care about Imogen?’

  ‘I care a great deal, Cassandra,’ he said, rising from his desk, ‘and I’ve already been to the chapel to pray for her deliverance. But, in practical terms, all that was needful has already been done by your good self. You promptly set the wheels of the investigation in motion and I applaud you for that.’

  ‘Somebody had to do so,’ she snorted.

  ‘Are you insinuating that I would have failed to do likewise?’

  ‘Frankly, I am.’

  ‘That’s unjust of you.’

  ‘Is it? You couldn’t even be bothered to meet Imogen at the station.’

  ‘You and Emma formed a perfectly adequate welcoming party.’

  ‘Your presence would have given it more body and you’d have been able to remonstrate with the stationmaster and the driver of the locomotive. In your absence, I had to tackle them both.’

  ‘I don’t see that either of them could be blamed,’ he said, reasonably. ‘If you set on them, they have my sympathy. You can be unnecessarily sharp at times, my dear. I’ve mentioned it to you before.’

  ‘You’re doing it again!’ she protested. ‘You’re worrying about two mere railway employees instead of about your niece. What if she’s been killed or kidnapped? What if Imogen has been ravished? Supposing,’ she continued, voice soaring a whole octave, ‘that it had been Emma who boarded that train then disappeared? Wouldn’t that have engaged your attention?’

  ‘You know quite well that it would, Cassandra. You chastise me unfairly. I have the greatest concern for Imogen – and for her maid, of course. It’s a shared plight and we must remember that. But having no idea what happened to them, I’m determined not to fall prey to the wild imaginings that you have just listed. Let me finish,’ he went on quickly as she was about to speak. ‘All that we can realistically do is to watch, pray and rely on the goodness of our Creator. The situation may look baffling but there may well be a perfectly logical explanation.’