11 - Ticket to Oblivion Page 7

She stiffened. ‘That’s not how I remember it, Father. I was the one who looked after you.’

  ‘Don’t quibble.’

  ‘Then don’t tell lies.’

  ‘The important thing is that you’re happy.’ He gave her a shrewd look. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘I couldn’t be happier,’ she replied, beaming. ‘I have everything I want.’

  ‘Make sure that it stays that way. If you’re not properly looked after, I’ll need to have a stern word with my son-in-law.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Robert is a wonderful husband.’

  Madeleine still couldn’t believe her good fortune in meeting and marrying Colbeck. At a stroke, she’d acquired a new social status, moved into a fine house in John Islip Street and been given the best possible facilities to pursue her career as an artist. Thanks to her husband’s encouragement, she’d reached a stage where her paintings of locomotives were commanding a good price. Inevitably, her father appointed himself as her technical advisor.

  ‘Another thing to remember about Brunel,’ he said, getting his second wind, ‘is the way he started a riot on the Old Worse and Worse. Have I ever told you what happened at the Mickleton Tunnel?’

  ‘Yes, Father, you have.’

  ‘It was a disgrace. Brunel should have been imprisoned for what he did.’

  Madeleine sighed. ‘You’ve said so many times.’

  ‘I’ve kept the cuttings from the newspapers.’

  ‘I’ve seen them, Father.’

  ‘He took the law into his own hands,’ he went on, ‘and recruited an army of drunken navvies to take on the contractors responsible for building the tunnel. The police were called out and the Riot Act was read twice by magistrates, but did that stop Isambard Kingdom Brunel? Oh, no – he came back in the dark with his navvies, all of them armed with pickaxes, shovels and goodness-knows-what. There was a fierce battle. Brunel seemed to think he was the blooming Duke of Wellington, leading the charge at Waterloo. When the troops were called in from Coventry, they were too late to prevent bloodshed and broken bones. I tell you this, Maddy,’ he concluded with a favourite phrase of his, ‘the Mickleton Tunnel is a monument to Brunel’s stupidity.’

  When they reached the tunnel, they were about to plunge into complete darkness. They’d come prepared. The two men were off-duty porters from Moreton-in-Marsh station and – when Sir Marcus Burnhope raised the alarm – they’d volunteered to join in the search. Travelling north-west, they went past Blockley and Chipping Campden to be confronted by the gaping hole that was the Mickleton Tunnel. Having lit their lantern, they entered with trepidation into a pitch-black, brick-lined tube some 887 yards in length. They were not afraid of being caught in there when a train shot through the tunnel because they’d taken the precaution of checking the timetable beforehand. What they feared were rats and other lurking creatures that might attack them. They’d also heard stories of tramps sleeping in the tunnel from time to time and of desperate criminals on the run who used it as a temporary refuge.

  To bolster their confidence, they walked shoulder to shoulder. Peter Dale, the chubby man holding the lantern, let it swing to and fro so that its glare lit up both sides of the tunnel. They moved furtively into the gloom. After fifty yards or more, there was a rustling noise then a rat dashed past them, brushing against the trouser leg of the other man. He lost his nerve at once.

  ‘We’ll find nothing here,’ he said, shivering. ‘Let’s go back.’

  ‘We haven’t searched it properly yet,’ said Dale, lifting the lantern higher. ‘Sir Marcus Burnhope has promised a reward for anyone who finds his daughter. We may have a chance to claim it.’

  ‘There’s nobody in here, Peter.’

  ‘We need to be sure of that.’

  As Dale walked cautiously on, his companion stayed reluctantly beside him. The thought of being bitten by some sharp-toothed denizen of the darkness made him flinch and he fought hard to control the queasiness in the pit of his stomach. They were halfway along the tunnel when the lantern’s beam revealed something that brought them to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Do you see what I see?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Hold the lantern higher, Peter. I can’t make out what it is.’

  Dale took a tentative step forward so that the glow from his lantern illumined the object clearly. When he saw what it was, he grinned.

  ‘Now that could be interesting,’ he said.

  It was late evening when Victor Leeming finally reached Scotland Yard but he knew that the superintendent would still be there. The indefatigable Tallis often worked on into the night yet still contrived to look alert and attentive in the morning. At the moment, the sergeant was neither of those things. As he delivered his report, his voice was weary and he came perilously close to yawning. Tallis was not impressed.

  ‘I expected something more tangible out of this investigation,’ he said.

  ‘It will take time, sir.’

  ‘We don’t have time. A young woman’s life is at stake here. I’ve got Sir Marcus hounding me with telegraphs and

  I had Mr Tunnadine in here, demanding that I commit more resources to the case.’

  Leeming was rueful. ‘Mr Tunnadine is fond of making demands.’

  ‘Well, I’ll not allow him to hold the whip hand over me,’ said Tallis with a grim smile. ‘On the other hand, I was hoping that your enquiries would yield me something with which I could appease both him and Sir Marcus.’

  ‘Tell them that the young lady is still alive – and so is her maid.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Frankly,’ said Leeming, ‘I don’t but the inspector is certain of it. He has a sixth sense in situations like this.’

  ‘I dispute that. The famed intuition of his is a myth.’

  ‘It’s never let him down before, sir.’

  ‘That’s a moot point, Sergeant.’

  Leeming glanced hopefully at the door. ‘May I go home now, please?’

  ‘No, you may not. Your report left out far too much. For instance, I still haven’t established why Colbeck is pursuing his particular line of enquiry.’

  ‘He believes that the answer to the conundrum lies within the family.’

  ‘I remain unconvinced of that.’ He jabbed a finger at Leeming. ‘And don’t you dare tell me that we have another example of the inspector’s sixth sense. It sounds like a wild guess to me, unsubstantiated by any firm evidence.’

  ‘It’s all we have to go on at this stage, Superintendent.’

  Tallis glowered at him. ‘Is Colbeck seriously suggesting that someone within the family actually connived at this disappearance?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Leeming, careful not to disclose the full details of the inspector’s theory. ‘He just feels that he needs to know more about how the family members behave towards each other before he can reach a considered decision.’

  ‘So what does he propose to do?’

  ‘He’s staying the night in Oxford so that he can travel to a village in Gloucestershire called North Cerney.’

  ‘Why the devil does he want to go there?’

  ‘Sir Marcus’s nephew is the curate at the local church.’

  ‘Hell and damnation!’ exclaimed Tallis, aghast at the news. ‘Is Colbeck so desperate that he’s turning to the church for help? Are you telling me that this sixth sense of his is no more than a resort to prayer? A detective is supposed to detect – not go down on his knees before an altar. What does he hope to find in Gloucestershire?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him, sir.’

  ‘I’m asking you, man!’

  ‘The inspector feels that it’s important to do so.’

  ‘Well, I feel it important to rearrange Colbeck’s priorities for him. His first duty is to gather relevant facts, not to go gallivanting around the countryside. When I assigned this case to him,’ said Tallis, bitterly, ‘I did so because of his past successes with crimes relating to the railways. Sadly, this investigation has exposed the limits of
his capabilities. It’s also proved the uselessness of his sixth sense and the deficiencies of some of the other five. He needs to be reprimanded for his shortcomings.’

  ‘I disagree, sir.’

  Tallis rounded on him. ‘Did I ask you to speak?’

  ‘The inspector has made some progress.’

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ snarled the superintendent. ‘You’ve nothing worth saying at the best of times and your misguided loyalty to Colbeck is infuriating. You may take a message to him from me.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I will.’

  ‘Shut up, man – just listen!’ Leeming recoiled from the rebuke as if struck by a blow. ‘Warn him,’ continued the other, quivering with fury. ‘Warn him that, if he doesn’t achieve results very soon, I will take over the investigation myself. We cannot afford to antagonise Sir Marcus. He has friends in the highest places. If we upset him, we will pay a heavy price.’ Standing up, he towered over Leeming. ‘What will you be doing tomorrow?’

  ‘The inspector has asked me to speak to another member of the Vaughan family, sir. His name is George Vaughan.’ Leeming attempted a disarming smile that somehow ended up as a crude leer. ‘He’s named after Lord Byron.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s named after the Queen of Sheba. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s the younger son of the Master of that college we went to and he lives here in London.’

  ‘What possible connection can this fellow have to the disappearance of two women?’

  ‘That’s what I have to find out, sir.’

  ‘A visit to this George Vaughan is a needless distraction.’

  ‘He interests the inspector. He’s an artist, of sorts.’

  ‘An artist!’ The superintendent gave a wild laugh. ‘This gets worse and worse. We need someone who can find Sir Marcus’s daughter, not an artist who can paint her portrait. As for Lord Byron … the man was a talented poet with disturbing emotional inclinations.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Where did you say that Colbeck was going?’

  ‘He wants to speak to a curate in North Cerney.’

  ‘And whom will he consult after that?’ asked Tallis with blistering sarcasm. ‘Will he seek guidance from the Archbishop of Canterbury? Or is he minded to talk things over with the Man in the Moon?’

  Leeming was glad to escape alive.

  Having spent the night at University College as a guest, Colbeck left early and headed for the railway station. He was sorry that he’d had to decline the Master’s invitation to tour the building. He liked Dominic Vaughan and admired everything he saw of the college but leisure time did not exist in an investigation. He needed to press on. A train took him over halfway to his destination, then he alighted, hired a trap and drove in the direction of Cirencester. Highly conscious of Oxford’s antiquity while he was there, he was now reaching even further back into history because he was travelling on the Fosse Way, the great thoroughfare built by the Romans to connect Exeter with Lincoln. Long stretches of it were as straight as an arrow.

  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.’