11 - Ticket to Oblivion (6 page)

‘We’re wasting our time,’ grumbled the policeman.

‘Aye, Tom, I know.’

‘We can never look behind every bush.’

‘It’s what Sir Marcus ordered.’

‘Then let
him
join in the search. It’s his daughter, after all.’

‘They say she’s a real beauty.’

‘Oh, she is. I’ve seen her. She doesn’t take after her father, I’ll tell you that. Sir Marcus is an ugly old bugger.’

Instead of walking along the track, the railway policeman wanted to be at home with his wife. His companion was an off-duty stationmaster, ordered to spend his evening joining in the hunt for the missing women. Like the policeman, he was weary and disenchanted. He used a stick to push back some shrubs.

‘There’s nobody here, Tom. How much longer must we do this?’

‘We go on until it gets too dark to see.’

The stationmaster looked slyly upwards. ‘I’d say it was pretty dark already.’

In fact, there was still plenty of light in the sky but there was nobody about to contradict him. The two men traded a conspiratorial grin. If they abandoned what they saw as an aimless plod, nobody would be any the wiser. They were just about to give up and retrace their steps when the policeman caught sight of something in the long grass some
forty yards or so ahead of them. He nudged his companion and pointed. The stationmaster saw it as well. It was the long, trailing hair of a woman. Convinced that they’d found one of the missing passengers, after all, they shook off their fatigue and ran towards her, their boots clacking on the hard wooden sleepers. The noise had an instant effect. A scantily clad woman suddenly came to life and sat up with the young man hiding in the grass beside her. When they saw the policeman’s uniform, they didn’t stand on ceremony. They snatched up their discarded clothing and fled the scene. The two men stopped to catch their breath.

‘Poor devil!’ said the stationmaster with a laugh. ‘We spoilt his fun.’

‘It’s a pity. She was a nice-looking girl with a lovely arse on her.’

‘Do you think we should report it?’

‘No, I think we should go home and forget all about it.’

‘What about Sir Marcus’s daughter?’

‘Let someone else find her.’

As they walked along the track in the opposite direction, they heard a train approaching in the distance. They jumped quickly aside and watched it come into view, hurtling towards them, then racing past so fast that they were forced back by the rush of air. They waited until its deafening tumult had faded.

‘I tell you one thing,’ said the policeman. ‘If Sir Marcus’s daughter jumped off the train at that speed, she’d be as dead as a door-nail.’

Emma Vaughan had been moping in her room for hours, praying fervently for the safety of her cousin and reliving
the horror of realising that she had simply vanished. When her father introduced her to the detectives, she was at first alarmed, thinking that their arrival meant that a heinous crime had been committed. It took Colbeck some time to calm her down and to offer a measure of reassurance. At the Master’s suggestion, they adjourned to the drawing room with his daughter. Emma was uneasy at being left alone with them and she found Leeming’s features disquieting. Colbeck’s charm and sensitivity slowly won her over.

‘You’re very fond of your cousin, are you not?’ he asked.

‘I love Imogen. She’s my best friend.’

‘How often do you see her?’

‘It was not nearly enough,’ she replied. ‘Imogen only came here twice a year but I stayed at Burnhope Manor three or four times.’

‘Which place did you prefer?’

‘Oh, it was much nicer when she came here. We could talk properly.’

‘Couldn’t you do that at her house?’

‘Not really, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Lady Burnhope always seemed to be there. I love my aunt, naturally, but I did get the feeling of being watched all the time. Imogen was forever apologising for it.’

‘Did she resent being under her mother’s watchful eye?’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘I can see why she looked forward to coming here where she had a little more freedom. Tell me,’ Colbeck went on, ‘about the arrival of the train from Worcester. You and your mother were waiting on the station, weren’t you?’

‘That’s right. I was so excited when it came in and so
heartbroken when Imogen wasn’t on it. I was certain that she must have caught the train.’

‘Who got off it?’

‘Lots of people – every single carriage had been occupied.’

‘Mrs Vaughan mentioned a soldier,’ recalled Leeming.

‘Yes, I saw him as well. He had a bandage over one eye. Before I could take a proper look at him, I was bumped into by a little boy who leapt out of a carriage. Mother chided him for being so careless. But I do remember the soldier on the train,’ she said, ‘and the one who greeted him on the station.’

‘You’ve met Mr Tunnadine, I take it,’ said Colbeck.

‘We’ve seen him a couple of times.’

‘And was he in company with your cousin?’

‘Yes,’ said Emma with a smile. ‘They made such a handsome pair. Clive Tunnadine was entranced by Imogen and she was enchanted by him. She told me that he swept her off her feet.’

‘She was happy with the match, then?’

‘Who wouldn’t be happy with a man like that? He’s very wealthy and comes from a good family. My uncle says that he has a brilliant career in politics ahead of him. Imogen was taken completely by surprise when he proposed. He gave her the most gorgeous engagement ring,’ she said, enviously. ‘Imogen couldn’t stop smiling when she showed it off to me.’

The information made Colbeck look at Tunnadine afresh. He and Leeming had found the man both arrogant and somewhat rebarbative. Clearly, he had a different effect on young women. He encouraged Emma to say more about his relationship with her cousin then he turned his attention elsewhere.

‘You have a brother called George, I hear.’

‘George is my younger brother. The elder is Percy. They couldn’t be more unlike each other,’ she said with an affectionate smile. ‘George is an artist, living in London while Percy is a curate in Gloucestershire. Father loves poetry, you see. That’s how he came to choose their names.’

Leeming was dumbfounded but Colbeck was quick to understand.

‘Could Percy be named after a certain Percy Bysshe Shelley, by any chance?’

‘Yes, Inspector, he was.’

‘Shelley was an undergraduate at this college, wasn’t he? It’s odd that a curate like your brother should bear his name. My memory is that Shelley was sent down for writing a pamphlet called
The Necessity of Atheism
.’

‘You’re very well informed.’

‘I, too, admire his poetry, Miss Vaughan.’

‘Father speaks very highly of it. In fact, he believes that we should have some kind of memorial dedicated to him. Unfortunately, the fellows won’t hear of it. They think that Shelley brought discredit on the college.’

‘Who is your other brother named after?’ asked Leeming.

‘It is another favourite poet of my father’s – Lord Byron.’

‘Even
I
have heard of him.’

‘It sounds as if it might have been a more appropriate christening,’ said Colbeck. ‘Lord Byron was famed for his wildness and it seems that your younger brother is not without a reckless streak in his nature.’

She laughed. ‘George is a loveable madman.’

‘Mr Tunnadine believes that he is behind your cousin’s
disappearance. He claims that your younger brother kidnapped her and spirited her away.’

‘That’s absurd!’ she cried.

‘George has been the family clown, by all accounts.’

‘I freely admit it, Inspector, but that doesn’t mean he’d do anything to hurt Imogen – or to upset us, for that matter.’

‘What if he wanted to upset Mr Tunnadine?’

‘It doesn’t sound as if he and your brother would see eye to eye,’ said Leeming. ‘How did they get on, Miss Vaughan?’

‘George only met Clive once,’ she replied, ‘and there was some friction between them, I must confess.’

‘Then your brother had a motive to strike back at Mr Tunnadine.’

‘He’d never do anything to spoil Imogen’s happiness.’

‘What about his own happiness?’ asked Colbeck. ‘We gather that your cousin was famed for her beauty. It can’t have gone unnoticed by your brother. Perhaps he was nursing hopes on his own behalf.’

‘You obviously don’t know my brother. George loved Imogen as a friend and as a cousin. It never went beyond that. The sort of young women to whom he was attracted were always …’ Emma left the words unspoken. ‘Let’s just say that they were of a wholly different character to Imogen. George likes to describe himself as a free spirit. He seeks female company of a like persuasion.’

‘Thank you for eliminating that theory once and for all, Miss Vaughan,’ said Colbeck. ‘When I first heard Mr Tunnadine voice it, I thought it lacked credibility. Your brother is exonerated. He has no reason at all to abduct his cousin. However,’ he added, looking at the sergeant, ‘it won’t do any harm for you to meet the gentleman, Victor. I’m
sure that he’d like to be made aware of the predicament in which his cousin finds herself and – based on his knowledge of her – he may be able to offer a suggestion as to what might have happened to her.’

‘I’ll give you George’s address,’ volunteered Emma. ‘He ought to be told about this terrible situation. Underneath all that wildness, he’s a very caring person.’

‘Then he’ll want his cousin found.’

‘And so will Percy. He should be told as well. In fact, Percy should be the first to hear about Imogen’s disappearance.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Well,’ she explained, ‘it’s something of an open secret. Percy would never admit it, of course, but I’m his sister and I can read his mind. George will tease Imogen and laugh at her expense but Percy wouldn’t dream of doing that. In his own quiet way,’ she said, ‘my elder brother has been in love with her for years.’

Caleb Andrews was never satisfied. When he was working as an engine driver, he was always complaining about the long hours, the attendant dangers of hurtling around the country at speed and the inevitable grime he picked up in the course of a normal day. Now that he’d finally retired, he moaned about having nothing to do and nowhere to go. Eager to leave the London and North West Railway after a lifetime’s service, he was equally eager to be back on the footplate. Ideally, he’d have liked a halfway stage between work and retirement but the LNWR didn’t employ part-time drivers or cater for the individual demands of someone as capricious as Andrews. When he called on his daughter that evening, he brought his usual list of grievances. Madeleine gave him no chance to unpack his heart.

‘I’m afraid that Robert won’t be joining us,’ she explained.

‘Why is that, Maddy?’

‘He’s involved in a case that’s taken him to Worcestershire.
The note he sent mentioned two passengers who’d disappeared on a train journey to Oxford.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’ he said, contemptuously. ‘They must have been travelling on the OWWR and it has no right to call itself a railway company. It’s a disaster. The person I blame is Brunel. He was the chief engineer when the project was first started. No wonder they had problems.’

‘Robert thinks that Mr Brunel is in a class of his own.’

‘Yes – it’s a class of fools and village idiots. The man is a menace.’

Madeleine Colbeck had achieved her aim of deflecting him away from his regular litany of woes but she had to endure a diatribe against Brunel instead. It went on for a few minutes. Since her husband was unlikely to return that day, she was glad of some company and had long ago learnt to tolerate her father’s impassioned lectures on anything and everything concerning the railway system. He was like a cantankerous old locomotive, pulling into a station and filling it with an ear-splitting hiss of steam. The noise slowly subsided and Andrews’ rage cooled.

‘Don’t ask me for details,’ she said, ‘for I have none.’

‘You don’t need any, Maddy. I can tell you what happened. If two people vanished on the Old Worse and Worse, it means that they were so horrified by the way that the train shook and rattled that they jumped off in a bid for safety.’ He wagged a finger. ‘You need to make your will before you travel on that line.’

Madeleine laughed. ‘You will exaggerate.’

‘I know what I know.’

Andrews was a short, wiry man of peppery disposition.
Approaching sixty, he was showing signs of age, his back bent, his hair thinning and his fringe beard in the process of turning from grey to white. Madeleine, by contrast, was looking younger than ever as if marriage to the Railway Detective had rejuvenated her. She was an alert, attractive, buxom woman in her twenties with endearing dimples in both cheeks that reminded Andrews so much of his late wife at times that he had to look away. Madeleine had first met Colbeck as a result of the daring robbery of a train that her father had been driving. Andrews had been badly injured during the incident but had made a full recovery and was eternally grateful to Colbeck for catching those behind the robbery.

‘I wish that your mother could see you now,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t believe the way you’ve settled into this lovely big house. It’s a far cry from our little cottage in Camden Town, yet you seem completely at home here.’

‘I don’t always feel it,’ she admitted. ‘It took me ages to get used to the idea of having servants at my beck and call.’

‘I don’t see why, Maddy. You had me at your beck and call for years.’

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.