Ticket to Oblivion

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?’

‘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.’

‘That is patently untrue.’

‘We must never surrender to despair.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Your words push me perilously close to it.’

‘That’s unkind and unwarranted, Cassandra.’

She had the grace to look shamefaced and even mouthed an apology. Anger then gave way to a moment of weakness and she allowed him to embrace her in his usual clumsy way. For all his faults — she’d enumerated them many times — she knew that she’d married a good, honest, conscientious Christian gentleman, wedded to scholarship and devoted to his family. When she pulled away and looked up at him, her ire had cooled.

‘What will Marcus do?’ she asked, softly.

‘I should imagine that he’ll take care to say nothing to alarm your sister when she is unwell. Secondly, he’ll curse the railway company and wish that he never got involved with the enterprise. The OWWR has presented him with an unbroken series of shocks and disappointments, the culmination of which is that it now appears to have mislaid his daughter.’

‘It’s done more than simply mislay her, Dominic. They should be prosecuted.’

‘We must first establish what offence — if any — they committed. But,’ he went on, ‘to return to your original question about what action he’ll take, Marcus will do what he always does in a crisis. He’ll find the ideal person to pour oil on what are extremely troubled waters.’

Unlike the cab driver who drove them to Burnhope Manor, Colbeck refused to be cowed by the presence of aristocracy. It was an article of faith with him that a police investigation merited the utmost respect. When the driver unthinkingly took his passengers to the servants’ entrance, therefore, Colbeck insisted that they went instead to the front door. It gave the detectives an opportunity to appraise the house. Built towards the close of Elizabeth’s reign, it had been designed by someone who was enthralled by the sumptuous Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire. Indeed, the manor was conceived as a smaller version of it with the same bold lines as Hardwick and the same stunning expanse of glass. There were so many windows in the front elevation that the whole edifice seemed to glisten in the afternoon sunshine.

Victor Leeming looked up at it in dismay. After the ordeal of rail travel, he’d enjoyed the comparative luxury of a horse-drawn vehicle and it had helped him to relax. The sight of Burnhope Manor made every muscle tense instantly. Colbeck, on the other hand, was not intimidated. When they stood outside the front door, he pulled on the bell rope with conviction. The butler soon answered the summons, looking askance at Colbeck but reserving his most disapproving glance for Leeming. On learning who the visitors were, he conducted them along a corridor lined with gilt-framed portraits, then took them into the library. Left alone, they looked around the long, well-proportioned room with its leather-bound tomes stacked neatly on oak shelves covering three walls. A large globe stood in a corner.

Colbeck’s primary interest was in the books and he took a quick inventory of their titles. Leeming, however, was transfixed by the full-length portrait of Sir Marcus Burnhope that hung above the magnificent marble fireplace. One admonitory finger in the air, he looked as if he were addressing a large audience and the fierce glint in his eye made Leeming flinch slightly. Sir Marcus exuded a sense of wealth, breeding and power. The real-life version was even more daunting.

‘Ah, there you are at last!’ he said, sweeping into the room like a gust of wind. ‘What on earth kept you?’

‘Part of the blame must lie with the railway company on whose board you happen to sit, Sir Marcus,’ said Colbeck, evenly. ‘The journey from Oxford to Worcester was punctuated by an inordinate number of stops.’

He introduced himself and the sergeant. Sir Marcus deigned to exchange a handshake with Colbeck. To his relief, Leeming escaped with a perfunctory nod from him. The detectives were offered seats but their host remained on his feet so that he could strut and dominate. He gave them all the information he had, then he demanded immediate action.

‘Some has already been taken, Sir Marcus,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’ve questioned the stationmaster and a porter at Oxford station and spoken to the man who loaded your daughter’s luggage at Shrub Hill station. What we need now is more detail than you were able to include in your telegraphs.’

‘What sort of detail?’

‘Why was your daughter going to Oxford? Had she made the same journey many times before? How long did she expect to be away? What might she be doing during her stay?’

Sir Marcus answered the questions with suppressed irritation. Since he was unsure how long Imogen and her maid would remain in Oxford, it was clear that he’d taken little interest in the arrangements. He explained that his wife was indisposed and thus unable, for the very first time, to accompany their daughter. Catching Leeming’s eye, Colbeck saw that he’d registered that important fact. When he finished, Sir Marcus struck a pose with his hands on his hips.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything else you wish to know, Inspector?’

‘I did wonder why you felt it necessary to describe your relationship with the OWWR in your telegraphs.’

‘I wanted you to know that I don’t only speak as a concerned parent. I felt that my presence on the board would secure the attention of the Railway Detective and not,’ he added with a scornful look at Leeming, ‘of some blundering nonentity.’

‘My achievements, such as they are,’ said Colbeck, modestly, ‘would have been impossible without the help and expertise of the sergeant. Essentially, we operate as a team, deserving equal credit.’ Leeming shot him a grateful smile. ‘We have two requests, Sir Marcus. The first is that we’d like to interview the coachman who drove your daughter and her maid to the station.’

Sir Marcus was dismissive. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ve already spoken to Tolley. You won’t learn anything from him that I haven’t already told you.’

‘Nevertheless, we would like to meet the fellow. We’re likely to ask him questions that might never have occurred to you.’

‘What sort of questions?’ asked the other, suspiciously.

‘If you wish to know that,’ said Colbeck, ‘you’re welcome to be present.’

There was a considered pause. ‘Very well,’ said Sir Marcus, grudgingly. ‘You can speak to Tolley, if you must. But you said that you had two requests.’

‘The second is of a more delicate nature, Sir Marcus.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well,’ said Colbeck, ‘I wondered if we might be permitted to take a look at your daughter’s bedchamber.’

‘Indeed, you may not!’ exploded Sir Marcus. ‘I find the very notion both impertinent and distasteful. My daughter disappeared on a railway line, Inspector. You’ll not find her hiding upstairs in a wardrobe.’

‘If my suggestion was offensive, I apologise.’

‘It was offensive and wholly improper.’

‘Then I ask you to forgive me,’ said Colbeck, getting to his feet and signalling that Leeming should do likewise. ‘You have a beautiful library, Sir Marcus. I see that you’re an admirer of Shakespeare’s sonnets.’

‘I never have time to read poetry,’ snarled Sir Marcus with something akin to disgust. ‘Whatever gave you the idea that I did?’

‘That chair by the window is placed to catch the best of the light. I assumed that it’s your chosen place for reading. On the table beside it is a copy of the sonnets.’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t put it there — and neither did my wife. Lady Burnhope has even less interest in poetry than I. Really, Inspector,’ he chided, ‘I wish you’d ignore our reading habits and concentrate on finding our daughter.’

‘We’ll speak to the coachman at once,’ said Colbeck.

Sir Marcus tugged at a bell pull. ‘One of my servants will take you to him.’

‘Thank you, Sir Marcus — and thank you for putting your trust in us. I have no doubt that we’ll find out exactly what happened to your daughter and her maid. Oh,’ he added, meeting the other’s glare, ‘there is one last question.’

‘What is it?’

‘Would you describe your daughter as happy?’

‘Damn you, man!’ bellowed Sir Marcus. ‘Of course she’s happy. Imogen has everything that she could ask out of life. Apart from anything else, she’s due to get married soon. It’s a positive love match. Our daughter has never been happier.’

Edward Tallis had had a particularly busy day, attending a lengthy meeting with the commissioner, deploying his detectives on new cases, sifting through interim reports on existing investigations, berating anyone within reach and trying to ensure that Scotland Yard avoided making the sorts of mistakes that newspapers loved to seize on and mock. Satire could be a cruel weapon and Tallis had felt its searing thrust far too often. After hours of constant activity, he retired to his office and rewarded himself with a cigar, puffing on it with satisfaction and filling the room with a haze of smoke. His pleasure was short-lived. Knuckles rapped on his door, then it opened to admit a tall, dark-haired, fleshy man in his thirties with a prominent nose and a jutting chin. His manner was brusque.

‘Superintendent Tallis?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied the other, stubbing out his cigar.

‘I am Clive Tunnadine. I wish to know what you are doing in relation to the disappearance of the dear lady to whom I am betrothed. I speak of the daughter of Sir Marcus Burnhope. How many men have you engaged in the search and what results have they so far reported?’

Tallis was on his feet at once. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, stoutly, ‘but you have no right to force your way into my office and make demands.’

Tunnadine inflated his chest. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘I do — you’re a person who should learn to control his vile temper.’

‘I’m an elected Member of Parliament, serving in Her Majesty’s Government.’

‘You’d oblige me by moderating your voice,’ said Tallis, pointedly. ‘You’re not addressing a public meeting. If you would care to take a seat, I’ll endeavour to offer you an explanation. If, however, you try to browbeat me any more, I’ll have you removed from the premises — by force, if need be.’

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.’