A Ticket to Oblivion E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Railway Detective
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 490

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Young Imogen Burnhope and her maid Rhoda board a non-stop train to Oxford to visit her Aunt Cassandra, who waits on the platform at Oxford station where the train terminates, to greet them. Only they never arrive. All the passengers alight but the two women are nowhere to be seen. The train is searched and the coachman swears he saw them board onto first class, but they seem to have vanished into thin air. The Railway Detective must unravel the mystifying web of their disappearance before Imogen and Rhoda vanish into oblivion for good.

Leseprobe

A TICKET TO OBLIVION

EDWARD MARSTON

To John Swift QC friend and former Rail Regulator with whom I enjoyed many happy times and wonderful arguments at the Oxford college featured in this novel

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Summer, 1858

As the landau rolled on through the Worcestershire countryside, the passengers were unusually quiet. Vernon Tolley was surprised. When the coachman had driven them to the railway station before, there’d been continuous conversation. The piercing voice of Lady Burnhope had always risen effortlessly above the clip-clop of the horses and the scrunching of the wheels on the hard track. Without her characteristic bray to listen to, there’d be no gossip for Tolley to share with the other servants when he got back to Burnhope Manor. Though he strained his ears, he could pick up nothing from those behind him. Because it was the first time she’d made this journey without her mother, he’d expected Imogen Burnhope to be excitedly talkative. The trip to Oxford was in the nature of an adventure for her yet it produced no cheerful banter between Imogen and her maid. She and Rhoda Wills were apparently content to do little more than exchange smiles, converse with gestures and enjoy the beauty of the landscape.

Imogen was a striking young woman of twenty with a shapely figure, a natural elegance and a face of such exaggerated loveliness that it turned the heads of men and women alike. Even when partially hidden beneath a poke bonnet trimmed with flowers, her features were arresting. Rhoda, by contrast, cut a more homely figure, pleasantly plain and with a body that could best be described as endearingly plump. Ten years older than her companion, she was as much a trusted friend as a servant. When they were alone together in the back of the landau, the barriers between them were removed in a way that the haughty Lady Burnhope would never have tolerated.

It was only when Shrub Hill station came into sight that Imogen spoke aloud.

‘We’ve got here!’ she said with relief. ‘I had this dreadful feeling that Mother would change her mind at the last moment and either come with us or insist that we abandoned the visit altogether.’

‘Lady Burnhope is in no fit state to travel,’ Rhoda reminded her. ‘You heard what the doctor advised. She’s to have complete rest.’

‘Mother would have preferred it if I’d stayed to look after her.’

‘She has servants to do that – not to mention Sir Marcus.’

Imogen stifled a bitter laugh. ‘Father is hopeless at looking after anyone,’ she said. ‘Whenever I was ill as a child, he never came anywhere near me. He’s wedded to politics. The only thing that concerns him is his next speech to Parliament.’ The town clock chimed and she brightened instantly. ‘That’s eleven o’clock. We got here in perfect time.’

‘You can always rely on Vernon. He never lets us down.’

Tolley savoured the compliment. Socially and otherwise, the tall, graceful Imogen was totally beyond his reach and the most that he could do was to steal an admiring glance at her. Rhoda, however, was a very different matter. He found her appealing, warm-hearted and delightfully companionable. More to the point, she came from the same stock as himself. A few years older than her, Tolley had nurtured hopes for some time. Rhoda had kept him politely at arm’s length until now but he was prepared to wait.

When he brought the landau to a halt outside the station, he beckoned a porter over and indicated the luggage. While the man began to unload it, Tolley jumped down onto the pavement so that he could open the carriage door, flip down the step and help the passengers to alight. He felt only the lightest of touches as Imogen held his hand but, when it was her turn, Rhoda gave his fingers a squeeze of gratitude reinforced with a smile. He would have fond memories of both on the drive back home.

Opened in 1850, Shrub Hill still had an air of novelty about it for Imogen and Rhoda. Regular travellers in Worcester might take their station for granted but that was not the case with the two women. The only time they ever got to see the compact shape of Shrub Hill was on their twice-yearly visits to Oxford. For the most part, their lives were circumscribed by the limits of the Burnhope estate and, generous as those limits undoubtedly were, they could nevertheless resemble the confines of a wooded prison. As they adjourned to the comfort and privacy of the waiting room, Imogen and Rhoda both experienced a sense of release. They were free.

Under the direction of Tolley, the porter positioned himself at a point on the platform where the first-class carriages would stop. Though it stretched for less than ninety miles between its termini, the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway had, in its relatively short existence, been a boon to those within reach of one of its many stations and halts. In this instance, however, it was only serving the three major communities. Having set off from the industrial haze of Wolverhampton, the express train was due to make a single stop at Shrub Hill before powering on to Oxford General station. It was late but punctuality had never been the company’s strongpoint. In fact, the OWWR had been plagued by problems since its inception and a woeful timekeeping record was only one of them. As soon as he heard the train’s clamorous approach, Tolley strode quickly across to the waiting room to alert Imogen and Rhoda. They were on their feet at once and followed him down the platform to where their luggage stood. The porter tipped his hat to them.

The train steadily lost speed as it clanked into the station. Imogen was thrilled to see the name on the locomotive’s boiler – Will Shakspere. In the past, she’d been lucky enough to see some of Shakespeare’s plays performed and had studied others when educated by a governess with literary inclinations. There was also a more personal reason why Shakespeare had a special place in her heart. A locomotive that bore a variant of his name was a good omen. She couldn’t wait to get aboard.

The porter had intended to ingratiate himself by opening the door of an empty compartment for them but Tolley reserved that task for himself, darting forward the moment that the train came to a halt. Before Imogen stepped aboard, she asked for the valise to be put inside the compartment. The porter was told to put the heavier luggage on the roof. Tolley took the liberty of putting an arm around Rhoda’s waist as he eased her into the carriage and he was rewarded with a second smile. Having secured the luggage on the rack above, the porter joined him and beamed when Imogen reached out to press a coin into his hand. A second coin was given to Tolley who touched his forelock in acknowledgement. Imogen resumed her seat, leaving the porter to close the door and gaze in wonderment at her through the window.

‘She gets prettier every time I sees her,’ he observed with a sigh.

‘Yes,’ said Tolley, eyes fixed on Rhoda, ‘that she does.’

There was a slamming of doors, a cacophony of hissing steam, belching smoke, raised voices and rattling carriages, then Will Shakspere headed off on the fifty-seven mile run to Oxford. Vernon Tolley stood there until the train vanished from sight, his mind filled with promising thoughts of Rhoda Wills. Desire stirred in his breast. He vowed that she would one day be his. As he sauntered back to his carriage, he was quite unaware of the significant part he’d just played in her life.

Cassandra Vaughan was impatient at the best of times and the delay made her even tetchier. Standing on the platform at Oxford General station, she peered angrily down the line as if demanding that the train appear. Cassandra was a middle-aged woman of middle height and a spreading girth that was cleverly concealed by her dressmaker. Handsome in repose, she looked quite forbidding when roused. Her daughter, Emma, stood meekly beside her. She was a slim, self-effacing young woman with something of her mother’s features but none of her outspokenness.

‘This is disgraceful!’ said Cassandra, irritably.

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Why can’t the trains run on time?’

‘It’s only twenty minutes late,’ her daughter pointed out.

‘It’s nearer half an hour, Emma. I shall write another letter.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘What’s the point of building a railway when it constantly lets one down?’

Emma knew better than to argue with her mother. She was just as disappointed with the long wait but she did not vent her spleen on the railway company. Her abiding concern was for her cousin, Imogen, who would probably be fretting in a stuffy carriage. While her mother thought only of herself, the considerate Emma was hoping that Imogen would not be too discomfited. She loved her cousin dearly and had spent weeks looking forward to the visit. The fact that Lady Burnhope would not be coming to Oxford meant that Imogen and Emma would be able to spend more time alone together, liberated from the surveillance of the older woman. It served to sharpen Emma’s anticipatory pleasure.

‘Where the devil is it?’ snapped Cassandra.

‘I don’t know, Mother.’

‘It’s supposed to be an express train, for heaven’s sake! They’d have got here sooner had they walked. Oh, this is intolerable,’ she went on, clicking her tongue then looking around for someone to blame. ‘Where’s the stationmaster? Why doesn’t the fellow do something?’

‘It’s not his fault,’ said Emma.

‘Well, someone should be held responsible.’

‘The train will be here soon.’

Cassandra stamped a foot. ‘Stop saying that, Emma! It’s driving me insane.’

‘I’m sorry, Mother.’

‘And don’t keep apologising all the time.’

Before her anger could spill over into a full-blown rage, Cassandra heard a noise that made her start. The distant thunder of the train was accompanied by clouds of smoke curling up over the trees. Will Shakspere finally came into view, puffing bravely as it rattled along. There was a collective sigh of relief from the crowd on the platform. Several people had gathered there, either to welcome passengers who got off the train or to climb aboard for the return journey. Cassandra summoned a porter with a regal wave. Emma was elated, standing on her toes and ready to wave the moment she clapped eyes on her cousin. Her mother couldn’t resist the temptation to complain to the driver and fireman as they rolled past on the footplate but her words were lost in the pandemonium.

Carriage after carriage went past but Emma could see neither Imogen nor her maid. When the train juddered to a halt, she jerked her head to and fro so that she could cover both ends of the platform. Wanting to embrace her cousin by way of a greeting, she searched the sea of faces emerging from the carriages. Cassandra was equally alert, eager to welcome her niece before going off to confront the driver of the locomotive. In fact, she did neither. Though she and her daughter waited for some time, there was no sign of the visitors from Burnhope Manor. The platform was thronged for a couple of minutes, then people gradually dispersed or boarded the train. Cassandra and Emma were left alone to walk the length of the platform so that they could look into every carriage. The fruitless search left them utterly dismayed.

‘They would surely have travelled first class,’ decided Cassandra.

‘Yet they didn’t get out of any carriage, first or otherwise.’

‘Where on earth can Imogen be?’

‘Perhaps they missed the train, Mother,’ Emma surmised.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your aunt would have taken great care that they got to the station in time. They must have been on board.’

‘Then where are they?’

Her mother was vengeful. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, taking a last look up and down the train, ‘but someone will suffer for this. I simply won’t stand for it!’

CHAPTER TWO

When he entered his office at Scotland Yard, the first thing that Robert Colbeck did was to doff his top hat and stand in front of the mirror so that he could check his appearance. He used a hand to smooth down his hair then he adjusted his cravat and brushed some specks of dust from the shoulder of his frock coat. Satisfied that he looked at his best, he became aware of the faintest aroma of cigar smoke. It meant that Tallis had been in the room and he would only have come there if he wanted to see the inspector as a matter of urgency. Colbeck didn’t keep him waiting any longer. Marching off, he knocked on the superintendent’s door and entered the room in answer to a gruff invitation. Edward Tallis was seated at his desk, poring over a map. As he looked up, there was an accusatory note in his voice.

‘So – you finally got here, did you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Colbeck.

‘Where, in the name of all that’s holy, have you been?’

‘I had a prior commitment, Superintendent.’

‘Nothing takes precedence over your work here.’

‘It was my work at Scotland Yard that led to the arrest and conviction of Amos Redwood,’ explained Colbeck. ‘He preyed on unaccompanied young women on the South Eastern Railway until we caught him. I was in court all morning, giving evidence at his trial. You should have remembered that, sir.’

Tallis was nettled. ‘Don’t tell me what I should have remembered. It was your duty to remind me that you were unavailable this morning. You failed to do so.’

Colbeck deflected the criticism with an appeasing smile. Because of the unresolved tension between them, Tallis was always ready to pick a fight with him. While he admired the inspector’s unrivalled skills as a detective, he resented the fame and approbation that they brought him, contrasting, as they did, with the censure that Tallis routinely encountered from a hostile press. Colbeck had learnt to avoid conflict with his superior by pretending to take the blame.

‘The fault was, indeed, mine, sir,’ he conceded, shutting the door and crossing to look down at the map. ‘I see that you are studying some of the most beautiful counties in England. Does this mean that you are searching for somewhere to spend a well-earned holiday?’

‘Holiday?’ repeated the other, testily. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. With all the heavy responsibilities I bear, I never have time for a holiday.’

‘Yet you obviously need one, Superintendent.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You push yourself too hard, sir. Nobody can work continuously throughout the year, as you strive to do. Your health and judgement are bound to suffer.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my health or my judgement,’ said Tallis, stung by the comment. ‘Do I look unhealthy to you?’

‘No, no – of course not, sir,’ said Colbeck, tactfully.

In fact, the superintendent did look more than usually careworn. He was a big, solid man with iron-grey hair and a neat moustache. The pouches under his eyes had darkened and his normal straight-backed posture had acquired a pronounced droop.

‘Nevertheless,’ added Colbeck, ‘a week or even a fortnight in some rural retreat would be the making of you.’ Hearing a warning growl in the other man’s throat, he quickly changed the subject. ‘You have a new case for me, sir?’

‘It’s one that needs immediate attention.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘It concerns the disappearance of Sir Marcus Burnhope’s daughter.’

‘That name sounds familiar.’

‘And so it should. If you perused the newspapers as thoroughly as I do, you’d know that Sir Marcus is a member of the Cabinet. He is President of the Board of Control.’

‘Forgive my correcting you,’ said Colbeck, smoothly, ‘but there’s something that you missed in your thorough perusal of the press. That particular Cabinet post will soon be abolished. Sir Marcus will instead become Secretary of State for India.’ He raised a teasing eyebrow. ‘Since your army career took you to the subcontinent, I’m surprised that you didn’t pick up that important detail.’

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ said Tallis, blustering. ‘The point is that Sir Marcus is a man of immense influence. There’s a crisis in his family. We must solve it and do so with speed.’

‘How much information do we have?’

‘There’s precious little, I fear.’

‘Did you receive a telegraph?’

‘I’ve had three so far,’ said Tallis, lifting the map so that he could pick them up. ‘They’ll tell you enough to send you off to Worcestershire. Take the map as well. I’ve marked the approximate location of Burnhope Manor.’

While Tallis folded up the ordnance survey map, Colbeck read the telegraphs handed to him. They were terse and peremptory.

‘There’s no actual proof that a crime was committed,’ he argued.

‘Use your eyes, man – his daughter has been abducted.’

‘With respect, sir, you’re making a hasty assumption.’

‘How else can you explain it?’ challenged Tallis. ‘Sir Marcus’s daughter gets onto a train yet fails to reach the destination. What do you think happened?’

‘There are a number of possibilities,’ said Colbeck, taking the map from him. ‘I’ll be interested to find out which is the correct one.’

Tallis was on his feet. ‘Bear in mind what I told you. Sir Marcus wields great power. If we fail, he’s in a position to inflict untold damage on our reputation. Handle him with extreme care.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Bent on pursuing his political career, Sir Marcus Burnhope had left the upbringing of their daughter almost wholly to his wife. He put in a token appearance at crucial moments in Imogen’s young life but otherwise saw very little of her. To atone for his frequent absences, he gave her a generous allowance and plied her with gifts. Paulina, too, had been neglected in favour of parliamentary affairs and he was very conscious of that as he climbed the staircase to her bedchamber. It had taken Imogen’s dire predicament to remind him of his many shortcomings as a husband and father. For once in his life, the future Secretary of State for India was compelled to put the family first. It was a novel experience and deeply unsettling as a consequence.

‘How did you find her?’ he asked the doctor.

‘Lady Burnhope is still very agitated,’ replied the other.

‘I tried to conceal the news from her but she insisted on hearing it.’

‘She talked of nothing else.’

‘Is there some way to calm her down?’

‘I’ve given her a sedative, Sir Marcus. She’ll soon be asleep.’

‘Thank you. Call again tomorrow. You may well be needed’

They’d met on the landing. Doctor Ferris was a white-haired old man with sharp instincts acquired over many years of sitting at the bedsides of the sick and dying. Though softly spoken and deferential, he made it clear that his patient was to be given the medication prescribed.

‘I’ve left my instructions on the bedside table,’ he said.

‘They’ll be obeyed to the letter.’

‘In that case, Sir Marcus, I’ll take my leave.’ The doctor looked over his shoulder. ‘If you wish to speak to Lady Burnhope, I suggest that you do so very soon. She’s already drowsy.’

While the doctor padded off down the staircase, Sir Marcus knocked gently on the door of his wife’s bedchamber then let himself in. Paulina was propped up on some pillows, mind in turmoil. When she saw her husband enter, she reached out a desperate hand. He moved across to hold it between both palms.

‘How do you feel, my dear?’ he asked with awkward tenderness.

‘Is there any news?’ she gasped.

‘Not as yet, I fear.’

‘It’s been hours and hours. Will our torment never end?’

‘Fretting about it will not help, Paulina.’

‘But I’m bound to fret. Any mother would do so in the circumstances – and any father as well. Don’t you fret, Marcus?’

‘I am naturally anxious,’ he told her, ‘but I’m schooling myself to remain calm and to allow for a modicum of optimism.’

‘Optimism?’ she echoed in surprise. ‘I see no cause for that.’

‘Hope is a better medicine than despondency.’

But his wife was well beyond the reach of hope, still less of optimism. From the moment she learnt of her daughter’s disappearance, she’d been plunged into an unrelieved misery. To her rheumy eyes, the situation was impossibly bleak.

‘She’s gone, Marcus. We have to accept it – Imogen has gone.’

‘I refuse even to countenance the thought,’ he said, decisively.

‘She was our one and only child – truly, a gift from God. Need I remind you of the difficulties attending her birth?’

‘This is no time to dwell on such matters, my dear.’

‘But the memories come flooding back to me.’

They were not memories that he chose to share. Complications arising from Imogen’s birth had meant that she would have no siblings. It was a bitter blow to a man who’d longed for a son to follow in his footsteps and preserve the traditions of the Burnhope dynasty. Imogen might have her mother’s exquisite beauty but she could never inherit her father’s baronetcy, join him as a Member of Parliament or take part in the manly country pursuits he enjoyed during occasional moments of leisure. A son would have been bursting with ambition to make his mark and achieve something of note; his daughter’s talents lay chiefly in being decorative.

Paulina was on the point of dozing off when she shook herself awake again.

‘What about poor Clive?’ she asked. ‘Have you told him?’

‘I sent a letter by courier.’

‘He’ll be desolate.’

‘Clive will do what I have done, my dear,’ said Sir Marcus, pompously. ‘He’ll substitute action for anguish. Instead of wallowing in despair, he’ll want to join the search for Imogen. Clive Tunnadine is a splendid fellow – that’s why I chose him as our prospective son-in-law.’

She heaved a sigh. ‘We’ve lost a daughter and he’s lost a wife.’ As her eyelids began to flutter, a thought made her fight off sleep. ‘You mentioned a detective to me. Has he arrived yet?’