‘And who was that?’
‘Harry Seymour.’
‘You questioned him again?’
‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘we simply confronted him with two names and watched his reaction. You saw for yourself how convinced he was that he would somehow be set free. So I told him that it could not happen because we had both Sir Humphrey and Thomas Sholto in custody.’
‘What did he say to that?’
‘Nothing, sir, but his face gave him away. He turned white.’
Tallis shook his head. ‘That could simply have been shock at hearing a familiar name from his days in the army.’
‘We repeated the process with Vernon Seymour. He was even more dismayed than his brother. Ask Sergeant Leeming,’ said Colbeck. ‘The look on Vernon Seymour’s face was as good as a confession.’
The news forced Tallis to think again. Unwilling to accept that anyone in Gilzean’s position would ever be drawn into criminal activity, he tried to refute the claim but could not find the arguments to do so. He had an ingrained respect for Members of Parliament that blinded him to the possibility that they might not always be men of high moral probity. On the other hand, Inspector Colbeck and Sergeant Leeming would not have plucked the name of Sir Humphrey Gilzean out of the air. And it did seem to have upset two of the prisoners in custody. Searching for a means of exonerating Gilzean, he finally remembered one.
‘No, no,’ he insisted, ‘Sir Humphrey would never contemplate such crimes – especially at a time like this.’
‘What do you mean, Superintendent?’
‘The man is still in mourning.’
‘For whom?’
‘His wife. I remember reading of the tragedy in the newspaper.’
‘What happened?’
‘Shortly before last Christmas, Lady Gilzean was killed in a riding accident. Sir Humphrey is still grieving for her.’
After placing a large basket of flowers in front of the gravestone, Sir Humphrey Gilzean knelt down on the grass to offer up a silent prayer. When he opened his eyes again, he read the epitaph that had been etched into the marble. He spoke in a loving whisper.
‘I will repay, Lucinda,’ he said. ‘I will repay.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
During the ten years of its construction, Robert Colbeck had been past the House of Commons on an almost daily basis and he had watched it grow from piles of assorted building materials into its full Gothic glory. However, he had never had an opportunity to enter the place before and looked forward to the experience. As he approached from Whitehall, he saw that work was continuing on the massive clock tower, though completion was not anticipated for some years yet. Until then, Members of Parliament would have to rely on their respective pocket watches, opening up the possibility of endless partisan strife over what was the correct time of day.
When he entered the building, he found the atmosphere rather cold and forbidding, as if a church had been stripped of its mystery and given over to purely temporal functions. Unlike those who filed into the Lower Chamber to take their seats, Colbeck was not there for the purposes of debate. All that interested him were the heated exchanges of an earlier year. Repairing to the library, he introduced himself, made his request then sat down at a table with some bound copies of Hansard in front of him. As he leafed through the pages of the first volume, he reflected that Luke Hansard, the printer who had started to publish parliamentary debates way back in 1774, must have felt that he was bequeathing a priceless resource to posterity. What he had not anticipated was that he might, one day in the future, help a Detective Inspector to solve a series of heinous crimes.
Colbeck was concentrating on the year 1847 for two principal reasons. It was shortly after Sir Humphrey Gilzean had become a Member of Parliament and he would therefore have tried to make a good impression by taking part early on in the verbal jousting that enlivened the Commons. In addition, it was the year when investment in the railways was at its height, reaching a peak of over £30 million before declining sharply when the bubble later burst with dramatic effect. Colbeck knew that, in 1847, a substantial amount of time had been devoted to the discussion of Railway Bills and that one of the most insistent voices in the debates would be that of George Hudson, M.P. for Sunderland, the now disgraced Railway King.
It did not take him long to find the name of Sir Humphrey Gilzean, Conservative, representing a constituency in his native Berkshire and sitting on the Opposition benches. His maiden speech, unsurprisingly, had been delivered on the vexed question of railways. Opposing a Bill for the extension of a line in Oxfordshire, he had spoken with great passion about the urgent necessity of preserving the English countryside from further encroachments by the Great Western Railway. It was not the only occasion when he had raised his voice in anger. Colbeck found several debates during which Gilzean had risen in defiance against those with vested interests in the railway system.
Gilzean’s speeches were not confined to the railways. As he flicked through the rhetorical flourishes, Colbeck learnt that the man had firm opinions on almost every subject, deploring the repeal of the Corn Laws by his own party, reviling the Chartists as dangerous revolutionaries who should be suppressed by force, and showing a special interest in foreign affairs. But his heavy artillery was reserved for repeated attacks on the railways. Since it mentioned his favourite poet, Colbeck was particularly interested in a speech that denounced the Great Western Railway.
William Blake, may I remind you – a poet with whom I will not claim any spiritual affinity – once spoke of building Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land. He was fortunate to die before the industrial infidels made his dream an impossibility. Green pastures are everywhere darkened by the shadow of the railway system. Pleasant land is everywhere dug up, defaced and destroyed in the name of the steam locomotive. When Blake wrote of chariots of fire, he did not envisage them in such hideous profusion, scarring the countryside, frightening the livestock, filling the air with noise and smoke, imposing misery wherever they go. And who benefits from these engines of devastation? The shareholders of the Great Western Railway – vandals to a man!
Colbeck had read enough. With the words still ringing in his ears, he went off in pursuit of someone whose hatred of the railways amounted to nothing short of a mania. Sir Humphrey Gilzean was clearly a fanatic. Convinced that he had identified the man behind the crimes, Colbeck was ready to bring his parliamentary career to an abrupt halt. There was, he acknowledged, one problem. Abducted from her doorstep, Madeleine Andrews was being held by Gilzean and that gave him a decided advantage. The thought made Colbeck shudder. It also caused him to break into a run when he came out into daylight once more. He had to find her soon.
They kept her in a wine cellar this time. Long, low and with a vaulted ceiling, it seemed to run the full length of the house and contained rack upon rack of expensive wine. Minimal light came in through the small windows that looked out on a trench alongside the wall of the building. Even on such a warm day, the place was cold and damp. It was also infested with spiders and Madeleine Andrews, liberated from her bonds, walked into dozens of invisible webs as she tried to explore her new prison. It was one more source of displeasure for her.
Madeleine was beyond fear now. She felt only disgust and anger at her captors. Though no explanation had been given to her, she had soon worked out that she was a pawn in a game against Scotland Yard as personified by Inspector Robert Colbeck. If they had not been worried by the detective’s skills, she believed, they would not have needed to take a hostage. It was firm proof that Colbeck was getting closer all the time. Madeleine just hoped that she would still be unharmed when he finally caught up with her.
Meanwhile, she intended to fight back on her own behalf. Like her father, she had a combative spirit when roused. It was time to issue a challenge, to show her captors that she was no weak and harmless woman. Her first instinct was to smash as many bottles of wine as she could, venting her fury in a bout of destruction. But she saw t
hat a wine bottle was also a formidable weapon. Used in the right way, it might even help her to escape from her dank dungeon. Madeleine picked up a bottle and held it by its neck. She was armed.
It was not long before she had the chance to test her resolve. Heavy feet were heard descending the steps outside then a key turned in the lock. Keeping the bottle behind her, Madeleine backed against a wall, her heart pounding at her own bravado. When the door swung open, the bearded man who had kidnapped her stepped into the cellar. Thomas Sholto was in a playful mood.
‘I wondered how you were getting on,’ he said, grinning at her.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘A friend, Madeleine. There’s no need to be afraid of me. I’m sorry we have to keep you down here in the cellar, though, in one sense, it may be the appropriate place, for I’m sure that you taste as delicious as any of this wine.’ He took a step closer. ‘A room is being prepared for you even as we speak,’ he told her. ‘It is merely a question of making the windows secure so that you will not take it into your pretty little head to try to get away from us. That would be a very silly thing to do, Madeleine.’
‘How long are you keeping me here?’
‘Until your ardent admirer, Inspector Robert Colbeck, is suitably diverted. I can see why he has been ensnared by your charms.’ Sholto came even closer. ‘In this light, you might even pass for a beauty.’
‘Keep away from me!’ she warned, eyes aflame.
‘A beauty with real spirit – that’s even better.’
‘Where are we?’
‘In a much nicer part of the country than Camden Town,’ he said with a condescending smile. ‘You should be grateful to me. Since we first met, I’ve taken you up in the world. There are not many railwayman’s daughters who have stayed in such a fine house as this. At the very least, I think that I deserve a kiss from you.’
‘Stand off!’
‘But I’m not going to hurt you, Madeleine. Surely you can spare one tiny kiss from those lovely red lips of yours. Come here.’
‘No!’ she cried.
Ignoring her protest, he reached out for her. Madeleine tried to fend him off with one hand, using the other to swing the bottle out from behind her back. Sholto ducked instinctively but it caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head before continuing on its way to smash into the brickwork. Glass went everywhere and red wine sprayed over the both of them. Having come off far worse than her, Sholto was incensed.
‘You little bitch!’ he yelled, his forehead cut and his beard glinting with shards of glass. ‘I’ll make you sorry that you did that.’
Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pushed Madeleine back against the wall and knocked all the breath out of her. Before he could strike her, however, a voice rang out from above.
‘Thomas!’ shouted Gilzean. ‘What are you doing down there?’
The cab was driven as fast as the traffic permitted, the driver using both whip and vocal commands whenever a clear space opened up in front of them. Seated inside the cab, Sergeant Leeming asked for details.
‘Upper Brook Street?’
‘Sir Humphrey Gilzean rents a house there,’ explained Colbeck.
‘Do you expect him to be at home?’
‘That would be too much to ask, Victor.’
‘Does the Superintendent know that we’re going?’
‘Not yet.’
Leeming was worried. ‘He’ll be angry when he finds out.’
‘That depends on what we discover,’ said Colbeck. ‘For reasons that we both know, Mr Tallis is temperamentally unable to accept that a man like Sir Humprey Gilzean – in mourning for his late wife – would ever stoop to such villainy. Our job is to enlighten him.’
‘He does not take kindly to enlightenment.’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
‘You can go first, sir.’
When the cab arrived at its destination, Colbeck paid the driver and sent him on his way. After sizing the house up, he rang the doorbell and waited. There was no response. He rang the doorbell again and brought the brass knocker into action as well.
‘Nobody there,’ concluded Leeming.
‘We need to get inside somehow.’
‘We can’t force our way in, sir.’
‘That would be quite improper,’ agreed Colbeck, slipping a hand into his pocket. ‘So we’ll try to manage it without resorting to force.’
Making sure that nobody in the street was watching, he inserted a picklock into position and jiggled it about. Leeming was scandalised.
‘What on earth are you doing, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Making use of a little device that I confiscated from a burglar we arrested earlier this year. He called it a betty and swore that it could open any lock and…’ he grinned as he heard a decisive click, ‘it seems that he was right.’
Opening the door, he went swiftly inside. Leeming followed with grave misgivings. As the door shut behind them, he was very unhappy.
‘We are trespassing on private property,’ he said.
‘No, Victor,’ asserted Colbeck. ‘We are taking steps to track down a man who is responsible for a series of crimes that include the kidnap of an innocent young woman. While her life is imperilled, we have no time to discuss the legal niceties of home ownership. Action is required.’
Leeming nodded obediently. ‘Tell me what to do, Inspector.’
‘Search the downstairs rooms. I’ll take those upstairs.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Anything that connects Sir Humphrey to those crimes – letters, plans, notes, information about the railways. Be quick about it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
While the Sergeant instituted a rapid search of the ground floor, Colbeck went upstairs and checked room after room in succession. Disappointingly, there was nothing that could be used as evidence against Gilzean. Empty drawers and wardrobes showed that he had quit the premises. In doing so, he had taken great pains to leave nothing incriminating behind him. Colbeck went up to the attic. The bedroom at the rear clearly belonged to a manservant because some of his clothing was still there, but it was the room overlooking Upper Brook Street that really interested him.
The moment that Colbeck went into it, he experienced a strange but compelling sensation. Madeleine Andrews had been there. With no visual confirmation of the fact, he was nevertheless certain that she had been held captive in the room, kept in by the stout lock on the door and the bars on the window. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Colbeck ran his fingers gently over the indentation in the pillow. He doubted if she had had much sleep but he was convinced that Madeleine’s head had lain there. That discovery alone, in his mind, justified the illegal mode of entry. Colbeck hurried downstairs.
Sergeant Leeming was in the library, sifting through some items he had taken from the mahogany secretaire. He looked up apologetically as the Inspector came into the room.
‘I thought that this would be the most likely place,’ he said, ‘but all I can find is a collection of bills, a few invitations and some notes for a speech at the House of Commons. What about you, sir?’
‘She was here, Victor. Miss Andrews was definitely here.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There was something in the atmosphere of an attic room that spoke to me,’ said Colbeck. ‘Also, the key was outside the door. How many hosts lock their guests in?’
‘I searched the other rooms without success, though I can tell you one thing. Judging by what I found in the kitchen bin, Sir Humphrey dined very well last night. He obviously enjoys fine wine. There are dozens of bottles here. As for this desk,’ he went on, dropping the bills on to the desk, ‘it’s been no help at all.’
‘Perhaps you’ve been looking in the wrong place.’
‘I’ve searched every drawer thoroughly.’
‘No, Victor,’ said Colbeck, ‘you searched everything that you could see in front of you. What about the secret compartment?�
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‘I didn’t know that there was one.’
‘My father and grandfather were cabinetmakers. I watched both of them build secretaires just like this and they always included a secret compartment where valuable items could be stored.’ Bending over the desk, he began to tap various parts of it, listening carefully for a hollow sound. ‘All that we have to do is to locate the spring.’
‘If there was anything of real value there,’ said Leeming, ‘then Sir Humphrey would surely have taken it with him.’
‘We shall see.’
Along the back of the desk was a row of pigeonholes with matching doors. Leeming had left them open but Colbeck closed them in order to experiment with the carved knobs on each door. After pressing them all in turn, he started to twist them sharply. When that failed to produce a result, he pressed two of the knobs simultaneously. The Sergeant was astonished when he heard a pinging sound and saw a hidden door suddenly flip open. It fitted so beautifully into the side of the desk that Leeming would never have guessed that it was there. Colbeck reached inside to take out the single envelope that lay inside. He looked at the name on the front.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘A letter addressed to me.’
Leeming’s jaw dropped. ‘He was expecting you to find it?’
‘No,’ said Colbeck, slitting the envelope open with a paper knife. ‘My guess is that it would have been sent to me in due course.’
‘How? The house is closed up.’
‘I suspect that a manservant has been left behind. His clothing is still upstairs. He would probably have been deputed to deliver this. Yes,’ he added, perusing the letter, ‘it has tomorrow’s date on it. I was not supposed to read it until then. It gives instructions regarding the exchange of the three prisoners for Miss Andrews in a couple of days’ time. In other words,’ he declared, ‘Sir Humphrey never intended that he would trade his hostage for the men in custody.’
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