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 Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
About the Author
By Edward Marston
Copyright
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 conce
rns 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.’
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