11 - Ticket to Oblivion

by Edward Marston

  ‘Then she must have forgotten to bring it,’ he said, airily.

  ‘I watched her putting it in the trunk. Where is it now?’

  Her eyes were so full of accusation that he saw no point in maintaining the romantic fiction that they were runaway lovers. During his absence, Imogen had finally started to realise that she and her maid had been grossly misled. Her great adventure was no more than a sham

  ‘From now on,’ he said, sharply, ‘you won’t be treated with the same kindness and consideration. You are our prisoners. Your maid will move in here to share with you and Sergeant Cullen will occupy her room. If you attempt to escape or raise the alarm, he will have orders to shoot you down. In a day or two, we will move from here to Cheshire.’

  Imogen felt faint. ‘You told me that we’d be heading to Dover.’

  ‘That’s one of the many lies I had to use, my love. I have no estate in France nor do I have the wealth about which I spoke so grandiloquently. The second of those deficiencies is about to be repaired,’ he told her with a smirk. ‘You and your maid are no longer our travelling companions. You are the hostages who are set to earn me a veritable fortune from your father. Pray that he gives me what I ask,’ he continued, moving to the door, ‘or he’ll never see his beautiful daughter alive again!’

  He went out. Hearing the key turn in the lock, Imogen collapsed to the floor.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There was a limit to the amount of time that George Vaughan could comfortably spend at Burnhope Manor. In earlier years, when his cousin was there, he would play happily with Imogen for hours on end and not even notice the slightly forbidding atmosphere of the house. In her absence, his only companions were his ailing aunt, his judgmental mother and his sister. After the receipt of a second ransom demand, Colbeck had gone off to Oxford and Sir Marcus had headed for London to visit his bank, leaving the artist at the mercy of the two older women and with the fluctuating support from Emma. Lady Burnside was less of a problem because she was still confined to her bed but Cassandra Vaughan insisted on keeping her younger son there. Though not fully aware of the rumours about his alleged profligacy in Chelsea, she still compared him unfavourably with his brother. Her constant reprimands wore George down.

  He was in the drawing room with Emma and their mother. Torn between her love for her brother and her duty to obey her parents to the letter, his sister was in an awkward position. She watched the duel with growing unease.

  ‘Why can’t you be more like Percy?’ asked Cassandra.

  ‘I might ask why my brother can’t be more like me.’

  ‘You’re being facetious.’

  ‘No, I’m not, Mother,’ he said. ‘I’d be prepared to attend church on a more regular basis if Percy behaved less like a monk and more like a human being. If I take a step towards him, he should take one towards me. Wouldn’t that bring us closer?’

  ‘Yes, it would,’ said Emma, tentatively.

  ‘Of course it wouldn’t,’ said her mother. ‘I’m not having Percy dragged down to your level, George. I want you to rise up to his standards of behaviour.’

  He laughed. ‘Holy orders are anathema to me. If I was hypocritical enough to climb into a pulpit, my London friends would storm the church and throw buns at me. I’m an artist, Mother,’ he stressed. ‘I follow my Muse.’

  ‘That’s arrant poppycock!’

  ‘Mother!’ exclaimed Emma.

  ‘You’ve only yourself to blame for the way I’ve turned out,’ he said.

  Cassandra’s eyes flashed. ‘Don’t be insulting!’

  ‘Who taught me to draw when I was a child?’

  ‘You did the same for me when I was little, Mother,’ said Emma.

  ‘Who sat me on her knee and guided my hand as I splashed watercolours onto the paper? It was you, Mother. You set my artistic career in motion. Emma could draw pretty pictures but Percy had no creative instincts,’ he said. ‘He hated being made to paint. All that my brother was interested in was the church because he loved the sound of the organ. It was like a siren call to him.’

  There was a sizeable grain of truth in the charge and it silenced his mother long enough for him to urge her to accept his waywardness as an expression of his dedication to his art. Before she could return to the attack, he took his leave with elaborate courtesy. Emma did her best to persuade him to stay but he would not. Cassandra had one more shock to absorb. As she waved him off from the door, her son didn’t climb into the landau to be driven to the railway station. Instead, with true egalitarian zeal, he clambered up beside the coachman. It was also an affirmation of friendship because he’d known and liked Vernon Tolley for many years. The coachman had only been a stable lad when George Vaughan and his siblings came to the house as children. Tolley let them feed the horses and play in the hayloft. They’d watched him grow to maturity and take on more important duties.

  What the artist had wanted was the undemanding companionship of a decent man who’d done him favours over the years. Having at last escaped his mother’s interrogation, however, he was now closely questioned again, albeit in a much more deferential manner. Tolley was desperate for any morsel of information. His passenger talked freely to the coachman. Tolley had been present at the bungled exchange of the ransom so there was no need to hold anything back. George Vaughan explained that a second demand had arrived.

  ‘I gathered that, sir,’ said the other. ‘When I drove Inspector Colbeck to the station, I sensed that something had happened. Later on, I took Sir Marcus to Shrub Hill and he was very short with me. That only happens when he’s upset.’

  ‘Now you know why.’

  ‘So there’s hope that the two of them are still alive?’

  ‘The inspector was convinced of it, Tolley.’

  ‘Does he have any idea where they can be?’

  ‘He seems to think that they’re somewhere in Oxfordshire,’ said the artist. ‘That’s where the exchange will take place tomorrow and that’s where the detectives will be conducting their search.’

  Annoyed to leave the capital yet again, Victor Leeming was at least contented with their mode of transport. He held the reins of the trap they’d hired and controlled the horse with relative ease. It allowed him to explore his fantasy of being a cab driver, moving at an unhurried speed and listening to the rhythmical sound of hooves. He was shaken out of his daydream when one of the wheels went over a large stone and the whole trap tilted briefly before righting itself with a jolt.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked, looking around.

  ‘We’re still a couple of miles from the area chosen,’ said

  Colbeck, scrutinising the map across his thighs. ‘We need to locate this vale, Victor.’

  ‘How precise were the instructions?’

  ‘They were carefully imprecise so that we could not find the exact spot of the exchange beforehand. In the guise of Sir Marcus, I am to go to a bridge and await further orders. Captain Whiteside – if it is indeed he – will want to make certain that I have not brought an impetuous accomplice with me this time.’

  ‘Mr Tunnadine is a lunatic.’

  ‘That’s why he must know nothing of this second demand.’

  ‘Being kept in the dark will make him very angry.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ said Colbeck. ‘By rights, he should be under lock and key. The superintendent has taken up the matter with the commissioner who will, in turn, refer it to the higher reaches of the judiciary. That fawning Worcestershire magistrate Tallis told me about should be rapped hard over the knuckles.’

  ‘I think he should be in the same cell as Mr Tunnadine.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree.’

  ‘The superintendent said that he was bowing and scraping to Sir Marcus.’

  ‘Sycophancy is never pleasant to behold, Victor. It’s one of the inevitable consequences of having a landed aristocracy. Incidentally,’ Colbeck went on, ‘I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  ‘I se
nt you to that artist’s studio when George Vaughan wasn’t there.’

  ‘Somebody else was.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was the young lady with an arm missing in the painting.’

  Try as he might, Leeming had been unable to forget his confrontation with Dolly Wrenson. It had been too harrowing to put behind him. In the hope of getting it off his chest, he confided in Colbeck. The inspector had to hide his amusement.

  ‘You should have accepted it as a compliment, Victor.’

  ‘I’m not used to compliments from ladies – not that she’s really a lady, mind you.’

  ‘Something about you clearly prompted her interest.’

  ‘That’s what disturbs me, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘What sort of man did she think that I was? All that she seemed to be wearing was a dressing gown.’

  ‘The young lady obviously felt safe in the presence of a policeman.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t feel safe in her presence, I can tell you that.’

  Colbeck grinned. ‘I can’t believe you were so bashful,’ he said. ‘Marriage to Estelle should have armoured you against any blandishments like that. You’ve been able to brush aside improper advances in the past without letting them trouble you.’

  ‘It was different with this young lady, sir. She was no common streetwalker. Dolly was beautiful and – God help me – I’d been forced to look at that …’

  ‘At that nude portrait of her – is that what you mean?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Besides,’ said Leeming, ‘I have a mirror in my house. I know I have an ugly face. What woman would choose me because of my appearance?’

  ‘Estelle did.’

  ‘I know and I’ve been grateful ever since, sir. But this young lady would never have looked at me twice if she hadn’t been eager to punish young Mr Vaughan. That was why she made improper suggestions to me. I was to be used as a weapon against him,’ said Leeming, flicking the reins to increase the speed of the horse. ‘It made me feel dreadful.’

  ‘You have my sympathy,’ said Colbeck, patting his knee. ‘If we need to contact young Mr Vaughan at his studio again, I’ll go in your stead.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Console yourself with this thought. Had his brother, Percy, been accosted by this young lady, he’d have been even more scandalised than you. Religion has so far sheltered him from the world of feminine wiles, whereas George revels in it.’

  ‘It’s a closed book to me,’ admitted Leeming, ‘and I want it to stay closed.’ They rode on for a few minutes before he spoke again. ‘How can two brothers be so different in every way? Percy Vaughan is a curate who, according to you, believes in clean living and self-denial, while George shares a bed with … with a woman like Dolly. You wouldn’t believe that they had the same parents.’

  ‘Percy is the more interesting of the two, in my opinion. He’s sombre and self-possessed with depths that nobody could plumb. George, on the other hand, is a true extrovert. He loves to cause outrage by his behaviour,’ said Colbeck, ‘but he’s only playing at being an artist, I fancy. I found him engaging but a trifle superficial. Percy is the thinker in the family. I don’t believe that his brother ever has a serious thought. George just does what appeals to him at any point in time.’

  When he climbed the steps to the studio, George Vaughan was not at all sure what kind of reception he’d get. While Dolly was a voluptuous young lady, she was also very capricious. The threat she’d issued when he’d last seen her was worrying. He’d become so used to her companionship and her ready passion that he’d rather taken her for granted. The idea that he may have lost both was unnerving. He would never find a model as compliant as her or a lover as skilful and satisfying. Together, they could enhance his career; apart, he’d be working in a void without inspiration.

  When he reached the door of the studio, he paused to listen. There was no sound from within. He was unsure whether to knock or simply to let himself in with his key. After much cogitation, he did both, tapping on the door then unlocking it. His heart sank. The room was empty and the bed unmade. When he looked around for a letter, he found none. Dolly appeared to have washed her hands of him and fled. He sat down on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. It was minutes before he heard the floorboard creak.

  She was there, after all. Dolly was hiding behind the screen where she used to undress before posing for him. Leaping up, he ran across the room and moved the screen aside. He was overcome with contrition.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you, my darling.’

  ‘That issue is still in the balance,’ she warned.

  ‘You gave me such a fright, Dolly.’

  ‘It’s the least you deserve for running out on me like that.’

  ‘It was an emergency,’ he said. ‘I explained that to you.’

  ‘Deeds mean more than words, George Vaughan. I pleaded with you to stay and you still went rushing off to Oxford. If you hadn’t come back today, I was going to pack my things and leave. Artists are all the same,’ she complained. ‘They promise you the earth then drop you like a stone.’

  ‘That isn’t what happened.’

  ‘It’s what I felt happened and it hurt. It was the same with Sebastian when I was his model. He filled my ears with wonderful promises but never delivered them. That’s why I ran away to you in the end. I’ve done with artists,’ she announced, stamping a petulant foot. ‘You’re the third who’s let me down.’

  ‘I’ll make amends,’ he vowed. ‘I love you, Dolly. I can’t work without you.’

  ‘Next time I’ll choose a politician, like my friend. She says that they’re much more reliable, especially if they’re married. They’re more grateful and they’re far more generous.’

  ‘I’ll be generous when I become rich and famous.’

  ‘We may both be old and grey by the time that happens.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ he said, taking her by the arms. ‘You know that I have talent. You’ve told me a dozen times that I’m a better artist than Sebastian or the one before him. Success is only a year or two away – perhaps even a month or two. Stay with me, Dolly. We belong together.’

  She broke away and walked to the window to look out across the houses.

  ‘London is full of men who’d appreciate my worth,’ she said. ‘They’d keep me in the sort of luxury that my friend enjoys. I wouldn’t have to put up with bare floorboards and that awful bed and the constant stink of oil paint.’

  ‘Then you must go,’ he told her, changing his tack. ‘If I disappoint you so much, Dolly, then you’re better off with some mealy-mouthed politician or some wealthy banker who can only see you when his wife is away. What I tried to do was to share everything with you – my time, my work, my money and my love. I didn’t just fit you in between my marital commitments. Go to this friend of yours,’ he urged, pointing to the door. ‘Ask her how she reeled in her Member of Parliament. Find out exactly what she has to do to maintain his interest. Off you go, Dolly.’

  She was stunned. ‘Are you serious, George?’

  ‘I don’t want to hold you against your will.’

  ‘But a moment ago, you said you couldn’t work without me.’

  ‘There are lots of Dolly Wrensons in the world. I’ll find another one.’

  ‘You’re not … throwing me out, are you?’

  ‘No,’ he explained. ‘I simply want you to make up your mind. First, I want you to understand why I had to leave so suddenly. Hear me out, please, that’s all I ask. If, at the end of it, you still think I betrayed you, then we’re better off apart. Is that acceptable to you?’ She nodded. ‘Then, come here.’

  Leading her to a chair, he sat her down and gave her a full account of where he’d been and what he’d done while he was away. Dolly listened intently. When she heard that his cousin was in mortal danger, she let out a gasp. When he told her about the man being shot dead, she was overwhelmed with shame. Imogen Burnhope was in the most appalling predicament yet all that Dolly had done was to chi
de her lover for running off to see if he could in some way help her. By the time he’d finished, the tears were running down her cheeks.

  He indicated the door again. ‘Do you still intend to leave?’

  ‘No, George,’ she said, getting up and moving to the bed. ‘Come here.’

  ‘You told me that bed was awful.’

  ‘It is when I have to sleep in it alone.’

  ‘What about the stink of oil paint?’

  She giggled. ‘I’ll hold my nose.’ When he crossed over to her, she raised a finger. ‘There is one condition, mind you.’

  ‘What’s that, Dolly?’

  ‘When it’s all over, please – please – give me another arm in the portrait.’

  The change in their situation was so sudden and dramatic that it left both of them dazed. Imogen and Rhoda sat side by side in the room that they now shared and bewailed their fate. They were gullible victims of a plot. The man whom Imogen had trusted implicitly was no more than an unscrupulous fraudster with designs on her father’s wealth. As a result of his flattering letters with their well-chosen quotations from Shakespeare’s sonnets, she had been ensnared. She felt sick with grief. Rhoda, too, was wallowing in recriminations. It was her fault, she kept telling herself. Put in the privileged position of looking after her mistress, she’d instead helped to lead her astray. Rhoda was shocked at her own naivety. She was older, wiser and infinitely more mature than Imogen. The maid should never have allowed herself to be caught up in the fairy tale. Something else jabbed at her mind. Imogen was in flight from the tyranny of her parents and the horror of having to marry Clive Tunnadine. Rhoda, however, had regrets when she left. Vernon Tolley’s admiration of her was requited in her breast. In putting her mistress’s needs first, she’d had to forego her own interests. When she might have been encouraging the coachman, she was instead entombed in a hotel room with an armed man next door.

  ‘There must be some way out,’ she said, rising to her feet.

  ‘We’re trapped, Rhoda. There’s no escape.’