‘We have an address, Sir Marcus. He is the registered owner of the house.’
‘He owns a large number of houses. It’s a major source of his wealth.’
‘This house has particular significance.’
‘Yes,’ retorted the other, ‘it contains a conniving young woman who probably sought to extract money from him and was – quite rightly – slapped down.’
‘I can see that you’ll hear no criticism of Mr Tunnadine,’ said Colbeck, levelly. ‘I admire your loyalty, Sir Marcus, but I’m bound to bewail your judgement. We’ll trouble you no further. All that we ask is that you tell us where we can find the gentleman so that we can make an arrest.’
Sir Marcus folded his arms and looked away as if refusing to cooperate with them. The detectives waited patiently. Realising that he could put himself in trouble, the old man eventually yielded up an answer.’
‘I can give you an address, Inspector, but he’s not at home.’
‘How do you know that, Sir Marcus?’
‘I sent a courier there not an hour ago because I was desperate to see him. One of the servants said that Tunnadine had left London and that the date of his return was uncertain.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘I’m sorry to rob you of the pleasure of what I’d describe as an unnecessary arrest. It appears that Mr Tunnadine is unavailable.’
Clive Tunnadine lay on a slab in the dank room that served as a temporary morgue at the police station in Crewe. Tiny pieces of white plaster had started to peel off the ceiling and drop down like unseasonal snowflakes. The windowpane was cracked. The smell of damp was pervasive. There were steep undulations in the paved surface of the floor. Beneath his shroud, Tunnadine was happily unaware of the shortcomings of his accommodation.
Twenty yards away, in another room, Alban Kee was giving his report of the incident that led to his employer’s death. The details were taken down laboriously by Sergeant Dean, a policeman in his late thirties with an ill-fitting uniform and a husky voice.
‘What happened then, sir?’ he asked.
‘The fellow got back into the trap and drove off.’
‘What about the man who fired the shot?’
‘He had a horse nearby,’ said Kee.
‘Are you able to describe him?’
‘He was too far away for me to get a good look at him.’
In fact, Cullen had been close enough to the private detective to knock him unconscious but Kee was not going to admit that he’d been taken by surprise. In his version of events, he’d been hiding in the ditch on the other side of the field, waiting to leap to Tunnadine’s assistance. Unpropitious circumstances, he claimed, prevented him from doing anything more than firing a shot after the departing kidnappers.
‘Why didn’t you pursue them?’ asked the sergeant.
‘What chance would I have against the two of them?’
‘You told me that you were armed.’
‘I felt that my first duty was to Mr Tunnadine,’ said Kee, piously. ‘I ran across to him in the hope that I could stem the blood and get him to a doctor but it was in vain. The shot was fatal. The bullet was lodged in his heart.’
He paused as if expecting a compliment for the way he’d behaved. Kee was also troubled by the persistent ache at the back of his skull. A large lump marked the spot where he was struck but he didn’t want to draw attention by putting a hand to it. The sergeant went through his notes and corrected a few spelling mistakes before looking up.
‘You’ve given a concise and accurate report, sir,’ he said, ‘and that very rarely happens when people have witnessed a murder. They tend to be far too upset to remember all the details.’
‘Nothing upsets me, Sergeant. I was in the Metropolitan Police for many years. I always keep my senses about me. In your position,’ boasted Kee, ‘I wouldn’t just sit around and question a witness. I’d be out looking for the killer.’
‘My men have already done that, sir.’
‘Oh – I didn’t realise.’
‘As soon as you arrived with the body,’ recalled the sergeant, ‘and gave me a brief account of what had occurred, I sent four of my constables to the railway station. As you so rightly pointed out, the fastest way to leave Crewe was by train.’
‘After what happened, they certainly wouldn’t stay here.’
‘You were preoccupied for a while with moving the corpse and talking to the undertaker so you were unaware that one of my men returned from the station. It’s not far away.’
Kee was on his feet. ‘What did they find out?’
‘They found what they always find – that Crewe is a busy junction with masses of people swirling around on the different platforms. Further to what you told me, I had them searching for two men in the company of two young women, one of whom was … very comely.’
‘Did they see anyone matching the description I gave you?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the sergeant with a melancholy smile. ‘They looked high and low but it was all to no avail. What we will be able to establish in due course is where they hired the horse and the trap, but that’s of little help. Like you, I’ve no doubt that the four of them fled by train. Unfortunately,’ he concluded, ‘we have no idea which direction they took.’
Lucinda Graham was overwhelmed by the kindness they’d shown to her. While others had turned her away, Dolly Wrenson had taken her in and George Vaughan had shown the same concern for her. The two women had been friends for years but saw each other infrequently. When they did so, they always compared the situations in which they found themselves. Dolly talked about the promising young artist with whom she’d fallen in love and made light of their relatively straitened living quarters. Yet she never envied Lucinda when she heard about the rich politician who kept her in luxury. Dolly could enjoy the company of her lover all day and all night. Lucinda was at the beck and call of a man who would arrive at the house without warning and expect her to meet his needs instantly. No amount of money would coax Dolly into such an arrangement, especially as she’d now learnt of Tunnadine’s fits of rage.
‘Why did you stay so long with a fiend like that?’ asked Dolly.
‘I suppose that I enjoyed the benefits too much.’
‘He treated you like a—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Lucinda, interrupting her. ‘There’s no need to put it into words. Some men are like that. You always have to make allowances for something and with Mr Tunnadine there were a lot of allowances to make.’
‘Did you never think of leaving?’
‘Yes, I did, but I was too lazy to strike out on my own.’
‘Well,’ said Dolly, sitting back, ‘I thought that George had a few faults but compared to Mr Tunnadine, he’s a saint.’ She laughed. ‘That’s perhaps overstating it. Given our life together, I don’t think he’d qualify for sainthood.’
‘He’s a good man, Dolly, and he’s yours. Hold on to him.’
‘I intend to, Lucinda.’
They were in the studio. Dolly was seated on a chair while her friend occupied the bed. Lucinda lay there fully clothed. When they’d first encouraged her to lie down, she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and awoke to find Dolly smiling down at her. The warmth of the friendship she’d received took some of the sting out of her injuries. She and her friend looked up as they heard footsteps on the staircase outside. It was not long before George Vaughan entered with an armful of food collected from other tenants in the house.
‘They all owed me favours,’ he said, cheerily. ‘We’ve enough to keep us going for days.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t eat a thing, George,’ said Lucinda, sitting up.
‘But you must be starving.’
‘It’s agony to put anything in my mouth.’
‘Surely, it won’t stop you drinking,’ said Dolly, getting up to search for glasses. ‘George has managed to scrounge some wine.’
‘That was from Hadrian Speen on the ground floor,’ explained the artist. ‘He was so grateful when I told him that he has exceptional t
alent as a painter.’
‘Does he?’ asked Lucinda.
‘Yes, he does. He mixes the most remarkable colours.’
Dolly was still searching. ‘Where did we put those glasses, George?’
‘Stop just for a moment,’ requested Lucinda. ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘But you can do that while we’re drinking the wine.’
‘Come and sit beside me, Dolly – please.’
Dolly obeyed the summons and George Vaughan squatted on a stool. As they waited for Lucinda to speak, she glanced nervously at them as if expecting criticism.
‘I’ve reached a decision,’ she declared.
‘There was no decision to reach,’ said Dolly. ‘You’re staying here tonight and there’s an end to it. The bed is all yours, Lucinda.’
‘This is nothing to do with your kind offer.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘My decision concerns Mr Tunnadine,’ said Lucinda, gabbling. ‘I know that you’ll think I’m stupid but I’m not going to institute proceedings against him.’
‘But you must,’ insisted the artist. ‘He could have killed you.’
‘I just can’t face him in court, George.’
‘You heard what the detectives said to you. He must be prosecuted.’
‘I’ll refuse to give evidence.’
‘We’ve seen the evidence,’ said Dolly. ‘We’re looking at it right now. Inspector Colbeck and the sergeant have seen it as well, not to mention the servants at the house. We’ll all bear witness against this vile man.’
‘It’s no use, Dolly. You and George can keep on at me as much as you like. I won’t change my mind. Yes,’ said Lucinda, ‘it may seem weak and stupid on my part but it’s what I want. Besides, it’s not as if Mr Tunnadine will go scot-free. Inspector Colbeck told us that he has a murder charge hanging over him. I just want him out of my life forever,’ she emphasised. ‘Clive Tunnadine no longer exists for me.’
After returning to Scotland Yard to report back to the superintendent, Colbeck took Victor Leeming across to the Lamb and Flag and bought him a drink. They enjoyed a convivial break then they went off to their respective homes. Both were perturbed at the way that the investigation had stalled. They had no clue as to the whereabouts of the kidnappers or, indeed, of Clive Tunnadine. At every turn, they were baulked. Arriving home by cab, Colbeck did his best to suppress his disappointment but Madeleine was too familiar with his moods to be misled. After giving him a welcome, she took him into the drawing room and sat him down.
‘You’ve just missed my father,’ she said. ‘He spent the evening here.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s remarkably well for his age. He sends his regards.’
‘That was kind of him.’
‘He kept pressing for details of this case,’ said Madeleine, ‘so it’s as well he isn’t here now. I can see that you’ve not made much progress.’
Colbeck smiled. ‘Am I so transparent?’
‘I guessed the moment that I saw you. Am I right, Robert?’
‘Unhappily, you are,’ he told her.
He gave her a swift account of the events of the day and she listened with sympathy. Madeleine was particularly upset to hear of the beating that Lucinda Graham had taken from Tunnadine.
‘He’s supposed to be a Member of Parliament,’ she said, angrily. ‘Is that the kind of man you want helping to run this country?’
‘Well, I’d never vote for him, I can promise you that.’
‘He should be sent to prison for what he did.’
‘Let’s not spoil our time together by talking about him. How is your work?’
‘I’ve had a more rewarding time than you, by the sound of it, Robert. I’ve almost finished the latest painting. Would you like to see it?’
‘I’d love to, Madeleine.’
He took her upstairs with an arm around her shoulders. When they entered her studio, he lit an oil lamp and held it close to the easel so that it could shed the light. Madeleine lifted the cloth that covered her painting and a locomotive was revealed, hurtling towards them with dramatic effect. It seemed about to drive off from the canvas. Colbeck squeezed her in congratulation.
‘It’s wonderful,’ he said, scrutinising every detail. ‘You’ve improved so much over the years, Madeleine. The locomotives used to look so passive when you first took up painting. Now they race along. The sense of movement is quite breathtaking.’
‘It’s my idea of how Cornwall looked at top speed,’ she said. ‘The first time I painted her, she looked very static. Having driven her, Father insisted on giving me all the details. She was built at Crewe over ten years ago for the LNWR. Her weight was twenty-nine tons and her driving wheel was eight feet six inches. I was able to show the coal capacity, of course, but things like the boiler pressure and the traction power are mysteries that only people like Father know about. What do you think, Robert?’
Colbeck was highly complimentary and not only because Madeleine was his wife. She really had worked hard to hone her skills. As he looked with pride at the cosy surroundings of her studio, he found himself comparing it with the draughty attic inhabited by George Vaughan. He’d made obvious sacrifices in order to pursue his dreams of success. Colbeck was about to remark on the contrast when he heard the doorbell ring. A servant answered the door and the unexpected voice of Edward Tallis rose up from the hall. Colbeck and his wife descended the stairs to greet him. Madeleine offered him refreshment but Tallis declined the offer, and not simply because he was uncomfortable in the presence of women. Clearly, he’d come to speak to Colbeck as a matter of urgency. Madeleine therefore excused herself so that the two men could go into the drawing room.
‘I apologise for calling at this late hour,’ said Tallis, rotating the top hat he was holding by the brim, ‘but I felt that you ought to know the news.’
‘What’s happened, sir?’
‘I received a telegraph sent by Alban Kee. Doubtless, you remember him.’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I do – though not with great fondness.’
‘You may warm a little towards him when you hear what he’s told us. It seems that he was employed by Mr Tunnadine and was present when the fellow was shot dead by one of the kidnappers. Needless to say, the telegraph is brief. Kee has promised to give us full details when he gets back tomorrow morning. I’d like you to be there when he turns up at Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh, I’ll be there,’ said Colbeck, sensing that a new stage of the investigation had suddenly opened up, ‘and I’ll make sure that Victor Leeming is there as well.’
‘It looks as if that arrest warrant for Tunnadine will not be needed.’
‘Apparently not – Sir Marcus will be shocked to hear of his death.’
‘He’ll also wonder why the man didn’t confide that he, too, had received a ransom demand. Kee may be able to explain that. He will supervise the return of the body to London before coming on to us with the full story of what happened.’
‘From where was his telegraph sent, sir?’
‘It came from the railway station in Crewe.’
Colbeck thought about Madeleine’s latest painting. It featured a locomotive that had been built at the railway works in the same town. A smile touched his lips.
‘Why do you find that amusing?’ asked Tallis, gruffly.
‘I’m not so much amused as excited, sir,’ replied Colbeck, ‘and I’m bound to ask a teasing question.’
‘What is it?’
‘When does a coincidence become an omen?’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sir Marcus Burnhope was troubled. After the detectives left him at his club, he went up to his room and sat in a chair with a glass of whisky beside him. Sleep was out of the question. Too many unanswerable questions plagued him. While the fate of his daughter still dominated his mind, the figure of Clive Tunnadine kept popping up and his friend was now in a slightly different guise. The allegations that Colbeck and Leeming had presented to him
only served to infuriate Sir Marcus and forced him back on the defensive. Now that he was alone, however, and able to review what they told him with a degree of dispassion, niggling doubts began to appear. He recalled some joking remarks made in the House of Commons about Tunnadine, the kind of silly banter in which he never indulged and, as a rule, studiously ignored. Then there were the knowing looks that Tunnadine sometimes attracted and the nudges he’d seen between other politicians when his friend approached them. The jokes, looks and nudges now took on some significance.
Yet he still couldn’t believe that Tunnadine was capable of the violence his nephew had described and the detectives had confirmed. Nor could he entertain the thought that his friend had kept a mistress. Tunnadine had always seemed so fully committed to political affairs that he had no time for dalliances of any kind and no discernible inclination towards them. The two men had sat on committees together, prepared reports for the Prime Minister and even travelled abroad as colleagues. In all the years that Sir Marcus had known him, there was not the slightest hint that Tunnadine had a secret life involving deception, immorality and violent behaviour. As he downed his whisky, he veered back to his original belief. Lucinda Graham’s accusation, he concluded, was the work of a devious woman who sought to wrest money out of a decent man by threatening to blacken his name. The arrest warrant carried by Colbeck should – in Sir Marcus’s opinion – have borne the name of the supposed victim of the assault. She was the real criminal.
Satisfied that he had rationalised the situation, he was ready to retire to bed. It was then that the letter arrived from Superintendent Tallis. It was delivered by a member of the club staff who awaited his response. When Sir Marcus read the contents of the missive, his bleary eyes widened in absolute horror. He immediately gave the man orders that he should be awakened at dawn. In fact, he needed no call next day because he found it impossible to doze off during the night. When he set off from the club in a cab, fingers of light were poking through the gloom of the capital. The train from Paddington took him to Oxford where he changed platforms and caught an express to Shrub Hill.
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