‘It’s easy for you to say that, man. Find her, damn you – find her!’
There was a knock on the door. ‘The search is about to begin.’
The door opened and an elderly man came in, tapping his way forward with the aid of a white stick. Goldschmidt and Rosen were horrified.
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Rosen. ‘It’s a case of the blind leading the blind.’
Jenny Lind was conducted into a spacious room at the rear of the house. Pride of place went to the piano but there were other musical instruments as well. She saw a framed print of herself hanging on the wall. On the top of the piano was a pile of old programmes. The woman who’d shepherded her away from the crowd came in after her. She waved their guest to a chair.
‘We intend no harm to you, Miss Lind,’ she said, softly, ‘but it was an opportunity we could not afford to miss. My name is Eleanor Whittingham and this,’ she added, indicating the man who’d brought her into the house, ‘is my father, Caspar. He’s a composer and your most fervent admirer.’
Caspar Whittingham tried to offer a respectful bow but the effort taxed him and he staggered slightly. His daughter rushed to assist him, helping him across to the piano stool. He lowered himself onto it with a mixture of care and anticipatory pleasure. Feeling less threatened, Jenny was able to take stock of her surroundings and to look more closely at her hosts. Eleanor was a pleasant, fresh-faced woman in her late twenties who exuded a sense of good health. Caspar, by contrast, was clearly a sick man, wasted by some sort of disease and haunted by the prospect of death. In feeling sorry for him, Jenny lost any concern for her own safety. Neither the father nor the daughter posed any physical threat to her.
‘They’re all here,’ said Whittingham, pointing to the programmes. ‘I saw every opera in which you appeared in this country and attended every concert. You are inimitable, Miss Lind. When I last heard you sing, I was blessed with the chance to secure your autograph. Show it to her, Eleanor.’
Taking the programme from the piano, his daughter passed it to Jenny.
‘We’d have preferred to invite you here,’ continued Whittingham, ‘but there would have been no hope of your coming. Eleanor is a soprano and I am a composer but neither of us could ever ascend to the heights that you and your husband have reached. We are mere apprentices while you are masters of music.’
‘My father is being characteristically modest,’ said Eleanor with a fond smile. ‘He is no apprentice but a fine musician and a gifted composer. His greatest wish is that Jenny Lind would get to sing one of his songs.’
‘Then why not send it to me?’ asked Jenny. ‘I’d have considered it.’
‘You must get deluged with songs,’ said Whittingham, sadly. ‘Everyone who can compose a tune wants it sung by you. Preference is bound to go to operatic arias and favourite airs. Also, of course, you are married to a composer who can write songs for you.’
Jenny was beginning to understand why she was there. It was not a whim of an eccentric gentleman. It was a final opportunity for someone with only a short time to live. Whittingham was ravaged by illness. What had kept him alive, in part, was the overwhelming desire to hear her sing in private. Cost meant nothing to him. He was obviously a wealthy man. Nor did fear of consequences hold him back. He and his daughter were ready to brave the strictures of the law if they could achieve their objective. Whittingham would never live long enough to suffer imprisonment. Jenny was there to sing his requiem.
‘We can’t apologise enough for what happened,’ said Eleanor with a hand on her father’s shoulder. ‘We took great care that you were not hurt in any way. You must be very angry with us. Who would not be in your position? If you feel that we have abused you too much, you are free to leave at once. We can summon a cab.’
Wanting to accept the offer, Jenny somehow held back. She was confused. It had been very wrong of them to kidnap and frighten her in the way that they did. Part of her wanted them both punished along with their many accomplices. They had put her through a chilling ordeal. But another part of her urged clemency. She was there at the behest of a dying man with a last frail wish. Eleanor and Whittingham were musicians, dedicated to their art. They inhabited the same world as Jenny. Nothing mattered more to them than music. They were kindred spirits.
‘Play one of your songs,’ she told the composer. ‘Eleanor can sing it.’
Pursuit began with a series of false starts. Colbeck and Leeming raced around the city in a cab that called at four addresses in vain. They were turned away empty-handed each time. The fifth address took them to the leafy district of Edgbaston.
‘Look at the size of some of these places,’ said Leeming, marvelling at them. ‘They’re ten times bigger than our little house.’
‘I did sense that the kidnapper was not short of money.’
‘Does he know what the sentence is for abducting someone?’
‘I doubt it, Victor, but he’ll soon find out.’
‘I do hope we’re on the right track at last.’
‘I’m sure we are,’ said Colbeck as they turned into a wide road lined with trees. ‘I can almost feel that we’re getting closer.’
Halfway down the road, the cab rolled to a halt and the detectives got out. Colbeck asked the driver to wait then led the way up the drive. Its dimensions might be striking but the mansion had an air of neglect. Slates were missing on the roof, walls were overgrown with ivy and chunks of plaster had come off the pillars supporting the portico.
‘Go round the back,’ said Colbeck.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But don’t try to get into the house. We mustn’t frighten them into impulsive action. People can get hurt that way.’
‘We don’t even know if it’s the right place, sir.’
‘Oh, it’s the right place. I’m certain of it.’
Waiting until Leeming had gone, Colbeck went to the front door and rang the bell. There was a long delay before it was opened by a young man with an impassive face. Colbeck introduced himself and asked if he might see Caspar Whittingham.
‘The master is away at the moment,’ said the servant, crisply.
‘Is any other member of the family here?’
‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’
‘When will Mr Whittingham return?’
‘I can’t answer that question. He told me that they might be away for a day or two. Would you like to leave a message?’
Colbeck knew that he was lying. The man’s voice was calm but his eyes gave him away. He kept blinking. Evidently, he was obeying his master’s orders and pretending that he was not there. Colbeck removed his hat and stepped forward.
‘In that case, I’ll wait until he returns.’
He servant was flustered. ‘You can’t come in,’ he protested.
‘I can acquire a search warrant, if you prefer.’
‘Look, Inspector, I give you my word that nobody from the family is here.’
Hand on his hat, Leeming came running around to the front of the house.
‘You’ll never guess what I just saw, sir,’ he said.
‘I fancy that you saw Mr Caspar Whittingham,’ suggested Colbeck.
‘Is that his name? He was playing the piano and someone was singing to him. I couldn’t believe my eyes,’ he said with a hollow laugh. ‘It was Jenny Lind.’
Colbeck swung round to confront the servant. ‘Are you still going to insist that nobody is at home?’
The man wilted visibly.
When his wife was returned unharmed to him, Goldschmidt showered the detectives with apologies for doubting them. He was sorry for his earlier harsh criticism of them and promised to write to the superintendent in praise of them. Rosen’s apology was delivered with reluctance until he realised that the concert would go ahead, after all. He was so excited that he thrust a grateful cigar at each of the detectives. After the initial horror of being kidnapped, Jenny had become reconciled to what was a heartfelt plea from Caspar Whittingham. His songs had definite merit though
not enough to tempt her to include any of them in her programme that evening. Jenny declined to press charges against him or his daughter. She preferred to dismiss the whole thing as a rather bizarre adventure.
From the point of view of the detectives, their reputation had been vindicated. What pleased them most was that they were given free tickets to attend the concert at Town Hall, an imposing neoclassical structure at the heart of the city. Leeming was astonished when Colbeck told him that Joseph Hansom, the man who’d designed it, had also given his name to the cab that took them there. Resplendent in their finest attire, the concert-goers of Birmingham came in large numbers and there was a buzz of excitement. When Jenny Lind first appeared onstage, the ovation went on for minutes. The performance was a continuous source of pleasure for Colbeck but for Victor Leeming it was a revelation. Jenny Lind’s voice held him spellbound. He had never heard anything so melodious and yet so apparently effortless. When the first half of the concert ended, he clapped as enthusiastically as anyone.
‘I’m so glad that we were able to rescue her, sir,’ he said.
‘You were the one who spotted her through the window, Victor.’
‘Yes, but it was you who eventually got us to the right house.’
‘I was sure that we were looking for a wealthy man with a passion for music,’ explained Colbeck. ‘That meant he would certainly have a piano in the house and make sure that it was looked after properly. I simply had to make a list of gentlemen in the city who fitted that description. That’s why I called on expert advice.’
‘It was a stroke of genius, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘We may get the credit but this was the first case I know that was really solved by a blind piano tuner.’
SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN
Ben Grosvenor was a lugubrious man with such a jaundiced view of the human condition that his colleagues either mocked him or avoided his mournful diatribes. At the end of the week, however, Grosvenor acquired an instant popularity because he was one of the pay clerks for the London and North Western Railway. As he went on his rounds, doling out money from his leather bag, he was always welcomed with a cheer. That morning was no exception. When he approached a group of cleaners in the carriage shed, he set off a chorus of approval. They stopped working at once and rubbed their hands. Grosvenor was a skinny beanpole of a man in his fifties with a beaky nose on which a pair of wire-framed spectacles was perched. A stickler for the rule book, he kept a pencil behind his ear and used it to record every penny that was handed over. He put his bag down on the ground.
‘Is it true that we have double wages this week, Ben?’ joked someone.
‘That’ll be the day!’ moaned Grosvenor.
‘Can’t you slip us a bit extra out of the kindness of your heart?’
‘What heart?’ asked another man. Everyone laughed.
‘If you’re going to poke fun,’ warned Grosvenor, ‘I can leave you all to the end of my round so you’ll have to wait a couple of hours before you see your money.’
‘We want it now,’ said a big man with bulging forearms, ‘and we’re not poking fun at you, Ben. We love you, really. Isn’t that so?’
Everyone agreed wholeheartedly. One man even embraced the pay clerk.
Opening his bag and checking everything against his ledger, he paid them one by one before snapping his bag shut. The men had to listen to his doom-laden prophecies about the dire future of mankind for a few minutes but, with money in their pockets, they were happy to do so. When he picked up his bag and walked away, they gave him a rousing cheer.
Grosvenor’s next stop was some distance away. He had to pay men at work repairing the track. They, too, gave him a cordial welcome and lined up eagerly to get their wages. Grosvenor kept them waiting so that he could unload some of his sour opinions of life on them. He then opened his bag and reached in it for his ledger.
To his horror, it was not there and neither was the money. He was staring at a small pile of ballast. Lifting up the bag, he examined it more closely. Though similar in every way, it was not his. He clutched at his throat.
‘Come on, Ben,’ urged someone. ‘Give us our wages.’
‘I can’t,’ said Grosvenor in despair. ‘I’ve been robbed.’
Since their husbands worked so closely together, Madeleine Colbeck had become friendly with Estelle Leeming. They saw each other infrequently but, when they did get together, it was always a pleasurable occasion. It was Caleb Andrews who suggested a possible outing and Madeleine was at once grateful for the offer yet wary of accepting it.
‘I’m in two minds,’ she admitted.
‘But you love going to the engine shed, Maddy. When you first took up painting, you badgered me to take you there whenever I could.’
‘I know, Father. It’s an inspiration to me. I’ve had some of my best ideas in that shed. It’s not me that I’m worried about. It’s the two boys.’
‘They’ll be thrilled. All boys of their age want to be an engine driver.’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’
‘They do,’ he said. ‘If they knew what it was really like, of course, they might not be so keen. They’re too young to realise the dangers involved, not to mention the effort it takes. Long days on the footplate are very tiring and you come home filthy.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that, Father,’ she reminded him. ‘When I was living at home, I saw the state of your clothes. As for the outing, my only concern is that David and Albert can be boisterous. Estelle says they sometimes run her ragged.’
‘They just need a strong hand.’
‘They get that when their father is there but, like Robert, he’s often away for extended periods. Estelle struggles to cope without Victor there.’ She paused to think it over. Reaching a decision, she gave an affirmative nod. ‘We’ll take them. It’s unkind to deprive them of a treat like this and Estelle will have us to help look after them. They’re good boys at heart. They just lack discipline.’
‘Not when I’m around, they won’t,’ said Andrews, tapping his chest. ‘I’ll keep them on a short leash. I’ll have to, Maddy. When I asked for permission to take them there, the manager insisted that the lads behaved themselves.’
‘Let’s hope that they do,’ said Madeleine.
But she had lurking doubts.
When Estelle turned up at the house with her sons, it was clear that they were on their best behaviour. Smartly dressed and with gleaming faces, they spoke respectfully as they thanked Andrews for arranging the outing. David Leeming was the elder of the two brothers, a chunky ten-year old with an unmistakable resemblance to his father. Albert Leeming was small and stringy with a mischievous glint in his eye. Madeleine knew that he was the potential troublemaker. Estelle herself was a pretty woman in her early thirties with a slim body, a freckled face and auburn hair peeping out from beneath her hat. Madeleine was delighted to see her again.
It was a relatively short walk. As soon as the five of them set off from his house in Camden, Andrews started his lecture.
‘It was built over ten years ago,’ he began. ‘What made it so unusual was that it was round. Other companies have copied the design. Some people call it the Great Circular Engine House but there’s a much simpler name.’
‘What is it, Mr Andrews?’ David piped up.
‘It’s the Roundhouse, son.’
When the building came in sight, Andrews called them to a halt so that they could appreciate its size and distinctive shape. Constructed of yellow brick, it had a conical roof with a central smoke louvre.
‘It looks enormous,’ said Estelle, gazing up at it.
‘Its diameter is well over fifty yards,’ said Andrews, before explaining to the boys what a diameter was. ‘The problem is that it’s not really big enough.’
‘Why not?’ asked David.
‘I know the answer to that,’ said Albert, nudging him aside.
‘Trust you!’
‘Shut up, David.’
‘You’re just stupid.’
‘Now, now,’ cautioned Estelle. ‘We’ll have no arguments.’
‘So what is the reason, Albert?’ asked Madeleine.
‘Engines are getting longer,’ the boy replied. ‘Everyone knows that – except my brother, that is.’ He collected a sharp dig in the ribs from David. ‘Aouw!’
‘Behave yourselves, both of you,’ said Estelle, sternly.
‘Albert is quite right,’ Andrews went on. ‘The earliest locomotives were very short but they slowly got bigger and longer. The shed can house fewer and fewer of them so it will probably be closed before too long. It’s a great pity,’ he sighed. ‘I have fond memories of it. Come on – let’s look inside, shall we?’
As the five of them strolled towards the building, Madeleine could feel the boys’ excitement. It was a visit about which they could boast to their friends. She took great pleasure from their obvious enjoyment. Madeleine was also pleased to liberate their mother from the task of managing them on her own. Estelle was deeply grateful. Andrews was in his element, taking charge and basking in reminiscences of his years as a railwayman.
‘What do you want to be when you grow up, David?’ he asked.
‘An engine driver,’ replied the boy.
‘There you are, Maddy. That’s exactly what I told you.’ He put a hand on the smaller boy’s shoulder. ‘What about you, Albert?’
Albert grinned. ‘I’m going to be a better engine driver than my brother.’
Superintendent Tallis picked the letter up from his desk and handed it to Colbeck.
‘That will tell you all you need to know, Inspector.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘They should have called us in earlier. A theft of this magnitude is a serious crime. They were foolish to imagine they could solve it themselves.’
Inspector Colbeck's Casebook Page 12
