Edward Marston - Ticket to Oblivion

‘Part of the blame must lie with the railway company on whose board you happen to sit, Sir Marcus,’ said Colbeck, evenly. ‘The journey from Oxford to Worcester was punctuated by an inordinate number of stops.’

He introduced himself and the sergeant. Sir Marcus deigned to exchange a handshake with Colbeck. To his relief, Leeming escaped with a perfunctory nod from him. The detectives were offered seats but their host remained on his feet so that he could strut and dominate. He gave them all the information he had, then he demanded immediate action.

‘Some has already been taken, Sir Marcus,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’ve questioned the stationmaster and a porter at Oxford station and spoken to the man who loaded your daughter’s luggage at Shrub Hill station. What we need now is more detail than you were able to include in your telegraphs.’

‘What sort of detail?’

‘Why was your daughter going to Oxford? Had she made the same journey many times before? How long did she expect to be away? What might she be doing during her stay?’

Sir Marcus answered the questions with suppressed irritation. Since he was unsure how long Imogen and her maid would remain in Oxford, it was clear that he’d taken little interest in the arrangements. He explained that his wife was indisposed and thus unable, for the very first time, to accompany their daughter. Catching Leeming’s eye, Colbeck saw that he’d registered that important fact. When he finished, Sir Marcus struck a pose with his hands on his hips.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything else you wish to know, Inspector?’

‘I did wonder why you felt it necessary to describe your relationship with the OWWR in your telegraphs.’

‘I wanted you to know that I don’t only speak as a concerned parent. I felt that my presence on the board would secure the attention of the Railway Detective and not,’ he added with a scornful look at Leeming, ‘of some blundering nonentity.’

‘My achievements, such as they are,’ said Colbeck, modestly, ‘would have been impossible without the help and expertise of the sergeant. Essentially, we operate as a team, deserving equal credit.’ Leeming shot him a grateful smile. ‘We have two requests, Sir Marcus. The first is that we’d like to interview the coachman who drove your daughter and her maid to the station.’

Sir Marcus was dismissive. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ve already spoken to Tolley. You won’t learn anything from him that I haven’t already told you.’

‘Nevertheless, we would like to meet the fellow. We’re likely to ask him questions that might never have occurred to you.’

‘What sort of questions?’ asked the other, suspiciously.

‘If you wish to know that,’ said Colbeck, ‘you’re welcome to be present.’

There was a considered pause. ‘Very well,’ said Sir Marcus, grudgingly. ‘You can speak to Tolley, if you must. But you said that you had two requests.’

‘The second is of a more delicate nature, Sir Marcus.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well,’ said Colbeck, ‘I wondered if we might be permitted to take a look at your daughter’s bedchamber.’

‘Indeed, you may not!’ exploded Sir Marcus. ‘I find the very notion both impertinent and distasteful. My daughter disappeared on a railway line, Inspector. You’ll not find her hiding upstairs in a wardrobe.’

‘If my suggestion was offensive, I apologise.’

‘It was offensive and wholly improper.’

‘Then I ask you to forgive me,’ said Colbeck, getting to his feet and signalling that Leeming should do likewise. ‘You have a beautiful library, Sir Marcus. I see that you’re an admirer of Shakespeare’s sonnets.’

‘I never have time to read poetry,’ snarled Sir Marcus with something akin to disgust. ‘Whatever gave you the idea that I did?’

‘That chair by the window is placed to catch the best of the light. I assumed that it’s your chosen place for reading. On the table beside it is a copy of the sonnets.’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t put it there — and neither did my wife. Lady Burnhope has even less interest in poetry than I. Really, Inspector,’ he chided, ‘I wish you’d ignore our reading habits and concentrate on finding our daughter.’

‘We’ll speak to the coachman at once,’ said Colbeck.

Sir Marcus tugged at a bell pull. ‘One of my servants will take you to him.’

‘Thank you, Sir Marcus — and thank you for putting your trust in us. I have no doubt that we’ll find out exactly what happened to your daughter and her maid. Oh,’ he added, meeting the other’s glare, ‘there is one last question.’

‘What is it?’

‘Would you describe your daughter as happy?’

‘Damn you, man!’ bellowed Sir Marcus. ‘Of course she’s happy. Imogen has everything that she could ask out of life. Apart from anything else, she’s due to get married soon. It’s a positive love match. Our daughter has never been happier.’

Edward Tallis had had a particularly busy day, attending a lengthy meeting with the commissioner, deploying his detectives on new cases, sifting through interim reports on existing investigations, berating anyone within reach and trying to ensure that Scotland Yard avoided making the sorts of mistakes that newspapers loved to seize on and mock. Satire could be a cruel weapon and Tallis had felt its searing thrust far too often. After hours of constant activity, he retired to his office and rewarded himself with a cigar, puffing on it with satisfaction and filling the room with a haze of smoke. His pleasure was short-lived. Knuckles rapped on his door, then it opened to admit a tall, dark-haired, fleshy man in his thirties with a prominent nose and a jutting chin. His manner was brusque.

‘Superintendent Tallis?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied the other, stubbing out his cigar.

‘I am Clive Tunnadine. I wish to know what you are doing in relation to the disappearance of the dear lady to whom I am betrothed. I speak of the daughter of Sir Marcus Burnhope. How many men have you engaged in the search and what results have they so far reported?’

Tallis was on his feet at once. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, stoutly, ‘but you have no right to force your way into my office and make demands.’

Tunnadine inflated his chest. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘I do — you’re a person who should learn to control his vile temper.’

‘I’m an elected Member of Parliament, serving in Her Majesty’s Government.’

‘You’d oblige me by moderating your voice,’ said Tallis, pointedly. ‘You’re not addressing a public meeting. If you would care to take a seat, I’ll endeavour to offer you an explanation. If, however, you try to browbeat me any more, I’ll have you removed from the premises — by force, if need be.’

Tunnadine was on the point of a volcanic eruption and the molten words trembled on his tongue. What held him back was the superintendent’s firm stance and unyielding stare. It had terrified soldiers of lower rank during his army days and it was enough to warn Tunnadine that he’d met his match. The visitor curled his lip, waited a full minute, then sat reluctantly down. Walking around him, Tallis closed the door then returned to his own chair behind the desk.

‘First of all,’ he began, ‘let me offer you my sympathy. It must have come as a great shock to you.’

‘It did, Superintendent. Word arrived by courier sent from Worcestershire. I became aware of it when I returned home less than fifteen minutes ago. Sir Marcus informs me that he sent telegraphs to Scotland Yard.’

‘There were three of them in all, sir.’

Tallis told him that he was treating the case as a matter of priority and that the detectives would probably have already reached Burnhope Manor. Tunnadine listened with a mingled rage and impatience. Whenever he tried to speak, however, he was interrupted by Tallis, determined to keep the upper hand. Though arrogant and high-handed himself, he hated those traits in others and saw both in his visitor. When the superintendent finally relented, Tunnadine pounced on him.