‘Is my daughter unharmed?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Sir Marcus,’ she replied, uncertainly.
‘Where is she being kept?’
‘I’ll ask the questions,’ said Whiteside, jumping down and walking towards him. ‘You’ve had ocular proof that the two ladies are at my mercy. Let’s see if you’ve brought what I asked, shall we?’
When the man opened the bag, Sir Marcus went dizzy. He could barely see Whiteside counting his spoils. It was an effort simply to stay upright. Rhoda looked on in silence, desperate to yell out a warning but all too aware of the consequences both to her and to Imogen. The kidnapper smiled at Sir Marcus.
‘You’ve obeyed your orders this time,’ he said with approval. ‘You also came in person. Last time, another man came in your stead. That annoyed me.’
‘I want my daughter back.’
‘Be patient, Sir Marcus. I’ll bring her to you.’
‘Why isn’t she here now?’ he turned to Rhoda. ‘Answer me, woman.’
‘She has more sense,’ said Whiteside, tossing the bag into the trap and picking up the stone that had held the message in place on the rock. ‘You will see Imogen in due course.’ He climbed up beside Rhoda. ‘Meanwhile, you have an important task, Sir Marcus.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You have some chasing to do.’
Standing up, Whiteside threw the stone at Sir Marcus’s horse and caught it on the flank. The animal neighed in protest then bolted alongside the stream. Sir Marcus had been tricked. He’d parted with an immense amount of money and got nothing in return. Shaking with impotent fury, he didn’t know whether to go after his horse or to run towards the other trap. Whiteside removed the second option in a flash. Cracking his whip, he sent the animal in a semicircle before it set off at a gallop across the vale. Bouncing about beside him, Rhoda looked over her shoulder in mute apology at the part she’d been compelled to play in the deception.
Shocked, hurt and in despair, Sir Marcus slumped down on the stone bridge.
Colbeck hadn’t needed the telescope to see what had happened. Even from that distance, he could recognise skulduggery. Leaping into the saddle, he kicked his horse into action and raced down the gradient to the vale itself. While he wanted to go after the other trap, he felt the need to restore Sir Marcus’s means of transport or both he and Tallis would be completely stranded. To that end, he galloped across the grass at an angle to cut off the fleeing horse. It took him a long time to get within reach of the trap and even longer to bring it under control because the horse pulling it kept veering off at acute angles. When it eventually straightened, Colbeck eased up alongside it, leant over to grab the reins and gradually slowed its furious pace until he could drag it in a wide arc and bring it to a halt. Dismounting, he tied his own horse to the back of the trap, then clambered aboard again to begin the return journey. Colbeck was both sad and angry. The second meeting with the kidnapper had been a calamity.
In the distance, he could see the poignant sight of Sir Marcus Burnhope, sitting on the bridge in a state of bereavement. His heart went out to the man. When he looked far across to the right, Colbeck saw something else that provoked his immediate sympathy.
Victor Leeming was leading his horse by the reins and trotting across the grass with patent difficulty. It was a vivid depiction of master and servant. Secure in the saddle, Edward Tallis was clearly taking advantage of his superior rank.
Bound tight to a chair, Imogen Burnside was mortified. While the rope bit into her wrists and her ankles, it was the handkerchief stuffed into her mouth that troubled her most. Held in place by a gag, it made her feel as if she was being smothered to death. Yet her physical pain was mild compared to the mental torture she was undergoing. It was excruciating. She’d betrayed her family in order to be with the man she loved, only to find that he was using her as a passport to a fortune extracted from her father. There seemed to be no limit to the wickedness of Terence Whiteside and his accomplice. It made her wonder what would happen when they came back. Tied up and unable to defend herself, she could easily be molested. Now that he no longer had to wear a mask of politeness, Cullen had already started to ogle both her and her maid.
Where had they taken Rhoda? That was the question burrowing into Imogen’s brain. What had they done to her and would her maid ever be able to forgive her for leading them into a continuous ordeal? Since the true situation had been revealed, neither man showed the slightest respect for their captives. Imogen and Rhoda had been kept in line with fulsome promises and luxurious accommodation. They were unnecessary now. Dire threats and lengths of rope were the order of the day. She and her maid could expect more of the same in the days that lay ahead. As the hours rolled by, Imogen felt as if she could hardly breathe and her bonds were cutting off the circulation of her blood. When she thought of her family, remorse was like molten lava inside her head. Her mother, already in poor health, would be laid low by her disappearance. Her father would also be suffering intensely.
Then there were her relatives in Oxford. Her uncle and aunt were God-fearing people who would never understand the irresistible urge she’d had to end one life and begin a new and supposedly better one. She’d acted in defiance of everything she’d been brought up to believe. In retrospect, she couldn’t understand it herself and would never convince anyone that her impulse was a laudable one. George Vaughan was the only person who might appreciate her desire for freedom because he’d felt that urge himself. His sister, Emma, would be aghast at what her cousin had done. In her eyes, it would be wholly reprehensible. What of Percy, a deacon of the church, devoting his life to the fulfilment of a sacred purpose? He was the one she most regretted having to shock and betray. It was unfair on him. Percy Vaughan had always been kind, patient and clumsily tender with her. Imogen would hate to lose his undemanding love, yet even he would have no time for her now.
She was still mourning the total loss of respect from her family when the door opened and Rhoda Wills was hustled into the room by Whiteside and Cullen. The men were in good humour but the maid’s only concern was for her mistress. Rushing across to her, she removed the gag then began to untie the ropes.
‘What happened?’ gasped Imogen.
‘Your father did as he was told,’ replied Whiteside, holding up the leather bag. ‘He just paid a small fortune and got absolutely nothing in return.’
‘I watched him through a telescope,’ said Cullen with a ripe chuckle. ‘He gave us all that money for a daughter who was trussed up in a hotel room miles away. Praise the Lord for stupid fathers!’
‘He’s not stupid,’ said Imogen, defensively. ‘My father’s a good man.’
‘Then why did you desert him?’
The gibe was like the stab of a dagger and it was unanswerable.
‘You’ve got what you wanted,’ Rhoda pleaded, ‘why not let us go?’
‘We got what we wanted from Sir Marcus,’ said Whiteside, ‘but we still need the pair of you. There’s no point in settling for one ransom when we can have two. Next time, it will be Mr Tunnadine who hands over the money. Yes,’ he went on as he saw the look of amazement on Imogen’s face. ‘He doesn’t realise that you were so eager to marry him that you were ready to sail off to France. The poor fool will be trying to get back a bride who can’t bear the sight of him.’
Sir Marcus Burnhope was inconsolable. The ease with which he’d lost the ransom was breathtaking. To the loss of a vast sum could be added the horror of not even being allowed to see his daughter, let alone be reunited with her. When Colbeck reached him, he was still sitting dejectedly on the bridge.
‘They tricked me,’ he admitted, close to tears.
‘We were watching, Sir Marcus.’
‘Because he brought my daughter’s maid, I was unguarded enough to part with the money. I’ve been fleeced, Inspector.’
‘Did the maid say anything?’
‘She told me that my daughter was unharmed but that was all. Now that I think of it, she wa
s obviously under orders to tell me nothing else.’ He glanced at the trap. ‘Thank you for retrieving it for me, though, in truth, I’ve been so gullible that I deserve to walk all the way back to Oxford.’
‘You’ll be able to get there in a measure of comfort,’ said Colbeck. ‘My advice is that you should return to London with the superintendent. We can make contact with you at your club.’
Tallis and Leeming eventually reached them. While the former dismounted, the latter sank down onto the wall beside Sir Marcus. Glistening with sweat, Leeming was seriously short of breath. Colbeck gave him no time to rest. There had already been a lengthy delay but pursuit was necessary. The trap was left for the two older men while the detectives rode off across the bridge at a canter. They followed a track that led them across the vale and up the hill to the copse at the top. They paused to take stock of the situation.
‘This is where they were hiding,’ said Colbeck. ‘Which way did they go?’
‘Does it matter, sir? They’ll be miles away by now.’
‘A trap won’t travel as fast as a horse.’
‘Do we have to gallop?’ cried Leeming. ‘I’m already saddle-sore.’
‘Think of the two ladies, Victor. Their plight is more important than our discomfort. Let’s see if we can pick up their scent.’
Digging in his heels, he rode off with Leeming several yards behind. It was only a matter of minutes before they came out of the copse into open country. A problem faced them and drew them to a halt once more. The track split into two. One meandered off to the left while the other went arrow-straight towards a wood in the middle distance. Colbeck chose the latter and set off again at a gallop. Leeming followed in his wake, more concerned with staying in the saddle than riding hell for leather. It was a mile or more before Colbeck raised a hand. Both horses were reined in. Leeming eased his mount up beside the inspector.
‘What’s wrong, Inspector?’
‘We should have taken the other road.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just sense it,’ said Colbeck. ‘Let’s go back and start again.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘Yes, we do. We’ll ride all day and all night, if we have to.’
Leeming rubbed his buttocks. ‘I feel as if we’ve already done that, sir.’
Turning around, they followed the track until they reached the point where the two paths diverged. There was a serpentine quality to the second one. It wound its way past clumps of bushes and the occasional outcrop of rock, making it difficult to see what was ahead. They goaded their horses on until they came to a hill. Colbeck paused at the top to let Leeming catch up with him again. The sergeant was in pain.
‘How much farther is it, sir?’
‘About a mile, I’d say. There’s our destination.’
‘Where?’ asked Leeming, gazing ahead. He saw the building that stood in its own extensive grounds. ‘What’s that?’
‘It looks like a country hotel.’
‘Is that where they’ve been staying?’
‘There’s only one way to find out, Victor.’
Now that they had a destination, Leeming was relieved. The ride was no longer as painful or – to his eyes – quite as pointless. Ignoring the thud of the saddle against his body, he tried to think of the two hostages. They were in the hands of men who seemed intent on keeping them. Unimaginable horrors might await them.
Colbeck rode so hard that he reached the hotel minutes before his companion. Rushing into the building, he demanded to see the manager then gave a description of the four people he was pursuing.
‘Yes,’ confirmed the manager. ‘They did stay here but you’ve missed them, I’m afraid. They left an hour or so ago.’
The train set off with the usual tumult and quickly gathered speed. Seated in a compartment with their captors, Imogen Burnhope and Rhoda Wills wondered how much longer their torment would last.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In spite of the pleasure of reconciliation, Dolly Wrenson felt the persistent nibble of remorse. She realised now that her anger at George Vaughan had been both unjust and unkind. It was wrong to characterise his disappearance as a desertion of her and to assert her claims over the needs of his cousin. Now that she understood what had actually happened, she was almost hangdog. Imogen Burnhope and her maid were caught up in a crisis that could easily end in their death yet Dolly had put her own selfish desires before them. She could not stop apologising to the artist.
‘My behaviour was unforgivable, George.’
‘You didn’t know the full facts – nor more did I when I left here.’
‘I should have been more understanding.’
‘That would not have come amiss.’
‘I should have trusted you.’
‘That’s certainly true, my angel,’ he said, reaching out to embrace her. ‘You should have remembered the vows we’d made to each other. I would never dream of walking out on the creature of pure loveliness that is Dolly Wrenson.’
‘I was the one about to leave,’ she said, sheepishly. ‘I could kick myself for having such a ridiculous tantrum.’
‘I like your tantrums. They put colour in your cheeks.’
Dolly giggled. ‘You have a much nicer way of doing that, George!’
They were in the studio and an overcast sky meant that the light was too poor for him to work properly. He’d experimented with candles and an oil lamp but they cast only a fitful glow over his model. Yet they had, in fact, given him an idea of another portrait of Dolly, surrounded by flickering flames and dancing shadows, but it was a project for the future. The priority now was to finish the existing work and for that he needed good light.
‘I need to buy some more paints,’ he said, examining his stock. ‘Would you like to come with me or will you let me go alone?’
‘I’m not your keeper, George.’
‘You tried to be when I last left this house.’
‘It was very childish of me. I’ve grown up now.’
‘I won’t be long, Dolly. With luck, the light may have improved by the time I get back.’ He could not resist a grin. ‘Will you still be here?’
‘I won’t move an inch.’
‘Thank you, my dove. Losing you would be like losing a limb.’
‘Then you’ll know how I feel,’ she said, crossing to the easel and throwing back the cloth that covered it. ‘Give me my left arm, George Vaughan.’
‘I’ll do more than that,’ he promised. ‘You can have one arm of your own and two of mine to wrap around you all night. Will that satisfy you?’
‘You know it will – now away with you, kind sir.’
After putting on his coat and hat, he gave her a kiss before leaving the room. She could hear his footsteps clacking down the infinity of steps to the ground floor. When the sound faded, she went to the window and watched him come out of the front door and walk jauntily down the street. Dolly chided herself once again for ever doubting him. George Vaughan had been the most handsome, selfless, tender, loving, indulgent man she’d ever met. His resources were limited at the moment yet he never stinted her. Though she’d lived in more comfortable quarters with another artist, she never used that fact as a stick with which to hit her lover. Luxury was irrelevant. Simply being with him was enough to fill her with contentment.
Dolly was seized by the urge to do something by way of contrition to give him visible proof of the way that she felt. Her first instinct was to tidy the studio, so she made the bed, moved the few sticks of furniture and began to pick up the various things scattered on the floor. All of a sudden, she stopped and burst out laughing. This was not the way to please George Vaughan. He loved the friendly chaos of his studio. It was his natural habitat. Order was inimical to him. He’d fled from the controlled environment of life at an Oxford college and gone in search of a world without rules and without conventional boundaries. Having gathered up a pile of items to set on the table, she grabbed them again and scattered the whole lot over the
floor. Dolly even rumpled the bed again.
It was then that she heard the footsteps on the stairs. She was surprised. It could not be her lover returning so soon. The shop that sold artists’ supplies was some distance away. Even someone as young and athletic as George Vaughan could not get there and back at such speed. Dolly moved to the door and listened. The footsteps were slow and weary. She could almost sense the effort that it was taking out of her visitor. The sounds finally stopped and there was a faint knock on the door.
She opened it and saw the stooping figure of a young woman. Her face was a mass of bruises, her lips swollen and one eye was closed. Dolly did not even see the expensive attire her visitor wore. She was mesmerised by the injuries.
‘Hello,’ said the woman with relief. ‘I found you at last.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You’re the one friend who won’t turn me away.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dolly, drawing back. ‘Who exactly are you?’
‘Don’t you recognise my voice?’
‘No, I’m afraid that I don’t.’
‘It’s Lucinda,’ said the other. ‘Lucinda Graham.’
The thrill of the chase was a positive boon to Victor Leeming’s buttocks. They no longer ached and his thighs no longer burnt. Having established the direction in which their quarry had gone, they were able to track them and that bred excitement in the sergeant. Country people tended to be observant. Because so few strangers passed them in the course of a normal day, they usually noticed those who did. Four people had galloped past. A man and two women occupied a trap loaded with luggage. They were accompanied by a horseman who sat high in the saddle and led the way. Colbeck and Leeming were painstaking in their search. By stopping at every farm and village, they found someone each time who could tell them whether the fugitives had passed that way or not. The route eventually became clear.
‘They’re heading for the railway,’ said Colbeck.
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