‘When it comes to art, my lord,’ he said, ‘you are a man of impeccable taste.’
Stennard was taken aback. ‘Oh … thank you, Inspector.’
‘This gallery is a tribute to your skill in selecting the very best paintings.’
‘Art is the nearest we mortals can get to the quintessence of beauty.’
‘I don’t see anything beautiful about a train crossing a bridge,’ grumbled Leeming, ‘for that’s all that Mr Turner gave us, I’m told.’
‘You must forgive the sergeant,’ said Colbeck. ‘He has yet to accept the railways as a vital part of our lives. In Turner’s gifted hands, a locomotive became a thing of pure magic.’
‘I might agree, Inspector,’ observed Stennard, waspishly, ‘if only the painting were actually here for me to enjoy it.’ He indicated the stretch of blank wall. ‘What will my guests think when they see that?’
‘Hang a mirror there,’ suggested Leeming before quailing under Stennard’s basilisk stare. ‘It’s better than a bare space.’
‘We have days to spare yet,’ said Colbeck, ‘so there’s still a possibility that Turner will take his rightful place in the collection. As for our delay, my lord, do not ascribe it to idleness. It was occasioned by the fact that we had to talk to the station staff to see if any of them had witnessed the theft of the painting. Also, of course, we needed to speak to your coachman.’
Stennard blinked. ‘Why on earth did you bother him?’
‘It was because I couldn’t understand why he was not at the station to meet the train as arranged and bring the painting here with the two couriers. His explanation was that he’d been held up because a cart had lost a wheel and overturned on the road, blocking his way. As a result of the accident,’ Colbeck continued, ‘it was over twenty minutes before he could continue on his way — except that it wasn’t an accident, of course. It was a deliberate means of stopping him so that another vehicle could get to the station in his stead.’
‘This is a conspiracy!’ yelled Stennard.
‘It was a well-devised plan.’
‘The National Gallery will never forgive me.’
‘I’m sure that they’ll be mollified when you return the painting.’
‘But I don’t have it in order to send it back, man.’
‘Oh, I suspect that it will be on that wall before too long,’ said Colbeck, confidently. ‘My guess is that the thieves stole it in order to sell it back to you — or back to the National Gallery.’
‘The Gallery needn’t be involved,’ said Stennard, quickly. ‘This is my problem and I’m ready to pay in order to make amends. Should I offer a reward for the safe return of the painting, Inspector? Will that lure them out of cover?’
‘They’ll need no encouragement, my lord. In all probability, they’ll already have set a price. You must agree to hand over the money,’ advised Colbeck. ‘It’s our best chance of making arrests.’ The door opened at the far end of the gallery and the butler entered, carrying a letter on a silver salver. Colbeck beamed. ‘Ah, it looks as if the demand has come sooner than I expected.’
Being married to the Railway Detective meant that Madeleine Colbeck shuttled between joy and loneliness. When her husband involved her in the investigative progress — albeit covertly — she was exhilarated. When a case took him hundreds of miles away from home, however, she felt as if she’d been cut adrift. On hearing the details of his latest investigation, she expressed horror.
‘Someone stole my favourite painting?’ she cried in despair.
‘It was only for a short while, my love.’
‘Laying rough hands on a work of art is sacrilege — like defacing a church.’
‘Nothing will be damaged, Madeleine,’ Colbeck promised her. ‘If the painting is defaced in any way, it loses its value. They know that. It will be returned in good condition or they won’t get a penny.’
‘Is Lord Stennard really going to pay them what they demand?’
‘He’ll give the appearance of doing so. Victor and I will be on hand to ensure that we arrest the thieves and recover the money.’
‘Will it really be as simple as that?’
‘No,’ he confessed. ‘There may be unforeseen difficulties.’
‘Take care, Robert,’ she urged. ‘One of them has a gun.’
‘Victor will be armed. The superintendent agreed to that.’
‘What about you?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll rely on my charm and affability.’
Seeing the protest hovering on her lips, he silenced it with a kiss. They were in the studio where Madeleine had been working all day. Her latest project was a painting of a locomotive that her father had driven when he worked for the LNWR. Unbeknown to Caleb Andrews, it was a present for his forthcoming birthday. Colbeck ran an eye over his wife’s latest creation.
‘Where locomotives are concerned, Turner couldn’t hold a candle to you.’
She laughed. ‘That’s nonsense, Robert, and you know it.’
‘His work is so opaque while yours has a bracing directness.’
‘Rain, Steam and Speed is real art whereas my aspirations reach no higher than producing a passable photograph of my subject.’
‘Don’t underrate your talent,’ he told her, studying the canvas. ‘You bring a locomotive to life, Madeleine, and a lot of people agree with me. If all they wanted was a photograph, they wouldn’t rush to buy your prints.’
‘Tell me about this exhibition.’
Colbeck did so at length. During his visit to the gallery, he’d made a mental note of every painting on display so that he could tell his wife about the treasure trove of art. As the names of Old Masters rolled off his tongue, Madeleine listened with fascination. Each new painting elicited a fresh gasp of pleasure.
‘Oh, Robert!’ she sighed. ‘I’d love to see the exhibition.’
‘Then you shall,’ he said, seriously. ‘I’ll make it a proviso. If the painting is returned to Lord Stennard, he has to let you have a private viewing of his gallery.’
Victor Leeming blenched when he saw the horse he had to ride. The animal had a fiery look in its eye and bucked as soon as he approached it. A reluctant rider, he doubted his ability to stay in the saddle. Colbeck patted the horse’s neck to calm it down then helped the sergeant to mount.
‘I don’t feel safe up here,’ complained Leeming.
‘I asked for the most docile horse in the stable. Once he gets used to you, Victor, you’ll have no trouble.’ He indicated the carriage. ‘You only have one horse to worry about. I have two.’
Dressed as a coachman, Colbeck’s task was to drive Lord Stennard to the place appointed for the exchange of money and painting. Leeming was to follow at a discreet distance. Now that he was in the saddle, he felt that he might just be able to control the animal, whereas he would struggle badly to drive the coach. Stennard came out of the house with a small leather bag in his hand. Colbeck opened the door so that his passenger could get into the carriage. After closing it behind him, Colbeck climbed up onto the box seat and gathered up the reins. They set off.
The demand sent to the house had been well-written on crisp paper. The instructions were reinforced with a warning. If Stennard deviated in any way from what he was told to do, the painting would be destroyed. Colbeck knew that it was an empty threat. As the carriage rolled through the estate, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Leeming was keeping out of sight. The designated spot was on the open road about a mile away. When they finally reached it, they discovered that there was a change of plan. A long stick had been thrust into the soft ground beside the road. Fluttering at the top of it was a letter, held on by twine. Pulling the horses to a halt, Colbeck descended, picked up the letter and handed it to Lord Stennard who’d opened the door of the carriage.
‘What’s the problem, Inspector?’
‘They’re being very cautious, my lord,’ replied Colbeck. ‘We’ve been drawn out into the open so that they can have a good look at us. We’ll be directed to a more sheltered location.’