I had Mr Tunnadine in here, demanding that I commit more resources to the case.’
Leeming was rueful. ‘Mr Tunnadine is fond of making demands.’
‘Well, I’ll not allow him to hold the whip hand over me,’ said Tallis with a grim smile. ‘On the other hand, I was hoping that your enquiries would yield me something with which I could appease both him and Sir Marcus.’
‘Tell them that the young lady is still alive — and so is her maid.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Frankly,’ said Leeming, ‘I don’t but the inspector is certain of it. He has a sixth sense in situations like this.’
‘I dispute that. The famed intuition of his is a myth.’
‘It’s never let him down before, sir.’
‘That’s a moot point, Sergeant.’
Leeming glanced hopefully at the door. ‘May I go home now, please?’
‘No, you may not. Your report left out far too much. For instance, I still haven’t established why Colbeck is pursuing his particular line of enquiry.’
‘He believes that the answer to the conundrum lies within the family.’
‘I remain unconvinced of that.’ He jabbed a finger at Leeming. ‘And don’t you dare tell me that we have another example of the inspector’s sixth sense. It sounds like a wild guess to me, unsubstantiated by any firm evidence.’
‘It’s all we have to go on at this stage, Superintendent.’
Tallis glowered at him. ‘Is Colbeck seriously suggesting that someone within the family actually connived at this disappearance?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Leeming, careful not to disclose the full details of the inspector’s theory. ‘He just feels that he needs to know more about how the family members behave towards each other before he can reach a considered decision.’
‘So what does he propose to do?’
‘He’s staying the night in Oxford so that he can travel to a village in Gloucestershire called North Cerney.’
‘Why the devil does he want to go there?’
‘Sir Marcus’s nephew is the curate at the local church.’
‘Hell and damnation!’ exclaimed Tallis, aghast at the news. ‘Is Colbeck so desperate that he’s turning to the church for help? Are you telling me that this sixth sense of his is no more than a resort to prayer? A detective is supposed to detect — not go down on his knees before an altar. What does he hope to find in Gloucestershire?’
‘You’ll have to ask him, sir.’
‘I’m asking you, man!’
‘The inspector feels that it’s important to do so.’
‘Well, I feel it important to rearrange Colbeck’s priorities for him. His first duty is to gather relevant facts, not to go gallivanting around the countryside. When I assigned this case to him,’ said Tallis, bitterly, ‘I did so because of his past successes with crimes relating to the railways. Sadly, this investigation has exposed the limits of his capabilities. It’s also proved the uselessness of his sixth sense and the deficiencies of some of the other five. He needs to be reprimanded for his shortcomings.’
‘I disagree, sir.’
Tallis rounded on him. ‘Did I ask you to speak?’
‘The inspector has made some progress.’
‘Hold your tongue!’ snarled the superintendent. ‘You’ve nothing worth saying at the best of times and your misguided loyalty to Colbeck is infuriating. You may take a message to him from me.’
‘Yes, sir, I will.’
‘Shut up, man — just listen!’ Leeming recoiled from the rebuke as if struck by a blow. ‘Warn him,’ continued the other, quivering with fury. ‘Warn him that, if he doesn’t achieve results very soon, I will take over the investigation myself. We cannot afford to antagonise Sir Marcus. He has friends in the highest places. If we upset him, we will pay a heavy price.’ Standing up, he towered over Leeming. ‘What will you be doing tomorrow?’
‘The inspector has asked me to speak to another member of the Vaughan family, sir. His name is George Vaughan.’ Leeming attempted a disarming smile that somehow ended up as a crude leer. ‘He’s named after Lord Byron.’
‘I don’t care if he’s named after the Queen of Sheba. Who is he?’
‘He’s the younger son of the Master of that college we went to and he lives here in London.’
‘What possible connection can this fellow have to the disappearance of two women?’
‘That’s what I have to find out, sir.’
‘A visit to this George Vaughan is a needless distraction.’
‘He interests the inspector. He’s an artist, of sorts.’
‘An artist!’ The superintendent gave a wild laugh. ‘This gets worse and worse. We need someone who can find Sir Marcus’s daughter, not an artist who can paint her portrait. As for Lord Byron … the man was a talented poet with disturbing emotional inclinations.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Where did you say that Colbeck was going?’
‘He wants to speak to a curate in North Cerney.’
‘And whom will he consult after that?’ asked Tallis with blistering sarcasm. ‘Will he seek guidance from the Archbishop of Canterbury? Or is he minded to talk things over with the Man in the Moon?’
Leeming was glad to escape alive.
Having spent the night at University College as a guest, Colbeck left early and headed for the railway station. He was sorry that he’d had to decline the Master’s invitation to tour the building. He liked Dominic Vaughan and admired everything he saw of the college but leisure time did not exist in an investigation. He needed to press on. A train took him over halfway to his destination, then he alighted, hired a trap and drove in the direction of Cirencester. Highly conscious of Oxford’s antiquity while he was there, he was now reaching even further back into history because he was travelling on the Fosse Way, the great thoroughfare built by the Romans to connect Exeter with Lincoln. Long stretches of it were as straight as an arrow.
After resting and watering his horse at a wayside inn, he set off again through pleasant countryside and weighed up all the information he’d so far accumulated. In meeting the irascible Clive Tunnadine, his belief that Imogen Burnhope might not be wholly committed to the notion of marrying him had been strengthened. Tunnadine might be an effective politician but he was not an appealing bridegroom. Markedly older than Imogen, he was harsh and peremptory, talking about her as if she were a valuable property that had gone astray rather than as the woman he loved enough to want as his wife. Colbeck could imagine only too well how he’d feel if Madeleine ever went missing. Unlike Tunnadine, he’d be at the mercy of swirling emotions, not venting his anger on someone who was trying to find her. To his credit, Sir Marcus Burnhope had shown genuine fondness for his daughter. There was no corresponding affection in Imogen’s future husband. The love match proclaimed by her father no longer existed.
If she and her maid had been smuggled off the train at Oxford, then the women would have needed both a disguise and an accomplice. Since she was the tall, lithe young woman of report, Imogen might be able to pass for a soldier, especially if her face was partly hidden by a bandage. Rhoda Wills would have been invisible on the wounded soldier’s arm. They could have been whisked away by a waiting accomplice with military connections and the two red uniforms would have melted into the crowd, unseen by Cassandra and Emma Vaughan. The deception had been an undoubted success. But what had happened then? Where had the women been taken and how would they survive now that they’d apparently severed their links with the Burnhope family? Only something — or someone — of irresistible desirability could provoke the Honourable Imogen Burnhope into taking the momentous step of turning her back on her family to seek a life elsewhere. Colbeck hoped that Percy Vaughan would be able to shed light on the mystery.
North Cerney was little more than a straggle of houses and a cluster of farms. Bathed in sunshine, All Saints Church was perched on a hillside overlooking the village and was one of the most picturesque buildings in the whole of the Churn valley. At first glance, Colbeck judged it to have an ideal location and he appreciated its abundant charm. Closer inspection revealed the medieval structure to be slightly disproportionate. Cruciform in shape, it had a saddle-backed west tower of Norman origin. Transepts had been added at a later date but the different architectural elements combined to give the church an almost tangled appearance. Tethering his horse at the gate, Colbeck went up the winding path in the churchyard to the sound of buzzing bees. Birds on the slate-covered roof added their individual songs to the chorus. Discordant notes were occasionally provided by the sheep grazing between the headstones. It was a place of rural enchantment and Colbeck could understand why Percy Vaughan had chosen it.