‘It belongs to Rhoda Wills, Sir Marcus,’ he explained.
‘Are you quite certain of that?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Tolley. ‘I’d know it anywhere.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
A night in the bosom of his family had left Victor Leeming feeling restored and refreshed. On the previous day, he’d quailed in the presence of aristocracy, felt the weight of his ignorance in an Oxford college and experienced sheer terror when subjected to the full force of Edward Tallis’s ire. As he left the house to continue the investigation, therefore, he braced himself. From all that he’d heard about it, the artistic community lived by strange and often scandalous rules. The only artist he knew was Madeleine Colbeck but she was an exception to the rule, pursuing her career in the privacy and comfort of her home and leading a blameless existence. That, he suspected, was not the case with George Vaughan. He would be going into enemy territory once more.
His first problem was to find the artist. The address they’d been given by Emma Vaughan turned out to be that of a house that her brother had vacated weeks earlier. Leeming was given a forwarding address but, when he got there, he learnt that George Vaughan had moved on from that place as well and stayed odd nights with a succession of friends. It was not until late morning that Leeming finally ran him to earth. The artist occupied the attic of a crumbling old house in Chelsea. When the sergeant was admitted to the room, he was startled to find a beautiful young woman posing naked on a chair. Unabashed at his entrance, she gave him a roguish smile. He was too embarrassed even to look at her.
George Vaughan laughed. ‘Don’t mind Dolly,’ he said. ‘She’s my model.’
‘That may be so, sir, but I find the young lady … distracting.’
‘Most men would love to see me like this,’ she boasted.
‘And so they shall,’ said the artist, indicating his easel. ‘When my painting is finished, you’ll be the toast of London.’ He smiled at Leeming. ‘You, sir, are in the privileged position of being able to make a first offer for the portrait. Wouldn’t you like to have Dolly hanging on the wall of your bedroom?’
Leeming gurgled.
‘I want to be on display in a grand house,’ she said, standing on her toes and spreading her arms wide. ‘What about that uncle of yours, George? You’re always saying how wealthy he must be. Is Sir Marcus a man with a taste for art?’
‘No, my angel, my uncle is a born philistine.’
‘Sir Marcus has other matters on his mind at the moment,’ Leeming blurted out. ‘His daughter has disappeared.’
The artist gaped. ‘Can you be serious, sir?’
‘My name is Sergeant Leeming and I’m a detective from Scotland Yard, engaged in the search for your cousin. May I speak to you in private, please?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
He gestured to his model. Gathering up a robe, Dolly pulled it around her shoulders and swept past Leeming, giggling at his discomfort. When she’d left the room, he took a quick look around the attic. It was large, low-ceilinged and cheerless, having no carpet or curtains and only a few sticks of furniture. At one end of the room was a large bed with rumpled sheets. Half-finished paintings stood against the walls. Artist’s materials were scattered everywhere.
‘What’s this about Imogen?’ asked George Vaughan.
‘We’re very concerned about her whereabouts, sir.’
‘Tell me all, man.’
While Leeming gave him the details of the case, George Vaughan was both attentive and alarmed. He was tall, angular and smelt of oil paint. There was a faint resemblance to his father but his face was largely hidden beneath a straggly beard and by the mop of hair that cascaded down to his shoulders. He wore a loose-fitting shirt opened to expose some of his chest and a pair of incongruous red breeches with silver buttons down the sides. His feet were bare. When he’d heard the full story, he was shaking with exasperation.
‘I’ll kill the villain who did this to her!’ he vowed.
‘Mr Tunnadine felt that you might be the villain in question, sir.’
‘What!’
‘It seems that you have a reputation for playing practical jokes.’
‘I’d never go to those lengths,’ said the other, hotly. ‘That’s a wicked allegation to make against me, but it’s typical of Tunnadine.’
‘You’ve met him, I believe.’
‘I saw enough of him to take a rooted dislike. Imogen is a delightful person. She has every virtue that a young woman should possess. It’s cruel to sacrifice her to an ogre like Clive Tunnadine. Men like him don’t love and cherish their wives. They simply acquire them for the purposes of adornment.’
‘You seem to have upset the gentleman, sir. He spoke of you unkindly.’
The artist laughed. ‘That was because I provoked his jealousy. When I met him with my cousin, I swooped on Imogen and embraced her warmly, pleading that she should have married me instead. Tunnadine was outraged.’ He became serious. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be?’
‘Inspector Colbeck, who leads the investigation, is convinced that she’s still alive and unharmed.’
‘In short, she’s run away from Tunnadine!’ George Vaughan clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Imogen! I’d do the same in your position. Wherever you are, you can rely on my love and support.’
‘Don’t get carried away, Mr Vaughan,’ warned Leeming. ‘Bear in mind that we are still at the stage of conjecture. It could equally well be the case that the young lady and her maid have been abducted.’
‘Perish the thought!’
‘How much did you see of her?’
‘Not nearly enough, Sergeant,’ said the other, sorrowfully. ‘Imogen only came to Oxford twice a year. I went on occasional visits with my family, of course, and always relished her company. She’s a wonderful person, fun-loving and full of spirit. It’s such a shame that she was cooped up in Burnhope Manor all the time.’
‘Did she resent that?’
‘She did more than resent it — she plotted her escape.’
Leeming’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’
‘Imogen dreamt of freedom, Sergeant. Who would not do so in those circumstances? But I never thought that she would actually pluck up the courage to act. In fact, I put her to the test last year,’ said the artist with a nostalgic smile. ‘I contrived to be alone with her when she stayed in Oxford. I offered to carry her off so that she could experience a taste of freedom at last. Naturally, it was all in fun but Imogen was not amused by the idea. She was too concerned about what she stood to lose than by what she might gain. There’d have been dreadful repercussions. I know what you’re thinking,’ he added, as suspicion came into Leeming’s eyes. ‘You’re thinking that Tunnadine may not have been so wide of the mark when he accused me of kidnapping my cousin on that train. But this would have been no jape. It would have been an honest attempt to let Imogen flap her wings and fly for once.’
‘Yet you say that she spurned the idea.’
‘Her parents exert too strong a hold, Sergeant. That was the trouble.’
‘I don’t understand, Mr Vaughan.’
‘Well,’ said the other, airily, ‘to atone for a single day of freedom, she’d have had to endure even tighter control over her movements. That would be an unfair punishment but it was bound to follow. Imogen thanked me but rejected my offer. In retrospect, it might have been just as well. An artist’s studio is not the ideal place in which to hide. Someone like Dolly is at home here; my cousin, alas, would be almost as uneasy as you are in the libertarian world that I inhabit.’
‘It’s not for me, sir, I know that.’
‘We obey no rules, Sergeant. We simply follow our instincts.’
‘I spend most of my time arresting people who follow their instincts, Mr Vaughan. Criminals break laws because it’s second nature to do so.’