‘The news about Imogen is very distressing, Father,’ he said.
‘She is never out of our thoughts.’
‘Have there been any developments?’
‘There are none that I know of, George.’
‘If there is anything I can do, just tell me what it is.’
‘First of all, you can sit down.’ In response to his father’s gesture, he lowered himself into a chair. Vaughan sat opposite and fixed him with a stare. ‘Second, I’d be obliged if you could inform me what exactly is going on.’
‘I only know what the sergeant told me.’
‘I’m not talking about Imogen now. My question relates to you.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You do look different. It’s a look I’ve seen on certain undergraduates when they mistake debauchery for education. It signals a decline in moral standards.’
‘I’m no longer an undergraduate here, Father,’ his son reminded him. ‘I’m old enough to follow my own destiny.’
‘Yet your destiny still seems to require financial help from me.’
‘It’s only until I get established as an artist,’ argued his son. ‘As soon as I do that, I can pay back everything you kindly gave me. Meanwhile, I’m very grateful for your help. It may not be needed for that long.’
Vaughan leant forward. ‘I’m very worried, George.’
‘If I’m getting too much, reduce the size of the payments.’
‘I’m not worried about the amount of money. What concerns me is the use to which it’s put.’ His voice hardened. ‘Let me be candid. I wish to know what exactly I am subsidising.’
‘You are helping a young artist to blossom into full flower.’
‘Leave metaphors aside and tell me the plain truth.’
‘I have a deal of creative talent — you’ve admitted that yourself — and I am working hard to develop it. I already have one commission and there are two others in the wind. The fees will not be very large at this stage in my career but, in due course, I can assure you that-’
‘Forget your creative talent,’ interrupted Vaughan. ‘I speak of the rumours.’
His son beamed unconcernedly. ‘To what rumours do you refer, Father?’
‘They are rumours too disturbing to mention to your mother. Their source appears to be Professor Triggs. He, as you know, has a son of your age — one who joined a more respectable profession.’
‘Respectability is the death of art.’
‘You were seen by the professor’s son at a party, entertaining low company.’
‘I’m surely permitted to choose my own friends. And if this famous son is so respectable, what was he doing at the sort of party to which I’m invited?’
‘His uncle is an art dealer in London.’
‘Ah,’ said George Vaughan, ‘that explains it. We may well have rubbed shoulders at such a gathering. As a breed, I loathe art dealers but they are a necessary evil, so I never miss a chance to cultivate them.’
‘It seems that another form of cultivation is taking place.’
‘Speak more plainly, Father. Of what am I being accused?’
‘Fornication is a sin.’
‘Then you’ve been wise to abstain from it.’
‘Do you dare to mock me!’ shouted Vaughan, jumping to his feet. ‘Remember where you are, sir, and who I am.’
‘I tender my sincerest apologies, Father. I did not mean to be flippant.’
‘You were crude and I’ll not tolerate such behaviour.’
His son was contrite. ‘Then I take back what I said unreservedly.’
‘When I named you after Lord Byron, I hoped that you’d be inspired by his poetry and not ape some of the alleged excesses of his private life.’
‘What alleged excesses? Has Professor Triggs been spreading rumours about Byron as well? How does the good professor find time to write his theological tracts when he’s otherwise engaged, listening to silly gossip about artists and poets.’
‘Stop it at once!’ insisted Vaughan. ‘Let’s have no more sarcasm.’
‘Then let’s have no more rumours.’
His father flopped down into his chair. ‘What am I to do with you, George?’
‘Well, you might start by opening a bottle of the college sherry.’
George Vaughan saw the anger welling up in his father’s eyes and he steadied himself to withstand the reprimand that was trembling on the older man’s tongue. It was stillborn. Before Vaughan could speak, there was a tap on the door and it opened to reveal his son, Percy. Overcome with relief, he jumped up to embrace him. The greeting between the two brothers was less emotional. They merely exchanged nods of recognition.
‘We have terrible news to impart about your cousin,’ said Vaughan.
‘I’ve already heard it,’ explained his elder son. ‘In fact, I may know more than either of you. I took a train from Moreton-in-Marsh and called first at Burnhope Manor. Mother fell upon me. It seems that Imogen is still alive but is being held somewhere against her will. Three detectives came to the house. One of them was Inspector Colbeck.’
Driving a horse and cart was a mode of travel that really suited Victor Leeming. At least, it would have done so had he not been sitting beside a distraught young woman with the corpse of her father lying behind them under some sacking. Robert Colbeck rode alongside them on the bay mare, which was now supremely obedient. Leeming’s only interest was in his own horse, a shaggy creature with a dappled coat, moving at a benign trot and answering every twitch of the reins without protest. As the cart trundled on over uneven ground, the sergeant was able to indulge in his fantasy of being a cab driver, an occupation that had always had a great appeal to him. It would keep him in London, rescue him from the dangers concomitant with police work and relieve him of the dread of having to jump on a train, a ship or an unruly bay mare at a moment’s notice. When he came out of his reverie, he saw a tiny thatched cottage ahead of him. A middle-aged woman came bustling out to greet them, her face pitted by hard work and disease.
Colbeck reached her first and introduced himself. Though he broke the news as gently as he could, she almost fainted. Mary leapt off the cart and ran to her. They clutched each other in sheer desperation. When she finally adjusted to the shock, the mother walked slowly to the rear of the cart and lifted the sacking, producing a fresh waterfall of tears when she saw the wound. Colbeck and Leeming offered words of condolence that went unheard. Both were saddened by what they saw. Mother and daughter were survivors of a poor family, scratching a living off an inadequate piece of land. With their breadwinner dead, they’d be turned out of their tied cottage without compunction. Their future was daunting.
When the women had calmed down sufficiently, the detectives carried the body into the house and laid it on the table in the scullery. The wife gazed down at the corpse but Mary scampered off upstairs. Colbeck felt it was the moment to offer what he hoped would be a form of balm.
‘There’ll be compensation for this,’ he said, taking out the money. ‘It will never atone for what happened, I’m afraid, but it may make things easier for a while.’ When he offered the banknotes, she drew back in surprise. ‘Please take them. They come with sympathy.’
‘I’ve done nothing to deserve all that, sir,’ she said, querulously.
‘You deserve that and more,’ said Leeming.
‘But there’s … so much.’
Out of compassion, both detectives had made their own contribution. What Colbeck handed over to her was more than her husband could earn in two years. She was pathetically grateful.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Inspector,’ she said, biting back tears.
‘I only wish it were more.’
‘It were my husband’s own fault, really. I told him not to take the money but it was too big a temptation. Then there was Mary, of course. It would have broken her heart if she hadn’t been allowed to wear that lovely dress. Anyway, they didn’t listen to me — and this is the result!’
‘Why did you tell your husband to refuse the money?’ asked Colbeck.
‘I didn’t like the look of him as offered it.’