‘Next time I’ll choose a politician, like my friend. She says that they’re much more reliable, especially if they’re married. They’re more grateful and they’re far more generous.’
‘I’ll be generous when I become rich and famous.’
‘We may both be old and grey by the time that happens.’
‘No, we won’t,’ he said, taking her by the arms. ‘You know that I have talent. You’ve told me a dozen times that I’m a better artist than Sebastian or the one before him. Success is only a year or two away — perhaps even a month or two. Stay with me, Dolly. We belong together.’
She broke away and walked to the window to look out across the houses.
‘London is full of men who’d appreciate my worth,’ she said. ‘They’d keep me in the sort of luxury that my friend enjoys. I wouldn’t have to put up with bare floorboards and that awful bed and the constant stink of oil paint.’
‘Then you must go,’ he told her, changing his tack. ‘If I disappoint you so much, Dolly, then you’re better off with some mealy-mouthed politician or some wealthy banker who can only see you when his wife is away. What I tried to do was to share everything with you — my time, my work, my money and my love. I didn’t just fit you in between my marital commitments. Go to this friend of yours,’ he urged, pointing to the door. ‘Ask her how she reeled in her Member of Parliament. Find out exactly what she has to do to maintain his interest. Off you go, Dolly.’
She was stunned. ‘Are you serious, George?’
‘I don’t want to hold you against your will.’
‘But a moment ago, you said you couldn’t work without me.’
‘There are lots of Dolly Wrensons in the world. I’ll find another one.’
‘You’re not … throwing me out, are you?’
‘No,’ he explained. ‘I simply want you to make up your mind. First, I want you to understand why I had to leave so suddenly. Hear me out, please, that’s all I ask. If, at the end of it, you still think I betrayed you, then we’re better off apart. Is that acceptable to you?’ She nodded. ‘Then, come here.’
Leading her to a chair, he sat her down and gave her a full account of where he’d been and what he’d done while he was away. Dolly listened intently. When she heard that his cousin was in mortal danger, she let out a gasp. When he told her about the man being shot dead, she was overwhelmed with shame. Imogen Burnhope was in the most appalling predicament yet all that Dolly had done was to chide her lover for running off to see if he could in some way help her. By the time he’d finished, the tears were running down her cheeks.
He indicated the door again. ‘Do you still intend to leave?’
‘No, George,’ she said, getting up and moving to the bed. ‘Come here.’
‘You told me that bed was awful.’
‘It is when I have to sleep in it alone.’
‘What about the stink of oil paint?’
She giggled. ‘I’ll hold my nose.’ When he crossed over to her, she raised a finger. ‘There is one condition, mind you.’
‘What’s that, Dolly?’
‘When it’s all over, please — please — give me another arm in the portrait.’
The change in their situation was so sudden and dramatic that it left both of them dazed. Imogen and Rhoda sat side by side in the room that they now shared and bewailed their fate. They were gullible victims of a plot. The man whom Imogen had trusted implicitly was no more than an unscrupulous fraudster with designs on her father’s wealth. As a result of his flattering letters with their well-chosen quotations from Shakespeare’s sonnets, she had been ensnared. She felt sick with grief. Rhoda, too, was wallowing in recriminations. It was her fault, she kept telling herself. Put in the privileged position of looking after her mistress, she’d instead helped to lead her astray. Rhoda was shocked at her own naivety. She was older, wiser and infinitely more mature than Imogen. The maid should never have allowed herself to be caught up in the fairy tale. Something else jabbed at her mind. Imogen was in flight from the tyranny of her parents and the horror of having to marry Clive Tunnadine. Rhoda, however, had regrets when she left. Vernon Tolley’s admiration of her was requited in her breast. In putting her mistress’s needs first, she’d had to forego her own interests. When she might have been encouraging the coachman, she was instead entombed in a hotel room with an armed man next door.
‘There must be some way out,’ she said, rising to her feet.
‘We’re trapped, Rhoda. There’s no escape.’
‘Why don’t I try to distract Sergeant Cullen while you get away?’
‘How can I go anywhere when the door is locked?’ whined Imogen.
‘Bang on it until a member of staff comes,’ urged the maid. ‘I’ll keep the sergeant talking in the other room.’
‘It’s far too dangerous, Rhoda. In any case, where would I go? I have no money and I have no idea where we are. They’d come after me.’
‘Complain to the hotel manager. Ask him to call the police.’
‘You saw how far we drove from Oxford,’ said Imogen. ‘This place couldn’t be more isolated. Besides, I couldn’t endanger the manager by getting him involved. The captain and the sergeant both have weapons.’
‘At least we can try,’ insisted Rhoda.
Crossing to the door, she turned the handle and pulled as hard as she could. The door was firmly locked. She tugged away for a long time. All that she did was to produce a loud rattle and to tire herself. There was another consequence. The other door swung open and Sergeant Cullen stepped into the room.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded. ‘You were ordered to leave that door alone. Captain Whiteside will hear of this.’
‘Please don’t tell him,’ said Imogen. ‘We meant no harm.’
‘I know exactly what you meant. I’m on guard.’
‘We won’t touch the door again, I promise.’
‘I’m taking no chances. I’ll stay here with you.’
‘Give us some privacy, at least,’ said Rhoda, indignantly.
‘You don’t deserve it. If it was left to me, I’d stay in here all night with you.’ He smirked at Rhoda. ‘Wouldn’t you like that?’
Recoiling from his taunt, she went back to the sofa. Cullen sat on the edge of the bed and regarded them. He was a solid man of medium height with livid battle scars decorating a craggy face. The lilting Irish voice that had appealed to Imogen now grated on her ear. His earlier courtesy had shaded into a military brusqueness.
‘What’s to become of us?’ asked Rhoda.
‘Wait and see — it will be a nice surprise for you.’
‘You can’t hold us against our will.’
‘We didn’t need to at first,’ he said with a grin. ‘The captain tricked you into coming along of your own volition, so you did. Now wasn’t that a clever ruse of his? I didn’t have to guard you at all. You liked being here with us.’
‘Let us go,’ implored Imogen. ‘I’ll give you money.’
‘We can get far more from your father. You’re his only child. That puts a high price on your head. If he doesn’t pay up, of course …’
He had a smile like a gash in a ripe melon. They drew back as they realised the full implications of the threat that hung over them. Rhoda was frightened of the Irishman. Imogen tried to grasp at a final straw.
‘This is no way to treat someone in my position,’ she said with dignity. ‘We should be released forthwith. When the captain returns, I shall appeal to him as an officer and a gentleman.’ Cullen went off into peals of laughter. She was deflated. ‘What is so amusing?’
‘It’s your description of Captain Whiteside,’ he replied. ‘First, he’s no longer an officer and second, he was never a gentleman. The both of you will find that out very soon.’
Their reconnaissance was thorough and it gave the detectives some idea of what was in store for them. From a vantage point on one of the hills, the kidnapper would have an excellent view of the dale and be able to see if anyone was trying to creep up on him. Fringed with trees and dappled by the sun, the location favoured someone who wanted to control the exchange of hostages for money before making a swift departure. On the train journey back to London, they had a compartment to themselves and could therefore consider their options.