‘They tricked me,’ he admitted, close to tears.
‘We were watching, Sir Marcus.’
‘Because he brought my daughter’s maid, I was unguarded enough to part with the money. I’ve been fleeced, Inspector.’
‘Did the maid say anything?’
‘She told me that my daughter was unharmed but that was all. Now that I think of it, she was obviously under orders to tell me nothing else.’ He glanced at the trap. ‘Thank you for retrieving it for me, though, in truth, I’ve been so gullible that I deserve to walk all the way back to Oxford.’
‘You’ll be able to get there in a measure of comfort,’ said Colbeck. ‘My advice is that you should return to London with the superintendent. We can make contact with you at your club.’
Tallis and Leeming eventually reached them. While the former dismounted, the latter sank down onto the wall beside Sir Marcus. Glistening with sweat, Leeming was seriously short of breath. Colbeck gave him no time to rest. There had already been a lengthy delay but pursuit was necessary. The trap was left for the two older men while the detectives rode off across the bridge at a canter. They followed a track that led them across the vale and up the hill to the copse at the top. They paused to take stock of the situation.
‘This is where they were hiding,’ said Colbeck. ‘Which way did they go?’
‘Does it matter, sir? They’ll be miles away by now.’
‘A trap won’t travel as fast as a horse.’
‘Do we have to gallop?’ cried Leeming. ‘I’m already saddle-sore.’
‘Think of the two ladies, Victor. Their plight is more important than our discomfort. Let’s see if we can pick up their scent.’
Digging in his heels, he rode off with Leeming several yards behind. It was only a matter of minutes before they came out of the copse into open country. A problem faced them and drew them to a halt once more. The track split into two. One meandered off to the left while the other went arrow-straight towards a wood in the middle distance. Colbeck chose the latter and set off again at a gallop. Leeming followed in his wake, more concerned with staying in the saddle than riding hell for leather. It was a mile or more before Colbeck raised a hand. Both horses were reined in. Leeming eased his mount up beside the inspector.
‘What’s wrong, Inspector?’
‘We should have taken the other road.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just sense it,’ said Colbeck. ‘Let’s go back and start again.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘Yes, we do. We’ll ride all day and all night, if we have to.’
Leeming rubbed his buttocks. ‘I feel as if we’ve already done that, sir.’
Turning around, they followed the track until they reached the point where the two paths diverged. There was a serpentine quality to the second one. It wound its way past clumps of bushes and the occasional outcrop of rock, making it difficult to see what was ahead. They goaded their horses on until they came to a hill. Colbeck paused at the top to let Leeming catch up with him again. The sergeant was in pain.
‘How much farther is it, sir?’
‘About a mile, I’d say. There’s our destination.’
‘Where?’ asked Leeming, gazing ahead. He saw the building that stood in its own extensive grounds. ‘What’s that?’
‘It looks like a country hotel.’
‘Is that where they’ve been staying?’
‘There’s only one way to find out, Victor.’
Now that they had a destination, Leeming was relieved. The ride was no longer as painful or — to his eyes — quite as pointless. Ignoring the thud of the saddle against his body, he tried to think of the two hostages. They were in the hands of men who seemed intent on keeping them. Unimaginable horrors might await them.
Colbeck rode so hard that he reached the hotel minutes before his companion. Rushing into the building, he demanded to see the manager then gave a description of the four people he was pursuing.
‘Yes,’ confirmed the manager. ‘They did stay here but you’ve missed them, I’m afraid. They left an hour or so ago.’
The train set off with the usual tumult and quickly gathered speed. Seated in a compartment with their captors, Imogen Burnhope and Rhoda Wills wondered how much longer their torment would last.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In spite of the pleasure of reconciliation, Dolly Wrenson felt the persistent nibble of remorse. She realised now that her anger at George Vaughan had been both unjust and unkind. It was wrong to characterise his disappearance as a desertion of her and to assert her claims over the needs of his cousin. Now that she understood what had actually happened, she was almost hangdog. Imogen Burnhope and her maid were caught up in a crisis that could easily end in their death yet Dolly had put her own selfish desires before them. She could not stop apologising to the artist.
‘My behaviour was unforgivable, George.’
‘You didn’t know the full facts — nor more did I when I left here.’
‘I should have been more understanding.’
‘That would not have come amiss.’
‘I should have trusted you.’
‘That’s certainly true, my angel,’ he said, reaching out to embrace her. ‘You should have remembered the vows we’d made to each other. I would never dream of walking out on the creature of pure loveliness that is Dolly Wrenson.’
‘I was the one about to leave,’ she said, sheepishly. ‘I could kick myself for having such a ridiculous tantrum.’
‘I like your tantrums. They put colour in your cheeks.’
Dolly giggled. ‘You have a much nicer way of doing that, George!’
They were in the studio and an overcast sky meant that the light was too poor for him to work properly. He’d experimented with candles and an oil lamp but they cast only a fitful glow over his model. Yet they had, in fact, given him an idea of another portrait of Dolly, surrounded by flickering flames and dancing shadows, but it was a project for the future. The priority now was to finish the existing work and for that he needed good light.
‘I need to buy some more paints,’ he said, examining his stock. ‘Would you like to come with me or will you let me go alone?’
‘I’m not your keeper, George.’
‘You tried to be when I last left this house.’
‘It was very childish of me. I’ve grown up now.’
‘I won’t be long, Dolly. With luck, the light may have improved by the time I get back.’ He could not resist a grin. ‘Will you still be here?’
‘I won’t move an inch.’
‘Thank you, my dove. Losing you would be like losing a limb.’
‘Then you’ll know how I feel,’ she said, crossing to the easel and throwing back the cloth that covered it. ‘Give me my left arm, George Vaughan.’
‘I’ll do more than that,’ he promised. ‘You can have one arm of your own and two of mine to wrap around you all night. Will that satisfy you?’
‘You know it will — now away with you, kind sir.’
After putting on his coat and hat, he gave her a kiss before leaving the room. She could hear his footsteps clacking down the infinity of steps to the ground floor. When the sound faded, she went to the window and watched him come out of the front door and walk jauntily down the street. Dolly chided herself once again for ever doubting him. George Vaughan had been the most handsome, selfless, tender, loving, indulgent man she’d ever met. His resources were limited at the moment yet he never stinted her. Though she’d lived in more comfortable quarters with another artist, she never used that fact as a stick with which to hit her lover. Luxury was irrelevant. Simply being with him was enough to fill her with contentment.
Dolly was seized by the urge to do something by way of contrition to give him visible proof of the way that she felt. Her first instinct was to tidy the studio, so she made the bed, moved the few sticks of furniture and began to pick up the various things scattered on the floor. All of a sudden, she stopped and burst out laughing. This was not the way to please George Vaughan. He loved the friendly chaos of his studio. It was his natural habitat. Order was inimical to him. He’d fled from the controlled environment of life at an Oxford college and gone in search of a world without rules and without conventional boundaries. Having gathered up a pile of items to set on the table, she grabbed them again and scattered the whole lot over the floor. Dolly even rumpled the bed again.