‘This is hopeless, Inspector,’ said Rosen. ‘You are chasing moonbeams.’
‘I am in search of a star,’ replied Colbeck, ‘and her name is Jenny Lind.’
‘Then why aren’t you out there looking for her?’
‘The inspector knows what he’s doing,’ said Leeming, loyally.
‘Patently,’ snarled Goldschmidt, ‘he does not.’
‘Your lack of confidence in me is understandable, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I ask you to reserve judgement until this whole matter has been resolved.’
‘What will happen to my concert?’ moaned Rosen. ‘I’ll lose thousands.’
‘With respect, Mr Rosen, the safety of Miss Lind is far more important than any losses you may incur. Try to put self-interest aside for a moment.’
‘I may be ruined!’
‘Our sympathy is elsewhere at the moment, sir.’
‘Indeed, it is,’ said Goldschmidt. ‘My wife will be in an appalling state.’
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘Once she realises that she’s not in danger, she will cope well with the situation into which she’s been thrust. After all, she has travelled the world in the course of her career and adapted to conditions in a whole variety of countries. I believe that Birmingham will hold no terrors for her.’
‘It’s easy for you to say that, man. Find her, damn you — find her!’
There was a knock on the door. ‘The search is about to begin.’
The door opened and an elderly man came in, tapping his way forward with the aid of a white stick. Goldschmidt and Rosen were horrified.
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Rosen. ‘It’s a case of the blind leading the blind.’
Jenny Lind was conducted into a spacious room at the rear of the house. Pride of place went to the piano but there were other musical instruments as well. She saw a framed print of herself hanging on the wall. On the top of the piano was a pile of old programmes. The woman who’d shepherded her away from the crowd came in after her. She waved their guest to a chair.
‘We intend no harm to you, Miss Lind,’ she said, softly, ‘but it was an opportunity we could not afford to miss. My name is Eleanor Whittingham and this,’ she added, indicating the man who’d brought her into the house, ‘is my father, Caspar. He’s a composer and your most fervent admirer.’
Caspar Whittingham tried to offer a respectful bow but the effort taxed him and he staggered slightly. His daughter rushed to assist him, helping him across to the piano stool. He lowered himself onto it with a mixture of care and anticipatory pleasure. Feeling less threatened, Jenny was able to take stock of her surroundings and to look more closely at her hosts. Eleanor was a pleasant, fresh-faced woman in her late twenties who exuded a sense of good health. Caspar, by contrast, was clearly a sick man, wasted by some sort of disease and haunted by the prospect of death. In feeling sorry for him, Jenny lost any concern for her own safety. Neither the father nor the daughter posed any physical threat to her.
‘They’re all here,’ said Whittingham, pointing to the programmes. ‘I saw every opera in which you appeared in this country and attended every concert. You are inimitable, Miss Lind. When I last heard you sing, I was blessed with the chance to secure your autograph. Show it to her, Eleanor.’
Taking the programme from the piano, his daughter passed it to Jenny.
‘We’d have preferred to invite you here,’ continued Whittingham, ‘but there would have been no hope of your coming. Eleanor is a soprano and I am a composer but neither of us could ever ascend to the heights that you and your husband have reached. We are mere apprentices while you are masters of music.’
‘My father is being characteristically modest,’ said Eleanor with a fond smile. ‘He is no apprentice but a fine musician and a gifted composer. His greatest wish is that Jenny Lind would get to sing one of his songs.’
‘Then why not send it to me?’ asked Jenny. ‘I’d have considered it.’
‘You must get deluged with songs,’ said Whittingham, sadly. ‘Everyone who can compose a tune wants it sung by you. Preference is bound to go to operatic arias and favourite airs. Also, of course, you are married to a composer who can write songs for you.’
Jenny was beginning to understand why she was there. It was not a whim of an eccentric gentleman. It was a final opportunity for someone with only a short time to live. Whittingham was ravaged by illness. What had kept him alive, in part, was the overwhelming desire to hear her sing in private. Cost meant nothing to him. He was obviously a wealthy man. Nor did fear of consequences hold him back. He and his daughter were ready to brave the strictures of the law if they could achieve their objective. Whittingham would never live long enough to suffer imprisonment. Jenny was there to sing his requiem.
‘We can’t apologise enough for what happened,’ said Eleanor with a hand on her father’s shoulder. ‘We took great care that you were not hurt in any way. You must be very angry with us. Who would not be in your position? If you feel that we have abused you too much, you are free to leave at once. We can summon a cab.’
Wanting to accept the offer, Jenny somehow held back. She was confused. It had been very wrong of them to kidnap and frighten her in the way that they did. Part of her wanted them both punished along with their many accomplices. They had put her through a chilling ordeal. But another part of her urged clemency. She was there at the behest of a dying man with a last frail wish. Eleanor and Whittingham were musicians, dedicated to their art. They inhabited the same world as Jenny. Nothing mattered more to them than music. They were kindred spirits.
‘Play one of your songs,’ she told the composer. ‘Eleanor can sing it.’
Pursuit began with a series of false starts. Colbeck and Leeming raced around the city in a cab that called at four addresses in vain. They were turned away empty-handed each time. The fifth address took them to the leafy district of Edgbaston.
‘Look at the size of some of these places,’ said Leeming, marvelling at them. ‘They’re ten times bigger than our little house.’
‘I did sense that the kidnapper was not short of money.’
‘Does he know what the sentence is for abducting someone?’
‘I doubt it, Victor, but he’ll soon find out.’
‘I do hope we’re on the right track at last.’
‘I’m sure we are,’ said Colbeck as they turned into a wide road lined with trees. ‘I can almost feel that we’re getting closer.’
Halfway down the road, the cab rolled to a halt and the detectives got out. Colbeck asked the driver to wait then led the way up the drive. Its dimensions might be striking but the mansion had an air of neglect. Slates were missing on the roof, walls were overgrown with ivy and chunks of plaster had come off the pillars supporting the portico.
‘Go round the back,’ said Colbeck.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But don’t try to get into the house. We mustn’t frighten them into impulsive action. People can get hurt that way.’
‘We don’t even know if it’s the right place, sir.’
‘Oh, it’s the right place. I’m certain of it.’
Waiting until Leeming had gone, Colbeck went to the front door and rang the bell. There was a long delay before it was opened by a young man with an impassive face. Colbeck introduced himself and asked if he might see Caspar Whittingham.
‘The master is away at the moment,’ said the servant, crisply.
‘Is any other member of the family here?’
‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’
‘When will Mr Whittingham return?’
‘I can’t answer that question. He told me that they might be away for a day or two. Would you like to leave a message?’