Victor Leeming was given a task he enjoyed least, that of travelling on trains to a series of destinations. He went to a number of towns along the south coast, talking to station employees and giving them a description of the man known as the Reverend Youngman. In most cases, he came away empty-handed. Such were the crowds that thronged the platforms, it was impossible to pick out individuals. He had more success at Dover and Brighton. A stationmaster at one and a porter at the other remembered the clergyman clearly. They said that he always carried a valise and travelled first class. Enquiries at police stations in both places yielded no additional information. The confidence trickster was not known to the police either in Dover or Brighton. Yet he was patently in the area. Having established where the man’s primary territory was, Leeming felt able to catch a train back to London.
Colbeck’s search also involved a number of blind alleys. Though the man he sought was reportedly in the capital, it took him the best part of the day to track him down. When he finally did so, he discovered that Nigel Buckmaster was holding a private rehearsal with a beautiful young actress in a room at an exclusive hotel. It was not Colbeck’s business to probe too deeply into the nature of the instruction that she had received but he knew from experience that the actor-manager always mingled work and pleasure in a way that made them indistinguishable.
When they met in the bar, Buckmaster was as flamboyant as ever.
‘Well met, Inspector,’ he said, pumping Colbeck’s hand. ‘I’m glad to see you again. Life has been good to me since our first encounter.’
‘I have followed your career with interest.’
‘Then you will know that I now dominate the London stage like a Titan. I am at the pinnacle of my profession. Gone are the days when I had to peddle my talent around dingy theatres in the provinces.’
‘Your success is well deserved, Mr Buckmaster.’
Colbeck knew that a combination of flattery and a free drink always made the actor more amenable. They had first met years earlier in Cardiff when the inspector was investigating a murder and when the actor was playing the title role in Macbeth. Events had thrown them close together and — because he was a genuine admirer of Buckmaster’s work — Colbeck and he had become friends.
Over a drink in the bar, the conversation began with the theatre.
‘Your Hamlet was without compare.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. I intend to revive my production. The young lady you saw leaving just now has made an excellent impression on me. I auditioned her for the role of Ophelia.’
‘I hope that you will soon revive your Othello as well.’
‘The public clamour for it is very heartening.’
Buckmaster was a tall, lean man with a face that was at once handsome and sinister and long dark hair that fell to his shoulders. Noted for his dandyism, Colbeck felt invisible beside his friend’s ostentatious attire.
‘I am looking for an actor,’ he said.
‘One sits before you, sir,’ said Buckmaster, arms spread wide.
‘This gentleman’s performances are of a more criminal nature. In short, he preys on gullible people in various guises and draws money out of them. What every victim has commented on is his voice. It is low and beguiling. My belief is that the fellow must have had training on the stage.’
‘That’s a reasonable assumption.’
‘We need to catch him before others fall into his clutches.’
‘In what guises does he appear?’
‘Well,’ said Colbeck, ‘his favourite seems to be that of a clergyman. He claims to be a missionary on the railways and is, by all accounts, highly plausible.’
‘The world is full of actors who’ve fallen on hard times and turned to crime. It will be difficult for me to pluck one out of the hundreds with whom I worked.’
‘In this case, we have a name.’
‘Then it’s certainly a false one. We thespians love to hide our true selves.’
‘That’s why I came to you, Mr Buckmaster. When I first heard the name, I was ready to dismiss it as an invention but it has tickled something in my memory. I have heard it before somewhere but I cannot, for the life of me, remember where. Actors — I need hardly tell you — are superstitious creatures. I begin to wonder,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully, ‘whether the man I seek has perhaps fastened on the name of a character he once played on the boards.’
‘That would not surprise me in the least,’ said Buckmaster. ‘I have met several actors who have stolen names from elsewhere. In my own company, for instance, I have a Romeo Armstrong and a Mark Antony Williamson. Unfortunately, in both cases, their ambition far outruns their talents and neither will ever play the parts in which they cast themselves. What is the name of the villain you are after?’
‘He calls himself the Reverend Paul Youngman.’
Buckmaster slapped his thigh. ‘Then he gives himself away.’
‘You know the name?’
‘I know the part and I know the rogue who played it. I was unlucky enough to engage him. The Reverend Youngman appears in a trifling comedy by Tom Taylor called A Love Denied, an early work rarely performed now. I had the misfortune to take the lead and play opposite one of the greatest scoundrels ever to infect our profession. Hell’s teeth!’ exclaimed Buckmaster. ‘He had the nerve to steal a scene from me. And his thievery did not end there. When I dismissed him from the company, he robbed the rest of the cast and made off with my valise.’
Colbeck was delighted. ‘Who played the Reverend Paul Youngman?’
‘His real name is Douglas Aird.’
‘I owe you a thousand thanks, Mr Buckmaster. When I run him down, I’ll see if I can’t retrieve your valise.’
‘He is a disgrace to the profession.’
Buckmaster emptied his glass then rose to his feet. Colbeck offered to buy him another drink but the actor dismissed the offer with a lordly wave.
‘Alas, I may not tarry,’ he said. ‘Another young hopeful is to audition for the part of Ophelia. She may well be tapping on the door of my room right now.’
Armed with a name, the detectives found it much easier to pick up the scent. Having first tried Dover, they moved to Brighton and, by dint of making an endless series of enquiries, finally got an address on the seafront. Appropriately, Aird’s lodging was only four doors away from a costume-hire shop. Before they reached the place, the man himself stepped into view disguised as a bishop with a large pectoral cross dangling on his chest. In his hand, he was carrying a valise. He fitted the detailed description that Tallis had provided. Colbeck and Leeming followed him all the way to the railway station. When he stood alone on the platform, the detectives moved in.
‘Are you the Reverend Paul Youngman?’ asked Colbeck, politely.
‘I was,’ replied Aird, loftily. ‘In its wisdom, the Anglican Church saw fit to transform me into the Bishop of Chichester.’
‘And do you intend to continue missionary work on the railways?’
Aird was unruffled. ‘God will not be mocked, sir. I’d be grateful if you and your friend will leave me alone or I will have to summon a policeman.’
‘I’m a policeman,’ said Leeming, stepping forward. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Leeming of Scotland Yard and this gentleman is Inspector Colbeck.’ Aird was very ruffled now. ‘Our superintendent would value a word with you, sir. I believe you owe him five pounds.’
‘When you’ve returned that,’ said Colbeck with a steely smile, ‘you can hand back the valise you stole from Nigel Buckmaster. It’s my sad duty to report that he does not speak well of you. And, while we’re on the subject of reparation, I daresay that Tom Taylor, the playwright, would like you to surrender the name of the clergyman you purloined from A Love Denied.’ He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Not to put too fine a point upon it, sir, you and your false identity are both under arrest.’