‘Do excuse us,’ said Madeleine to the woman. ‘We’ve obviously come to the wrong room.’ She pulled her husband away. ‘I think it must be at the other end of the corridor.’
The woman didn’t linger. Closing the door firmly, she locked it behind them.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Colbeck, bemused.
‘We were misled, Robert. That was the woman I saw on the staircase last night and she wasn’t letting an accomplice in.’ Madeleine smiled uncomfortably. ‘I should have noticed how handsome that young porter was because I fancy that one of the guests certainly did.’
‘Oh, so it was an assignation,’ he realised. ‘When her young friend didn’t turn up last night, she came down the servants’ staircase looking for him, and fled when she spotted you. Oh dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can’t pretend to condone what may be going on in that room but it’s no business of ours and I’m embarrassed that we interrupted them.’ He scratched his head. ‘What do we do now?’
‘I’ll stay here in case the older lady comes back.’
‘Then I’ll tackle the manager again. Something very strange is going on in this hotel — and I don’t mean the secret liaison that we just stumbled upon. The manager is involved somehow and I intend to discover exactly how.’ He glanced at the sketchbook. ‘Would you like me to look after Puffing Billy for you?’
‘No,’ replied Madeleine, hugging the sketchbook more tightly. ‘I’m not letting go of him until we get safely back home.’
When he got back downstairs, Colbeck saw that the assistant manager was handling enquiries from guests. Andrew Whitchurch had retired to his office. Thinking that the man was deliberately avoiding him, Colbeck went across to the office and bunched his hand to knock. Before he could do so, he heard sounds of a heated argument on the other side of the door. He returned to the assistant manager.
‘Mr Whitchurch appears to have company,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is it yet another guest complaining that something has been stolen?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘I distinctly heard a woman’s voice raised in accusation.’
‘That would be Mrs Whitchurch,’ said the other. ‘It’s the manager’s wife.’
Hidden in the alcove, Madeleine did not have long to wait this time. The old woman she had seen earlier made a second appearance, creeping stealthily along the corridor. She then let herself into a room and shut the door silently behind her. Madeleine came out of her hiding place at once. The woman had gone into a different room to the one she’d earlier left and her furtive manner confirmed that she had no right to be there. Madeleine had found the thief at last.
It was less than a minute before the woman came out of the room, clutching a pair of slippers. When she saw Madeleine waiting for her, she giggled. Making no attempt to run away, she held up the slippers as if they were some kind of trophy. Madeleine showed her the sketchbook.
‘Why did you steal this from our room?’ she asked.
‘I liked the drawings,’ said the woman, grinning inanely.
‘But this is my property. You shouldn’t have taken it.’
‘I didn’t mean any harm.’
‘It upset me a great deal.’
The woman giggled. ‘You’ve got it back now.’
Madeleine saw that it was futile to attempt a proper conversation with the woman. Her voice was high and childish and she clearly had no idea that what she had done was to commit a crime. Madeleine felt desperately sorry for her. The woman was patently deranged in some way. The next moment, Colbeck came walking along the corridor with the hotel manager. Whitchurch was horrified when he saw what the woman was holding in her hands.
‘Oh, Mother!’ he cried in despair. ‘What have you taken this time?’
Madeleine was as good as her word. When they stepped into an empty compartment, she was still clasping Puffing Billy to her breast. He would be held close to her heart all the way back to London.
‘I think it’s safe to say that it was an eventful visit,’ remarked Colbeck.
‘It was a little too eventful for my liking, Robert.’
‘You got what you came to get, my love.’
‘But I had it stolen for a while,’ she recalled. ‘That was terrifying. I’d have been far less upset if she’d taken my handbag or one of my dresses.’
‘The poor lady simply took the first thing that came to hand, Madeleine. There was no thought of stealing for gain. Kleptomania is a cruel disease of the mind,’ he said, sadly. ‘It’s an uncontrollable desire to take things from others for the simple pleasure of doing so. Nothing she stole was of any practical use or value to her.’
‘All that I could do was to offer her my sympathy.’
‘I reserved mine for the manager,’ said Colbeck. ‘Think how much Mr Whitchurch must have paid out in compensation to angry guests. He did everything in his power to conceal the fact that his mother had somehow acquired a replica of the master key so that she could let herself into any room she chose. His wife tried to keep an eye on her mother-in-law but the older Mrs Whitchurch was far too guileful. Driven by the urge to steal, she always found a means of escape.’
Madeleine shook her head. ‘She won’t be doing that any more, Robert.’
‘No, her spree is over at last. Whitchurch accepted that he and his wife can no longer cope with her antics. He’s putting his mother in the care of a cousin who lives in the country. She’ll have far less opportunity to steal anything there and will, to some extent, be isolated from temptation. It’s not an ideal solution but it avoids the stigma of having his mother committed to a mental asylum. However,’ he went on, brightening, ‘let’s remember the more pleasant aspects of our holiday, shall we? You achieved your objective and we had the luxury of time alone together. In addition, of course, you proved that you were more than a match for me as a detective.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t know about that, Robert.’
‘Take full credit,’ he insisted. ‘I was tempted to arrest the manager. It was you who discovered the real identity of the thief. In terms of detection, I am merely a Puffing Billy, an ancient relic, whereas you are truly a Lord of the Isles — or, should I say, a Lady of the Isles?’
THE END OF THE LINE
England, 1852
Matthew Proudfoot was a man who insisted on getting value for money. As one of the directors of the Great Western Railway, he had invested heavily in the company and believed that it entitled him to special privileges. When he learnt that an off-duty train was going from London to Swindon that evening, therefore, he effectively commandeered it, and, as its sole passenger, issued strict instructions to the driver. James Barrett was wiping his hands on an oily rag when the portly figure of Proudfoot strode up to the locomotive. Recognising him at once, Barrett straightened his back and gave a deferential smile.
‘Good evening, Mr Proudfoot.’
‘I need to be at Reading station by eight o’clock,’ said the other, curtly. ‘I expect the ride to be swift but comfortable.’
‘But we’re not supposed to stop, sir,’ explained Barrett, glancing at his fireman. ‘The engine is being taken out of service so that repairs can be made at Swindon.’
‘On her way there, she can oblige me.’
‘I have to follow orders, Mr Proudfoot.’
‘I’ve just given them. Take me to Reading.’
‘But I need permission, sir.’
‘You’ve got permission, man,’ said Proudfoot, testily. ‘I’ve spoken to your superiors. That’s why the first-class carriage was added to the train. It’s the only way I’d deign to travel.’