Timetable of Death

CHAPTER TWO

The invention of the electric telegraph had been a boon to Scotland Yard. Messages that might have taken several hours to deliver by other means could now be sent in a matter of minutes. A national network was slowly being set up along the routes taken by railways and canals. Communication had therefore quickened by leaps and bounds. There was, however, an element of frustration for the recipient because the information transmitted by telegraph was often terse.

Edward Tallis voiced his usual complaint.

‘Why can’t they give us more detail?’ he asked.

‘We must accept the limitations of the service, sir,’ said Robert Colbeck, tolerantly. ‘By its very nature, a telegraph encourages abbreviation. We should be grateful for what it can do and not criticise it for being unable to send an exhaustive report of a particular crime.’ He glanced at the missive in Tallis’s hand. ‘From where did this one come?’

‘Derby.’

‘What’s the name of the victim?’

‘Mr Vivian Quayle. He was a director of the Midland Railway, hence their call for immediate assistance.’

They were in the superintendent’s office. Wreathed in cigar smoke, Tallis was seated behind his desk with the telegraph in his hand. It would have been easier to give it to Colbeck so that he could read it for himself but a deep-seated envy made Tallis draw back from that. What the inspector was not told was that there was a specific request for him to be sent. Because his record of solving crimes on the railway network was unmatched, the press had dubbed him the Railway Detective and it was a badge of honour that Tallis resented bitterly. It grieved him that Colbeck invariably collected praise that the superintendent felt should instead go to him.

Tallis was a solid man in his fifties with short grey hair and a neat moustache. His spine had a military straightness, his eyes glinted dangerously and, when roused, his rasping delivery could penetrate the walls of his office with ease. Colbeck, by contrast, was tall, slim, handsome, lithe, soft-spoken and twenty years younger. He was also something of a dandy with an elegance that Tallis thought inappropriate in one of his detectives. Since the two men could never like each other, they settled for a mutual respect of each other’s considerable virtues.

‘May I see the telegraph, please?’ asked Colbeck.

Tallis put it in a drawer. ‘There’s no point.’

‘Who sent it?’

‘Mr Haygarth — he’s the chairman of the company.’

‘The headquarters are in Derby. Sergeant Leeming and I will go there at once.’ Colbeck gave a non-committal smile. ‘Do you have any instructions, sir?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Tallis, ominously. ‘First, I expect you and the sergeant to maintain the high standards that I set for all officers in the Detective Department. Second, I’m counting on you for a speedy solution to this crime. When there’s so much work for them here in London, I can’t have my men tied up in the provinces for any length of time. The capital takes priority. Third,’ he went on, rising to his feet and brushing cigar ash from his sleeve, ‘I insist that you send me a full report at the earliest opportunity and keep me informed at every stage of the investigation. Fourth and finally-’

‘I think I can guess what that is, sir,’ said Colbeck, interrupting him. ‘Fourth and finally, if we don’t make rapid progress, you’ll come to Derby in person to take charge of the case.’

‘I will, indeed.’

‘Yet a moment ago you said that the capital must take priority.’

‘And so it must.’

‘Then it will surely be foolish of you to desert London in order to devote your energies to a murder investigation in Derbyshire. You’re needed here, Superintendent. When you are at the helm, the underworld quivers.’

Tallis glared. ‘Do I detect a whiff of sarcasm?’

‘Your senses are far too well tuned to make such a mistake.’

‘Don’t you dare mock a superior, Colbeck.’

‘I’m simply acknowledging your superiority,’ said the other, seriously. ‘The commissioner, after all, is largely a figurehead. In reality, it’s you who bears most of the responsibility for policing the capital and — since you do it with such exemplary style and effectiveness — that’s why you should remain here.’

Edward Tallis was unsure whether to be flattered by the praise or irritated by the smoothness with which it was delivered. By the time the superintendent made up his mind, it was too late. Colbeck had left the room.

Panic had seized the village of Spondon. The shocking discovery of a murder victim in their churchyard had unsettled everyone and set off fevered speculation. Though he did his best to reassure his parishioners, the vicar was unable to quell the mounting alarm. Michael Sadler was a short, slight man in his fifties with the remains of his white hair scattered in tufts over his pate. What made him so popular with his congregation was his kindness, his lack of condescension and the merciful brevity of his sermons. More discerning worshippers also admired the soundness of his theology and the sheer breadth of his learning. Qualities seen at their best inside the church, however, did not fit him for heated confrontations. When he found himself caught up in one that morning, he was clearly out of his depth.

‘I insist!’ yelled Roderick Peet.

‘So what?’ retorted Bert Knowles.

‘Do as you’re told, man.’

‘I done it already.’

‘Don’t be so exasperating.’

‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ said the vicar, trying to intervene. ‘There’s no need for discord. I’m sure that this matter can be settled amicably.’

‘We’re talking about my wife’s funeral,’ said Peet, shaking with rage.

Knowles pointed a finger. ‘Then theer’s ’er grave.’

‘Damn your impudence!’

‘Please,’ chided the vicar, a hand on his arm. ‘Let’s moderate our language, shall we, Mr Peet? Never forget that we’re on consecrated ground.’

Peet bit his lip. ‘I do apologise, Vicar.’

‘You’d do well to remember that this is a churchyard, Bert.’

Knowles shrugged. ‘Aye, ’appen I should.’

But he was clearly unrepentant. Knowles was a sturdy man in his sixties with a gnarled face, a farm labourer who supplemented his low wages by digging graves and doing odd jobs in the village. He was not a churchgoer. Peet, on the other hand, was a pillar of St Mary’s and one of its most generous benefactors. He was a tall, lean man in his seventies with great poise and dignity. He was wearing funereal garb. As a member of the local gentry, he expected the common people to defer to him at all times and most of them did. Knowles was the exception. The gravedigger hated any sign of aloofness and called no man his master.

Sadler understood the positions of the two combatants all too well. Horrified that an interloper had appeared out of the blue in his wife’s grave, Peet wanted a new one to be dug instantly. The original, he felt, was contaminated beyond redemption. For his part, Knowles argued that he’d done exactly what he was told to do and that was the end of it. He saw no reason why his grave could not receive the body of Cicely Peet as planned.

‘There was a murdered man in there,’ howled Peet.

‘Well, ’e’s not theer now,’ countered Knowles.

‘It’s a bad omen.’

‘I don’t see as ’ow it is, Mr Peet. A grave’s a bleedin’ grave.’

‘Bert!’ shouted the vicar in dismay.

Knowles raised a grubby palm. ‘Sorry.’

‘So you should be.’ His voice softened. ‘Mr Peet’s request is very reasonable. He wants a fresh grave for his dear, departed wife.’

‘Dunna axe me to dig it.’

‘You’ll get paid. I’ll happily provide the money myself.’

‘There’s no need for you to do that, Vicar,’ said Peet. ‘I’ll meet the cost.’

Knowles folded his arms. ‘No.’

‘Then we’ll find someone else.’

‘No,’ repeated the other, gruffly. ‘Nobody steals my job.’

‘Bert is our official gravedigger,’ admitted the vicar. ‘We never had the slightest cause to complain about his work in the past. As you see,’ he added, indicating the open grave, ‘he does an excellent job.’

‘Then let him do it again,’ said Peet, struggling to hold in his temper. ‘Doesn’t this idiot understand an order when he’s given one? I’m not making a polite request. What I’m issuing is a demand. And it must be obeyed.’

‘Matter o’ principul,’ said Knowles, stubbornly. ‘If my grave en’t good enough for ter, bury the missus somewheer else.’ He pulled out a pipe and thrust it in his mouth. ‘Gorra bit of bacca abaht thee, Vicar?’

It was too much to expect Victor Leeming to enjoy a journey that took him away from his wife and family, but at least he didn’t launch into his standard litany of objections to steam locomotion. Settling back in a seat opposite Colbeck, he suffered in silence. The train to Derby had set out from King’s Cross station, the London terminus of the Great Northern Railway. Because it had no terminus in the capital, the Midland Railway had been forced to come to an agreement with one of its chief rivals, making use of the latter’s tracks between London and Hitchin. Beyond there, trains ran on lines owned by the Midland. As a company it had endured some very difficult times but, although he was well aware of them, Colbeck saw no point in trying to interest the sergeant in the vagaries of running a railway company. Instead, he pointed out the benefit of their present assignment.

‘Detective work is not merely fascinating in itself,’ he said. ‘It gives us a geography lesson each time.’

‘I’d prefer to stay in London, sir.’

‘I don’t believe it, Victor. Even you must have been uplifted by the wonders of Scotland, the scenic delight of Devon and the novelty of all the other places we’ve been taken to in the course of our work. And what you’ve seen and experienced you doubtless pass on to your children, so they are getting an education as well.’

‘I never thought of that,’ confessed Leeming. ‘And you’re right about the boys. Whenever I’ve been away, they always pester me for details of where I’ve been. So does Estelle, for that matter.’

‘Madeleine is the same. In her case, of course, she has been able to join us from time to time. My dear wife is still talking about our adventure in Ireland.’

‘Let’s hope that the superintendent never finds out about that. If he realised that we had the help of a woman during a murder investigation, he’d have a fit.’

Since they occupied an empty compartment they were able to talk freely. Leeming was a stocky individual of medium height with the kind of unsightly features more suited to a ruffian than to a detective sergeant. Indeed, though he wore a frock coat and well-cut trousers, he still contrived to look like a villain on the run from the law. Years of being teased about his ugliness as a boy had served to toughen him and he’d become so proficient at punching his detractors that they’d learnt to hold their tongues. Colbeck admired him for his strength, tenacity and unwavering loyalty.

‘Why can’t the police in Derby handle this case?’ asked Leeming.

‘Someone clearly thinks it’s beyond their competence.’

‘That means we’ll get a frosty welcome. Nobody likes to be told that detectives are being brought in over their head.’

‘We’ve coped with that situation before,’ said Colbeck with a sigh. ‘Some constabularies have been extremely helpful but we do tend to meet with jealousy and suspicion as a rule. It’s understandable.’

‘The railway police are the worse, sir.’

‘I agree, Victor. They never accept that they have no power to investigate major crimes on the network. Some of them always try to do our work for us. There’s no knowing what we’ll face when we get there but we’d better brace ourselves for resistance of some sort. One thing is certain,’ he said, philosophically. ‘There won’t be a brass band waiting to greet us at Derby station.’

Donald Haygarth walked so quickly up and down the platform that his companion had difficulty in keeping up with him. Haygarth was a big, barrel-chested man in his fifties with an expensive tailor, paid to conceal his customer’s spreading contours. For all his bulk, he moved at speed and exuded self-importance. Trotting beside him was Elijah Wigg, the cadaverous Superintendent of Derby Police, the brass buttons of his uniform gleaming like stars and his boots brushed to a high sheen. Wigg’s side whiskers were so long and luxuriant that they threatened to join forces under his chin and blossom into a full beard. Weary of trying to have a conversation on the hoof, he put a skeletal hand on Haygarth’s shoulder and pulled him to a halt.

‘There’s no need to wear out the soles of your shoes,’ he said, spikily. ‘It won’t make your famous Railway Detective come any sooner.’

‘He’ll be here any minute,’ said Haygarth, fussily. ‘I know the train that he caught because he had the forethought to inform me by telegraph. If it’s running on time, as it should be, I expect him to be only a mile or so away from us.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. The next train to London arrives here in twenty minutes. Inspector Colbeck can go straight back where he came from.’

‘And why on earth should he do that?’

‘We will be handling the investigation, Mr Haygarth.’

‘I’ve called in an acknowledged expert.’

‘An acknowledged expert on what?’ demanded Wigg. ‘He doesn’t know this part of the country, he doesn’t understand the people and he won’t be able to make head or tail of the Derbyshire dialect. Why have a complete stranger blundering around when we have a police force equipped with local insight?’

‘Be honest, Superintendent,’ said Haygarth. ‘This case is too big for you.’

‘I deny it.’

‘It’s a complex murder inquiry.’

‘We can handle it better than anyone.’

‘That’s patently untrue.’

Wigg bristled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that you already have one unsolved murder on your hands. Need I remind you that it’s three years since a man named Enoch Stone was killed in Spondon and that nobody has yet been brought to book for the crime?’

‘That investigation continues. We’ll find the culprit eventually.’

‘I want a quicker result in this case,’ said Haygarth, acidly. ‘That’s why I’ve turned to Scotland Yard. I don’t have three years to wait for the arrest and conviction of the man who murdered Mr Quayle. You keep chasing your tail over the Enoch Stone case, Superintendent. I need Inspector Colbeck to take charge of this one.’

Elijah Wigg spluttered. Before he could reply, however, he was diverted by the sound of a train’s approach and saw it powering towards them in the distance. When he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket, Haygarth was delighted to see that the train was punctual. He walked briskly back up the single platform with Wigg scampering at his heels.

When the train finally squealed to a halt, there was a tumult of hissing steam, acrid smoke and the systematic clamour of compartment doors being opened. While passengers were waiting to climb aboard, others were welcoming those who’d just alighted. Haygarth didn’t need to find the detectives. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, Colbeck had spotted the police uniform and made straight for it. Introductions were performed. Wigg glowered, Haygarth beamed, Colbeck tossed an approving glance at the station itself and Leeming stretched.

‘I’m so glad that you’ve come,’ said Haygarth, pumping the hands of the newcomers in turn. ‘I’ve reserved rooms for each of you at the Royal Hotel. You will, of course, be staying at the expense of the Midland Railway.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘But the sergeant and I are still very much in the dark. What we’d like to do in the first instance is to visit the scene of the crime and learn what steps have been taken by the police.’

‘We’ve done all that’s appropriate,’ said Wigg, officiously. ‘We are not bumpkins in some rural backwater, Inspector. You’re standing in one of the nation’s finest manufacturing towns and it has a police force worthy of its eminence. We follow the correct procedures here. My suggestion is that we have your luggage sent to the hotel so that you can accompany me to Spondon.’

‘We just stopped there,’ said Leeming. ‘Is that where the murder occurred?’

‘It is, Sergeant.’

‘Do you have a police station there?’

‘No, but we have six constables, all local men.’

‘They’re well-meaning fellows,’ observed Haygarth, ‘but they are not trained detectives. In fact, they’re still struggling to solve a murder that took place in the village three years ago.’

‘That’s irrelevant,’ snapped Wigg.

‘I beg leave to doubt that, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck. ‘The overwhelming majority of villages in this country, I’m pleased to say, have never had a single homicide yet Spondon, it appears, has had two in the space of three years. The place has already aroused my interest. Did Mr Quayle, the more recent victim, have any connection with the village?’

‘None whatsoever,’ replied Haygarth. ‘He lived in Nottingham.’

‘Then what was he doing there?’

‘I’ll be grateful if you could find out, Inspector.’

‘How was he killed?’

‘We’re not entirely sure. We await the results of a post-mortem.’

‘This case gets more intriguing by the second,’ said Colbeck, smiling. ‘It is positively swathed in mystery. Thank you for inviting us here, Mr Haygarth. I have a feeling that Derbyshire is going to yield a whole battery of surprises.’

Leeming turned to Wigg. ‘Do you have any suspects?’ he asked. ‘Are there any people who would profit directly from Mr Quayle’s death?’

‘Yes,’ said Wigg, seizing a chance to embarrass Haygarth. ‘One of them is standing right next to you, Sergeant.’

‘How dare you!’ exclaimed Haygarth.

‘Facts are facts, sir. There’s a vacancy for the chairmanship of the Midland Railway. Vivian Quayle was the obvious candidate but you also threw your hat into the ring. His death leaves the field clear for you,’ said Wigg, enjoying the other man’s obvious discomfort. ‘What’s more, you know Spondon intimately because you were born there.’ He stroked a side whisker as if it were a favourite cat. ‘I’m bound to find that a cause for suspicion.’