Timetable of Death

CHAPTER FOUR

‘This is the reward notice, Mr Haygarth,’ Cope said, handing it over. ‘I’ve arranged for copies to be put up in Spondon itself and all over Derby.’

‘We must go further afield than that.’

‘We will do.’

‘A supply must be sent to Nottingham.’

‘That’s already in hand.’

‘This is good,’ said Donald Haygarth, examining the notice. ‘It’s clear and precise. A reward of two hundred pounds should be enough to encourage anyone with relevant information to come forward.’

‘I hope so, sir.’

Maurice Cope was a short, stringy, thin-faced man in his late thirties with a self-effacing manner and an eagerness to please. He’d worked at the head office of the Midland Railway since its formation and watched the internal battles on its board of directors attentively so that he could align himself with the more influential members. Impressed by Haygarth’s character and determination, he’d campaigned in secret on his behalf and was gratified that he was now working for the future chairman. There were, however, clouds on the horizon.

‘I should warn you that there have been rumblings,’ he said.

‘About what, may I ask?’

‘They’re about the size of the reward for a start, sir. Some people have complained that it’s far too high and that there should have been a board meeting in order to authorise it.’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Haygarth with a dismissive gesture. ‘In a crisis such as we face, immediate action was called for. That’s why I took it upon myself to summon Inspector Colbeck and have these reward notices printed. If we’d had to wait days until members of the board could be brought together for discussion, we’d have lost all momentum.’

‘I agree, Mr Haygarth.’

‘Someone had to step into the breach.’

‘You were the ideal person,’ said Cope, ingratiatingly, ‘and we are fortunate to have you. Inevitably, however, there has been criticism of the way that you took control of the situation.’

‘Mr Quayle and I were the only candidates for the chairmanship. When he was murdered it was only natural that I should assume the office.’

‘Thank goodness you did, sir.’

‘I wish that all my colleagues saw it that way.’

‘I’m sure that they’ll come to do so in time.’

They were in the headquarters of the Midland Railway, the place from which its complex network of services was controlled. Years earlier, Haygarth, the owner of some lucrative silk mills, had been persuaded to invest some of his substantial wealth in the company. In return, he was given a seat on the board of directors and immediately began to gather like-minded people around him. Intelligent, ambitious and politically adroit, he’d waited until a vacancy had occurred for the chairmanship then put himself forward. He’d been needled when the general preference seemed to be for Vivian Quayle.

‘Mr Quayle had many virtues,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be the first to admit that. He was industrious, far-sighted and wholly committed to the expansion of the Midland Railway. As a man, I admired him. As a future chairman, on the other hand, I had the gravest of reservations about him. In the present circumstances, those reservations are now quite irrelevant. We must bring his killer to justice and we must console his family in every way possible. In posting a large reward and in bringing the Railway Detective here, we are sending out a message that any enemies of this company will be swiftly hunted down.’

‘Your prompt action is to be commended, Mr Haygarth.’

‘I’ve given statements to the press and much of what I said will be included in the obituaries of Mr Quayle. He will be deservedly mourned. As for my critics,’ he went on, waving the poster in the air, ‘you may tell them that the costs of printing and distribution will not fall on the company. Along with the reward money, I will gladly pay them out of my own pocket.’

‘That’s extraordinarily generous of you, sir.’

‘I want my colleagues to know the sort of man that I am.’

‘They’ll be impressed. But there’s just one question I’d like to ask.’

‘What’s that?’

‘If the crime is solved by Inspector Colbeck, will he get the full reward of two hundred pounds?’

Haygarth’s face darkened. ‘We’ll have to see about that.’

Big, solid and with a commanding presence in the town, the Royal Hotel offered good accommodation and an excellent menu in its dining room. As they enjoyed their meal there that evening, Robert Colbeck had no cause for complaint. Victor Leeming, however, kept glancing wistfully around. From the next day onwards, he knew he’d be eating plainer fare and sleeping in a far less comfortable bed above a noisy bar in a Spondon public house. Sensing the sergeant’s dismay, Colbeck tried to cheer him up.

‘You’ll like it there, Victor. It’s what you’ve yearned for, after all.’

Leeming was baffled. ‘Is it?’

‘Yes, I’ve lost count of the times you’ve moaned about bringing up your family in a big city with all the dangers that that implies. Whenever our work has taken us to smaller communities — Dawlish was a case in point — you said how nice it would be to live in such a place.’

‘That’s true,’ admitted the other. ‘The air would be a lot cleaner than it is in London and it would certainly be a lot safer and quieter.’

‘There you are, then. Spondon answers all your needs. It’s a pleasant village, just the kind of place for you, Estelle and the boys.’

‘No, it isn’t. I’d soon tire of it.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s so little to do in a small village. Nothing ever happens there.’

Colbeck grinned. ‘I wouldn’t describe two murders in three years as a case of nothing ever happening. There are six constables there, remember, so there must be a lot of petty crime to police.’

‘Throwing drunks out of a bar and keeping naughty children out of the churchyard is not my idea of work, Inspector. I thrive on action.’

‘Don’t treat naughty children with such contempt. It was two of them who first discovered that a murder had occurred. They set this investigation in motion. Bear that in mind. You should make a point of meeting the pair of them.’

‘I will, sir,’ said Leeming, ‘and I’m sorry to complain. It’s only right that one of us explores Spondon properly. If truth be told, I’ll feel more at home in a village pub. Luxury like this always makes me uneasy.’

‘It’s a strange paradox. Comfort makes you uncomfortable.’

‘I’m like a fish out of water here. It’s Spondon for me. That’s where the crime took place and where, in all probability, the killer lives.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He knew that there was an empty grave handy at St Mary’s.’

‘That could have been a case of serendipity.’

Leeming frowned. ‘You’ve used that word before but I forget what it means.’

‘It means that, if you stumble upon something that serves your purpose, you take full advantage of it. When the killer chose St Mary’s, he may have been unaware that there was an appropriate place for a dead body. He’s obviously somebody who knows the village,’ Colbeck agreed, ‘but that doesn’t mean he still lives there. What we do know about him is that he has a macabre sense of humour. Most killers try to conceal their victims in order to slow down the process of detection. This man did the opposite. He wanted that corpse to be found.’

‘I keep thinking about that missing top hat.’

‘If we find that, it will have the name of Mr Quayle inside it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I checked the label on his coat. His name was sewn into it. Among the many places I need to visit is the Nottingham tailor patronised by Mr Quayle. He was a man of exquisite taste.’

‘Where else will you go, sir?’

‘I’ll visit the home of the deceased and make discreet enquiries there and I’ll certainly need to look into the workings of the Midland Railway. Mr Quayle was intimately involved in them. He had power and that always creates enemies.’

‘Mr Haygarth was one of them,’ said Leeming, recalling their meeting with the acting chairman. ‘He made a song and dance about the importance of catching Mr Quayle’s killer but I didn’t get the impression that he was really sorry that the man had died. Secretly, he must be delighted. He’s just too cunning to show it.’

‘My feeling exactly, Victor.’

‘Do you think that someone from the Midland Railway is behind it all?’

‘It’s not impossible,’ said Colbeck, thanking the waiter with a smile as the man cleared away their plates. ‘It’s equally possible that someone employed by a rival company is implicated. One sure way to disable the Midland is to get rid of the man who is about to become its chairman. Think of the impact on the morale of all the employees of the company. This will have shaken them badly.’

‘It didn’t shake Mr Haygarth.’

‘I noticed that.’

‘I know that Superintendent Wigg only said it by way of a jest but should we put Haygarth on the list of suspects? I can’t see him killing another man but he looks capable of hiring someone to do his dirty work.’

‘We must keep an open mind, Victor.’

‘I like to have something to bite on in an investigation.’

‘The cheese will be served very soon. Bite into that.’ They both laughed. ‘I’ll warrant that you won’t find the same quality in the Malt Shovel or the Union Inn or wherever you choose to stay.’

‘I’ll be where I fit in better,’ said Leeming.

‘Exactly,’ said Colbeck. ‘You can blend into that village in a way that I can’t. There are times, I readily accept, when my educated vowels are a positive drawback. You’re more down to earth and you’re a good listener. It’s one of your strengths.’

Leeming pulled a face. ‘I didn’t know that I had any.’

Colbeck laughed and patted his companion’s shoulder. ‘You’re awash with them, Victor.’ He saw the waiter approaching. ‘It looks as if our cheese is on its way.’

But the waiter was bringing something more than just a selection of cheeses. After setting down the platter on the table, he put a hand inside his coat to extract a letter.

‘This is for you, Inspector,’ he said, giving it to him. ‘It was handed in by someone at reception and passed on to the head waiter.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, scrutinising it and noting the neatness with which his name had been written. The man nodded and walked away. ‘Let’s see what we have here, shall we?’ He opened the letter and took something out. ‘Well, well, well …’

‘What is it, sir?’

‘It’s a reward notice, Victor. A very tempting amount of money is being offered for information that leads to the arrest of the killer of Mr Quayle.’ He turned the paper over. ‘However, that’s not all we’ve been given.’ He passed it over to Leeming. ‘Do you see what someone has written on the back?’

After reading details of the reward, Leeming looked at the reverse side.

‘Gerard Burns — is he the person who sent this to you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then who is he?’

‘As of now,’ said Colbeck, ‘I fancy that he’s our prime suspect.’

The day began early at the vicarage. Funerals were always unsettling occasions for Michael Sadler but he was looking forward to the latest one with real trepidation. In view of what had happened to the grave originally dug, he was afraid that he’d lost the hitherto unquestioning support of Roderick Peet, the bereaved husband. Other members of the family might also look askance at him. The fact that he’d finally persuaded Bert Knowles to dig a fresh grave might not be enough to win back the Peet family. It was something he should have done instantly, before Peet was drawn into the blistering row with Knowles. Deeply troubled, the vicar hardly touched his breakfast and heard very little of his wife’s customary wittering.

The fact that it was a dull day with a promise of rain only added to his feeling of dread. He’d known and been very fond of Cicely Peet but it was not her tragic death that filled his mind. What preoccupied him was the image of a murder victim in the grave prepared for her. Fearful that something untoward might have occurred in her new resting place, he bestowed a token kiss on his wife’s forehead then let himself out of the vicarage. When he walked around the church to the site of the fresh plot, he saw movement behind a neighbouring headstone and his heart constricted. The figure of a man rose up as if part of some weird ritual of resurrection. The vicar was now trembling all over. It was only when the initial shock wore off that he realised he was looking at Bert Knowles.

‘I slept the night ’ere,’ explained the gravedigger, stretching himself. ‘Nobody was goin’ to jump into this ’ole I dug. I made sure o’ that, Vicar.’ He bared his teeth in a hopeful grin. ‘Is there any charnce o’ some o’ that theer sherry o’ yours to wake me up proper?’

Victor Leeming was no stranger to funerals. There’d been a worrying sequence of them in his own family and he’d watched his grandparents, parents, two brothers and a sister laid to rest over the years, increasing his sense of being a lone survivor. In the course of his work, too, he’d been obliged to attend a number of funerals. Some were of police colleagues, killed in the execution of their duties, and others — as in the latest case — were of murder victims.

When he walked towards St Mary’s church, a steady drizzle was falling. He’d heard enough about Cicely Peet during his earlier visit to Spondon to be aware of her exalted position in the community. Even so, he was taken aback by the number and quality of vehicles stretching down Church Hill and beyond. No women attended but a sizeable male congregation had come to pay its respects to the deceased. Leeming was glad. It was easier to remain anonymous in a crowd. When he joined the queue of solemn men filing into the church, he picked up several comments about Cicely Peet. She was not only held in high regard by everyone. Her beauty was also recalled and praised. What saddened the mourners was that such a lovely woman should have died so suddenly instead of gracing the village for many years to come. The general feeling was that her husband, devastated by his loss, would not be long in following her to the grave.

The mourners were not confined to members of the gentry who could afford expensive carriages and retain coachmen to drive them. Villagers were also there in force. Leeming heard local traders talking about the pleasure they always had from serving such a delightful lady. A hefty man with a full beard and a gravelly voice talked about her generosity whenever he’d shoed her horse. Leeming suspected that he might be the blacksmith whose daughter had actually found the interloper in the earlier grave and that the man had felt impelled to attend the funeral as a result. The sergeant’s supposition was confirmed when he overheard someone asking the blacksmith if his children had recovered yet from their grim discovery.

‘Lizzie hasn’t slept a wink since,’ replied Walter Grindle.

‘What abaht thy lad?’

‘Sam’s all of a shek.’

‘Who could’ve done sich a thing?’

It was a question that Leeming was there to answer if enough evidence presented itself but there was no sign of it so far. He made a point of sitting in the back row in the nave with his ears pricked to gather the muttered remarks of those nearby. When the coffin was brought in by the bearers with due solemnity, there was an audible sigh of grief. Leeming made no contribution to it. Nor did he hear much of the burial service. He was there to look and listen rather than to be caught up in the emotion of the occasion. What he did notice was that the vicar seemed extremely nervous for someone who must have presided over a large number of funerals in the course of his ministry. The Reverend Michael Sadler was slow and hesitant. In his eulogy of Cicely Peet, he spoke with great care as if fearing that he might offend her family by a misplaced word or a jarring sentiment. Leeming felt sorry for him. The vicar was clearly going through an ordeal.

In a gathering of lowered heads and sorrowful expressions, it was difficult to pick out anyone who might be a potential suspect. As time went on, however, one person did arouse Leeming’s curiosity. He was a young man with pleasant features and a flitting gaze. Since he sat on the end seat in the back row, he was only a matter of yards away from Leeming who could see him across the aisle. Like the detective, he was taking less interest in the service than in those attending it. No grief registered in his face or behaviour. He kept glancing around at those near him. When the service came to an end, the long procession to the churchyard began and Leeming had the opportunity of taking a closer look at the young man. There was something odd about him that made him stand out but the sergeant couldn’t decide what it was.

Eventually, it was time for the back rows on both sides of the nave to disgorge their occupants. Leeming tried to get close to the young man but there were too many people in the way. Over the heads of mourners, he could see him talking to a number of people in turn but he didn’t get the feeling that he was a local man. He seemed to be as much a stranger as Leeming himself. As the congregation gathered around the grave, Bert Knowles lurked nearby with his spade, seemingly unaffected by the gravity of the event and simply waiting for his moment. Leeming never got near enough to see anything of the committal or to watch the drizzle adding a slippery coating to the coffin. His eyes remained on the young man, who now seemed more and more detached from what was going on. All of a sudden, he turned on his heel and headed towards the gate as if he’d got what he wanted and was anxious to sneak away. Leeming went after him.

The young man was walking briskly in the direction of the railway station. It required a sustained effort for Leeming to catch him up. Placing a firm hand on the man’s shoulder, he brought him to a halt and spun him around.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Leeming, politely. ‘I’d like a word with you.’