Timetable of Death

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lost in thought, Lydia Quayle walked along the Thames embankment in the fading light of a warm evening. She was torn between family loyalty and an abiding hatred, nudged by an impulse to return home for the funeral yet repelled by the memory of the man who would be lowered into his grave. Years of deep anger could not be so easily laid to rest. When she’d made the decision to leave Nottingham and all its associations behind her, she’d vowed never to return, trying to create a new life for herself elsewhere. Lydia had even persuaded herself that she was happy being independent and free from the dictates of others. But the move to London had not been without its disappointments and limitations. It had taken her time to adapt to them.

When she first saw the newspaper report about the murder of her father, she’d felt an instant elation and wanted to meet the killer in order to thank him for doing something that she had considered doing in her darkest moments. Shame had quickly set in, to be replaced by a distant pity but that, too, had soon evaporated. Recalling what her father had done and — above all — said to her, the bitterness had returned afresh. Devoid of love for him, she could not even find an ounce of regret, still less of forgiveness. If she went back home, it would be to rejoice in his death.

Lydia made an effort to put her father aside and to consider the other members of her family. Her mother might be glad to see her, though she’d offered her elder daughter little support when the turmoil had occurred. On the other hand, she was a sick woman and that had been taken into account. She’d had no strength to oppose the wishes of her husband or to protect Lydia in some way and had therefore appeared to condone what was going on. Stanley would certainly not welcome her and might even forbid her to enter the house. He was simply a younger version of their father with the same implacable resentment towards her. Nor would Stanley’s wife speak up for her. She was far too dutiful and submissive.

Agnes lacked the spirit or the desire to stand up against her elder brother. She and Lydia had never been close. They had played together as young children but any bond between them had soon been stretched to breaking point. Lydia had been the clear favourite of their parents and of the wider family. She was more attractive, appealing, intelligent and venturesome. Living in her sister’s shadow, Agnes had been almost invisible. Since Lydia had shown little care or sympathy for her, she could expect none in return. In the years since she’d been cut off from her family, Lucas was the only member of it that she really missed. Significantly, he was the one who had got in touch with her.

While she had never really enjoyed the company of her sister or her elder brother, Lydia still had fond memories of Lucas Quayle. He was bright, engaging and had a streak of wildness that had got him into trouble in earlier days. Agnes had been horrified by some of his escapades and Stanley had been as outraged as their father but Lydia had always admired his youthful bravado and was sorry that it had slowly been suppressed. She and her younger brother had too much in common to grow completely apart. Lydia decided that she would like to see him again, but he was only one member of the family and she had good reason to avoid the others. On balance, therefore, she felt that it would be wiser to stay away from Nottingham.

Preoccupied as she was, Lydia hardly felt a shoulder brush hers.

‘Oh,’ said the man, raising his top hat, ‘I do apologise.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ she murmured.

‘It was my mistake.’

His voice was soft and educated and her first impression was that he was a polite, well-dressed man of middle years who’d been strolling harmlessly along the embankment when he’d made unintended contact with her. Lydia then saw the look in his eyes. It was no accident. Mistaking her for a prostitute, he had deliberately sought her out. His gaze was a compound of interest, invitation and sheer lust. A burning disgust coursed through her whole body but a stronger emotion followed. What she saw in front of her was not a complete stranger but the figure of her father, compact, stern, arrogant and entitled to everything he wanted in the way that he wanted it. As the man smiled at her and offered his arm, she pushed him angrily away and emitted a long, loud, high-pitched scream of pure hatred.

‘How much do you know about the Midland Railway?’ asked Haygarth.

‘I’m more well-informed than most people, I fancy.’

‘Big changes have taken place in the last decade.’

‘They were forced upon you, Mr Haygarth.’

‘I’d rather draw a veil over our former manager, if you don’t mind. George Hudson did wonderful things for us in the early days, one must acknowledge that, but he … left us with problems. That chapter in our history is closed.’

‘The succeeding one had much to recommend it.’

‘We like to think so.’

‘Mr Ellis was the ideal choice as your chairman.’

To Haygarth’s chagrin, Colbeck gave a brief and accurate outline of the recovery of the Midland Railway under its recently retired chairman, thereby robbing the other man of the chance to lay claim to some of the improvements. With Maurice Cope in attendance, they were at the company headquarters, Haygarth occupying the chair behind the desk like a usurper seated on a throne. He and Cope had been impressed and sobered by the inspector’s detailed knowledge of the history of the Midland. It warned them that they could not make unjustified assertions without being challenged by him.

After explaining what he’d done the previous day, Colbeck told them that Sergeant Leeming had made what appeared to be progress in Spondon itself. While Haygarth was pleased to hear it, Cope made no comment and remained watchful.

‘What it all boils down to,’ said Colbeck in conclusion, ‘is this. Should we be looking for someone inside the company or outside it?’

‘Oh, outside it, surely,’ bleated Cope, breaking his silence.

‘Do you agree, Mr Haygarth?’

‘You must leave no stone unturned,’ replied the other, sonorously.

‘Does that include Enoch Stone?’ asked Colbeck, unable to resist the comment and swiftly apologising for it. ‘So I have complete access to the company?’

‘Of course — Cope will make sure of that, Inspector.’

‘Yes,’ said Cope with a marked absence of enthusiasm. ‘You may call on me.’

‘During my brief conversation with him,’ said Colbeck, ‘Stanley Quayle was of the opinion that his father might have had enemies among his fellow directors. I’m not suggesting in any way that you incited them to commit murder, Mr Haygarth, but passions can run high in a contest and you wouldn’t be the first person embarrassed by the zeal of one of your supporters.’

‘I accept that,’ said Haygarth, urbanely, ‘but you’ll find no killers in my camp, Inspector. They are all law-abiding individuals.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ added Cope.

‘Then you’ll be happy to give me a list of all board members,’ said Colbeck.

‘Well …’ Cope looked for a prompt from Haygarth.

‘We’ll be quite happy,’ said the acting chairman. ‘We have nothing to hide.’ He shot Cope a glance before turning back to Colbeck. ‘What help have you had from Superintendent Wigg?’

‘Not a great deal,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Apart from the fact that he sent a copy of the post-mortem report, he’s done very little beyond mocking me for claiming that I had the name of a suspect.’

‘Oh?’

‘It was written on the back of a reward notice and delivered to my hotel. When I mentioned the name to the superintendent, he said the man probably never existed.’

‘And does he?’

‘Oh, yes. Stanley Quayle confirmed that.’

‘Who is the fellow?’

‘Gerard Burns.’

Haygarth frowned. ‘I’ve heard that name before somewhere.’

‘I gather that he’s a talented cricketer.’

‘Ah, that’s it, of course!’ said the other, snapping his fingers. ‘I have no interest in cricket myself but Vivian Quayle had something of an obsession about it. Burns was his head gardener, I think. Every summer Mr Quayle used to host a couple of cricket matches. His elder son, Stanley, used to captain a team made up largely from household servants and the estate staff. Because of this man, Gerard Burns,’ said Haygarth, ‘they won every match.’

‘He was good enough to represent the county, I hear.’

‘That may well be so, Inspector.’

‘Why was he named as a suspect?’ asked Cope.

‘He was dismissed by Mr Quayle,’ said Colbeck. ‘To get rid of his finest cricketer, he must have had good reason. I’m told that Burns left in disgrace.’

‘I knew nothing of that,’ claimed Haygarth. ‘Vivian Quayle and I saw very little of each other socially so I was not aware of events at his home any more than he knew about my private life. What about you, Cope?’

‘The name is entirely new to me, sir.’

‘Are you taking him seriously as a suspect, Inspector?’

‘I must do,’ replied Colbeck. ‘He appears to have had a motive and, being young and strong, would have the means to overpower his victim. Whether or not he had the opportunity to do so, of course, is another matter.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He works in the garden at Melbourne Hall. I’ll visit him today.’

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Haygarth. ‘You’ll be in exalted company. Do you know who happens to live at Melbourne Hall?’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t.’

‘It’s the prime minister — Lord Palmerston.’

Having taken the wheelbarrow from the churchyard, Victor Leeming had borrowed two sacks of potatoes from a greengrocer so that he was pushing a substantial weight. He even covered them with a cloth. He took his cargo to the bottom of the hill and began the slow ascent. In reconstructing what he believed might have been the route taken by the killer, he hoped that he might jog the memory of a passer-by who’d happened to have been in the vicinity on the night of the murder. Disappointingly, the only villagers he encountered were two old ladies and a postman. They all asked him what he was doing but none was of any help to him.

The load was heavy and even someone of Leeming’s considerable strength was feeling the strain. Before he reached the gate to the churchyard, he was confronted by a big, broad, rugged man in his thirties with a swagger. The newcomer was carrying a pair of riding boots.

‘You must be Sergeant Leeming,’ he said with a lazy grin.

‘That’s right. Who might you be?’

‘Oh, I’m Jed Hockaday, sir. I’m a cobbler by trade but I was also sworn in as a special constable, so you might say we’re in the same business. What are you doing?’

‘Were you anywhere near here on the night of the murder?’

‘No, sir, I was visiting friends in Duffield.’

‘Then you’re of no use to me.’

Hockaday was wounded. ‘Don’t say that, Sergeant. I was hoping you’d call on me. I’ve been involved in a murder case before, you see.’

‘Was that the one involving Enoch Stone?’

‘Yes — he was a good friend of mine.’

‘I was told he was killed by a traveller.’

‘No, no,’ argued the other man. ‘The murderer lives here in Spondon. I’d swear to that. Most folk in this village are good, kind, honest people. They’d do anything to help someone in a spot of bother. Then there are the others,’ he went on, glancing around, ‘those who keep themselves to themselves. You never know who’s hiding behind a closed door, do you, or what they might be planning? I hate to say it because I’ve probably mended his shoes at some point, but Enoch’s killer is one of us.’

Leeming had seen enough of Hockaday to realise that he was a man of limited intelligence. His sheer bulk and his willingness had recommended him for police work and he would be very effective at dealing with anyone in a brawl. As an assistant in a murder investigation, however, he would be a handicap.

‘I’ll be standing by all the time, Sergeant,’ said the cobbler. ‘You’re staying at the Malt Shovel, aren’t you? My shop is farther along Potter Street.’

‘Thank you. I’ll remember that.’

‘A man dressed like you shouldn’t be pushing a wheelbarrow. Would you like me to take over from you?’

Leeming was affronted. ‘No, I wouldn’t. I can manage on my own.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to it and deliver these boots. Remember my name.’

‘I will, Mr Hockaday.’

‘Everyone here calls me Jed.’

He treated Leeming to another lazy grin then swaggered off. Though there was a link between them, Hockaday was no Philip Conway. Both men were excited to make the acquaintance of a Scotland Yard detective. While the young reporter was a reliable source of information, however, the cobbler was better left to his trade. In the hands of such amateur constables, Leeming believed, the murder of Enoch Stone would remain unsolved until Doomsday. Grasping the handles of the barrow again, he gave it a shove and it creaked into action but he did not get as far as the church. A horse and cart came into view with a pungent load of manure piled high on it. The driver was enraged by what he saw.

‘Leave my barrer alone!’ yelled Bert Knowles. ‘Thass stealin’, thar is.’

Since the railway had yet to reach Melbourne, Colbeck was obliged to take the train to the nearest station then hire a cab. It took him through rolling countryside with pleasing vistas wherever he looked. Derby might be a railway town, with its works contributing liberally to the regular din, smoke and grime, but whole areas of the county were still untouched by industry. Colbeck found the leisurely journey both restorative and inspiring. Melbourne was a small village in the Trent valley that still retained its rustic charm. Standing at the south-east end, the Hall was by far the largest and most striking house in the area, a fitting place of residence for a prime minister. The cab went down the hill towards it, giving Colbeck the opportunity to see the smaller houses and cottages of ordinary mortals.

When he reached the house, his attention instead went straight to the church of St Michael with St Mary, standing close to the stables and the servants’ quarters of the Hall. One of the finest Norman churches in the kingdom, it was a truly magnificent structure with a size and quality worthy of a cathedral. Colbeck promised himself that he would take a closer look at the place before he left Melbourne. The Hall itself was an arresting edifice in an idyllic setting. Its origins were medieval but it had fallen into such a state of disrepair during the later years of Elizabeth’s reign that its new owner had pulled down and rebuilt large parts of it. Substantial alterations were also made in the next century and, over the years, each new owner felt the urge to stamp his mark upon the house.

Colbeck was unable to take in all the architectural felicities. He was there simply to speak to the head gardener. The garrulous housekeeper insisted on telling Colbeck that Melbourne Hall actually belonged to the former Emily Lamb who’d inherited it from her brother, Frederic, who had himself acquired the place at the death of his elder brother, William Lamb, erstwhile Lord Melbourne, another prime minister. Colbeck didn’t wish to alarm her by saying that he was treating the head gardener as a murder suspect so he merely said that he hoped Gerard Burns would be able to help him with enquiries relating to an estate in Nottinghamshire on which he once worked.

When he met the gardener himself, he was able to be more forthright. After introducing himself, he explained exactly why he had come to Melbourne. Gerard Burns stared at him with what seemed like genuine surprise.

‘Mr Quayle is dead?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘Have you not heard the news?’

‘How could I? We are very cut off here.’

‘Reports of the murder have been in all the newspapers, Mr Burns.’

‘I’ve no time to read newspapers, Inspector. Looking after these gardens takes up all of my time.’ With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the grounds. ‘It’s hard work to keep them in this condition all the time.’

‘You’re obviously very proficient at your trade, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Though I suspect it’s rather like the one in which I’m engaged. It’s never possible to master it because one always has to learn new things.’

‘That’s very true of horticulture,’ said Burns, ‘because new plants and shrubs arrive from abroad all the time. You have to learn how to nurture them. Then there are the new ways they keep inventing to kill weeds.’

Burns spoke openly but there was an underlying surliness in his voice and manner. He clearly wanted to be left alone to get on with his job. What he least wanted to do was to talk about his time with the Quayle family but Colbeck needed answers and pressed on.

‘Where were you three nights ago, sir?’ he asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Were you here in Melbourne?’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ admitted the other. ‘I went over to Ilkeston to play cricket.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about your prowess as a bowler. I believe that you played for the county when you lived in Nottinghamshire.’

Burns smiled. ‘We beat the All-England team once. I took seven wickets.’

‘And you also played for a team organised by Mr Quayle, I’m told.’ The glowing pride vanished instantly from the gardener’s face. ‘Thanks to you, victory was assured every time. What sort of a captain was Stanley Quayle?’

‘That world is long behind me, Inspector.’

‘I should imagine that he liked to throw his weight around.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Burns, sharply, ‘I’d rather not talk about all that.’

‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to, sir. Otherwise, I may have to invite you to accompany me to the nearest police station where we can have a more formal interview. A pleasant chat out here in these wonderful gardens is surely preferable to that, is it not?’ Burns gave a reluctant nod. ‘Why did you leave Mr Quayle’s employ?’

‘I think you already know that.’

‘All I have is one side of the story. I’d like to hear yours.’

‘It was a mistake,’ said Burns, vehemently. ‘I broke their rules and I was dismissed. When you work for people like that, there are lines you’re never allowed to cross. I strayed over them and paid the penalty. Mr Quayle not only had me thrown off the estate, he made sure that I’d never get another job in the county again.’

‘So how did you end up here?’

‘One of the gentlemen who ran the county cricket team had some influence here. He gave me a letter of introduction and I was taken on. When the head gardener retired, I’d done enough to show that I could replace him.’

‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ observed Colbeck, looking around. ‘But you must have had regrets when you left your former post.’

Burns shifted his feet. ‘I had no regrets on my own account.’

‘Yet I daresay you felt sorry for the lady herself.’

‘That’s as maybe, Inspector.’

‘Have you seen Miss Lydia Quayle since?’

There was a studied pause. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Did you want to see her?’

‘As I told you,’ snapped Burns, ‘that world is behind me. I’ve put down roots here. I’m married now. I’ve got all I want.’

Colbeck took a long, hard look at him. Burns met his gaze with a mingled bitterness and defiance. Someone had identified him as a killer and there were aspects of his character that easily qualified him for the role. Yet he’d taken pains to distance himself from the Quayle family and had started afresh in a quiet, rural refuge. Colbeck wondered just how deep his acrimony still was.

‘That’s a beautiful church you have on your doorstep, Mr Burns.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Do you worship there?’

‘My wife and I go most Sundays.’

‘Then you’re obviously acquainted with Christian virtues,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m going to take a look inside the church. It will give you time to think over what you’ve told me. Some of it is very plausible yet I have a nagging sensation of being deceived. When I come back, I hope that you’ll realise the importance of being completely honest with me. See it as an opportunity of getting something off your chest.’

‘I’ve nothing new to add, Inspector,’ insisted Burns.

‘In that case, you might wish to subtract from your statements.’

‘You’ll be wasting your time if you come bothering me again.’

‘We can talk about cricket,’ said Colbeck, airily. ‘That’s never a waste of time, is it? If you played against the All-England XI, you’ll no doubt have encountered the redoubtable Mr Stephenson.’

Burns straightened his shoulders. ‘I bowled him out.’

‘Why did H. H. Stephenson play for that team when Gerard Burns did not?’

‘Gardening’s what I love. Cricket’s just for fun.’

Colbeck appraised him again. Lydia Quayle’s romance with him was understandable. Apart from his physical attractions, Burns was well spoken, self-possessed and highly skilled. The inspector was bound to wonder which of them had made the first move. Had he set his cap at one of the daughters of the house or had she been the one to initiate things? Colbeck would be interested to find out.

‘When I told you about Mr Quayle’s death,’ he recalled, ‘you were surprised but there was no other reaction from you.’

‘Why should there be?’

‘Don’t you feel even the slightest regret at his murder?’

‘No,’ said Burns, stoutly. ‘To be honest, I am delighted.’