Timetable of Death

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Gerard Burns was deeply troubled. He’d now had to endure visits from a Scotland Yard detective, each one more searching than its predecessor. The next time he had to be questioned, he was warned, it might well be in a police station and he would be under arrest. The threat made him pause for thought. After being dismissed from one post in the most brutal manner, he had done his best to start afresh in the neighbouring county and had impressed everyone with his industry and horticultural expertise. There had been years of continuous repair. He’d repaired his confidence, repaired his career and repaired his heartbreak by finding someone else to love. At a time when his life was better than it had ever been before, the hated name of Vivian Quayle had risen up in front of him like a spectre.

The situation had to be resolved. It would involve the breaking of a solemn promise to a friend but Burns had to put himself first. His whole career might be in jeopardy. If he was dismissed from Melbourne Hall, he would never find a position remotely as prestigious and remunerative. Lord Palmerston and his wife would be returning soon and they would expect to be shown the improvements in the garden. If Burns was not there to act as their guide, it would be frowned upon. If they learnt that he was being held in custody, and was being interrogated about a murder, they’d have second thoughts about the wisdom of employing him. With a wife to support, and with a child on the way, Burns had to secure his future. Someone might suffer as a result but it could not be helped.

The first thing he did that morning was to saddle his horse. Instead of riding to work at the Hall, however, he cantered off in the opposite direction.

Lydia Quayle had also opted for an early start. Spurning Madeleine’s offer to go with her to Nottingham, she’d had breakfast alone and taken a cab to the station. On the fretful journey back home, she determined that she would make more effort to conform to the family’s expectations. On the eve of her father’s funeral, she didn’t wish to introduce discordant elements. On the previous day, she’d been the only one who was not dressed appropriately in black. Lydia made more effort this time. The first thing she did when she eventually got there was to go up to her room and take mourning wear out of her wardrobe. Though she still had misgivings, she changed into the dress.

Lydia joined her brothers in the drawing room. Lucas was glancing at the morning newspaper while Stanley was marching up and down with his hands behind his back. Both of them took notice when she entered the room. Even her elder brother had a kind word.

‘Thank you for coming back,’ he said. ‘We appreciate that, Lydia.’ He ran his eye up and down her. ‘I’m glad to see that you’ve started to take this event with the requisite seriousness.’

‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ said Lucas, putting his newspaper aside and getting up to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I knew that you wouldn’t let us down.’

‘I always keep a promise,’ she said. ‘The only exception to that rule is the promise I made to myself never to enter this house again.’

‘Where did you spend the night?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Lucas.’

‘Was it in a hotel?’

‘I’m here again, aren’t I? Be satisfied with that.’ She glanced upwards. ‘How is Mother?’

‘She’s not at all well,’ said Stanley. ‘The doctor has promised to call later this morning. We’re hoping that he can give her something to help her through the welter of emotions she’s bound to feel tomorrow.’

‘Agnes is sitting with her at the moment,’ said Lucas.

‘I’ll go up in due course.’

‘Mother will be pleased to see you.’

She looked around the room before taking a seat on the sofa with a rustle of black silk. Her brothers also lowered themselves into chairs. Lucas was smiling and Stanley dispensed with the accusatory stare he’d used the previous day.

‘When is the inquest?’ she asked.

‘The date has not yet been set,’ replied Lucas. ‘Let’s get the funeral out of the way before we worry about any inquest. Tomorrow will be the real ordeal.’

‘Will you be sleeping elsewhere tonight?’ asked Stanley.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I take that as a hopeful sign.’

‘I want to sit with Mother and Agnes when you all go off to church.’

‘That’s as it should be, Lydia.’

There was a tap on the door then the butler entered with a silver salver.

‘Oh, I quite forgot,’ said Lucas. ‘There’s a letter for you.’

Lydia was surprised. ‘Really? From whom, I wonder?’

‘Why not read it and find out?’

She took the letter from the salver and thanked the butler with a smile. He glided out of the room. Lydia recognised the handwriting at once. It had been sent by Beatrice Myler and her immediate thought was that it contained a demand for her to remove all her things from the house. She felt a sharp pang of regret.

‘Well,’ said Stanley, ‘aren’t you going to open it?’

‘I’ll do that later on,’ she decided. ‘It’s nothing important.’

Colbeck was shocked when he saw the bandaging around Philip Conway’s head. When the reporter had failed to turn up the previous evening, Colbeck had assumed that he’d simply forgotten the arrangement he’d made with Leeming. Clearly, he’d been prevented from getting there.

‘What happened, Mr Conway?’

‘I don’t rightly know. I was attacked from behind last night. All I can remember is that I felt this fearsome blow to my head.’

‘Where were you at the time?’

‘I was in the churchyard in Spondon.’

‘That’s getting to be a very hazardous place.’

When they adjourned to the lounge, Conway described how he’d been interested to see that the earlier grave had now been filled in. His curiosity had been his downfall. He was knocked out cold and, when he finally recovered consciousness, he’d crawled to the vicarage and asked for help.

‘The vicar sent for Dr Hadlow and he dressed the wound.’

‘How do you feel now?’

‘I’ve still got this pounding headache, Inspector.’

‘Have you any idea who might have assaulted you?’

‘Yes,’ said Conway, teeth clenched. ‘I have a very good idea.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Jed Hockaday.’

‘Why are you so sure about it?’

‘We’ve had verbal tussles with each other almost every time I’ve been to Spondon. On the last occasion, I thought he was going to strike me.’

‘Did you provoke him in any way?’

‘I annoyed him once too much, Inspector.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going straight back to the village so that I can confront him. My editor has shown compassion for once. He wants to know who the culprit is. He’s not having his reporters set upon at will.’

‘Yet it was only one blow, by the sound of it.’

‘One was more than enough, I can tell you.’

‘Then it was delivered by a strong man who knew how to wield whatever it was that hit you.’

‘I think it was a truncheon,’ said Conway. ‘Dr Hadlow picked a few splinters of wood out of the wound. Like other constables, Hockaday carries a truncheon.’

‘Don’t be misled by that,’ warned Colbeck. ‘I carried a truncheon when I was in uniform. They were always made of male bamboo or lancewood. In both cases, it’s a hard, shiny wood that doesn’t splinter easily. Mine never did and I had some use out of it. The standard length in the Metropolitan Police is seventeen inches. I should imagine that they have something of similar length here.’

‘It was Hockaday,’ asserted the reporter. ‘I’m certain of it.’

‘Then you must take care what you say to him or he may turn violent. If he really was your attacker, I’ll make sure that charges are brought against him.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Conway rose to his feet. ‘Will you give my apologies to Sergeant Leeming, please? I was supposed to meet him here last night but I was far too groggy.’

‘As it happens, you couldn’t have met him here.’

‘Oh — why was that?’

‘The sergeant was sent back to London,’ said Colbeck. ‘I wanted him to wake up there in his own bed so that he’d be refreshed and ready to carry out some important research.’

Victor Leeming had only ever been to an auction once. When he and his wife bought their little house, it needed furniture so they went to a saleroom that specialised in cheap, second-hand items. He’d proved an impulsive bidder and ended up paying far more for a rickety table and four chairs than he need have done. Leeming remembered the smell of damp and the careless way that the sticks of furniture had been piled up on each other. Christie’s auction house presented a stunning contrast. Located in King Street, it was surrounded by impressive buildings and exclusive dwellings in the wealthy district of St James’s. One look at the premises was enough to give Leeming a spasm of social inferiority. He envied Colbeck’s ability to feel at ease in any company, however exalted it might be.

Geoffrey Sheldon blocked his way as soon as the sergeant entered.

‘There’s no auction today, sir,’ he said.

‘I know that.’

‘But I can show you a catalogue of the next auction, if you wish.’

‘No, thank you. I’m only interested in events held here in the past.’

When Leeming gave his name and explained the reason for his visit, Sheldon was both shocked and intrigued. He’d never been involved in a murder investigation before. It excited him.

‘Mr Quayle was one of our best customers,’ he said. ‘I was horrified when I read of his death in the newspaper. He was an expert on fine china and we were privileged to add to his collection.’

Sheldon introduced himself. He was the auctioneer, a tall, slim, elegant man in his forties with a flowing mane of curly brown hair and a voice like dripping honey. He took the opportunity to give his visitor a history lesson.

‘Christie’s is celebrating its centenary this year,’ he said, waving a hand in the direction of the opulent saleroom. ‘It’s just been renamed Christie, Manson and Woods, actually, but to serious collectors, it will always be known as Christie’s. In the last forty or fifty years, this city has become a centre of the international art trade and we have been its leading auction house. Sotheby’s cannot compete with us.’

After letting him praise the company for a few minutes, Leeming asked for a favour. It was refused point-blank at first but, when the possibility of a search warrant was raised, Sheldon slowly changed his mind. Reluctantly, he conducted his visitor into his plush office. Pictures of various kinds adorned every wall. One gilt-framed painting was of a picnic beside a river and Leeming was startled by the fact that the three women reclining on the grass were completely naked. His cheeks burnt with embarrassment. He couldn’t understand how Sheldon could work in a room that had such a worrying distraction in it.

‘You must understand that this is very irregular, Sergeant,’ said the auctioneer. ‘We pride ourselves on offering a confidential service. What is recorded in our ledger is sacrosanct. No unauthorised eyes are permitted to view it.’

‘But you’ve just authorised my eyes, sir.’

‘That was under compulsion.’

‘You may be helping to solve a murder case, Mr Sheldon.’

‘The only thing I feel is that I’m betraying our clients.’ He opened the thick ledger on his desk. ‘Art is our primary concern, of course. China only appears in our catalogue every six weeks or so.’

‘That should make my job a little easier,’ said Leeming.

‘How far back do you wish to go?’

‘Two years should be enough for me to confirm our suspicions.’

‘You’re not suspicious about the activities of Christie’s, I hope.’

‘No, sir — all I’m looking for is a chain of coincidences.’

At Sheldon’s invitation, he sat behind the desk and began to work his way through the list of auctions that Vivian Quayle might have attended. He spotted the man’s name at once. It was not long before he found the other name he was hoping to find. Leeming looked up. ‘What are these initials after some of the purchases?’

‘They’re code for the addresses to which certain items are to be sent. When a client buys a large painting or a collection of oriental porcelain, he or she can’t just tuck it under the arm and walk out. Every item has to be carefully packed. It can either be picked up from here later or we deliver to the address we’ve been given.’

‘What does this stand for?’ asked Leeming, pointing to some initials.

Sheldon looked over his shoulder. ‘That would be Brown’s Hotel.’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

‘It’s in Albemarle Street.’

Leeming closed the ledger and got up. ‘I know where it is, sir.’

‘Did you find what you were after, Sergeant?’

‘No, Mr Sheldon,’ said the other, grinning, ‘I found a lot more.’

Jed Hockaday had just finished putting new soles on a pair of boots and applying cobbler’s wax around their edges. He stood the boots side by side on the counter to admire his handiwork. The customer would be pleased. A sizeable tip could be expected. If he served their needs, people usually paid more than he asked. They also passed on any gossip they’d picked up and he seized on any small detail. Being a constable meant that he had to know the minutiae of village life. He’d learnt the names of every inhabitant and he, in turn, was known to them. He was Mr Hockaday, the cobbler, a man who’d served his apprenticeship in Spondon after attending school there. Everyone knew the biography he’d carefully crafted for himself. If they discovered that he was, in fact, the bastard son of a Duffield labourer, they’d regard him as a fraud and a liar. His trade would suffer badly as a result.

He had to rely on the discretion of a Scotland Yard detective and that unnerved him slightly. His worst fear was that his personal history would be exposed and that there’d be adverse publicity in the newspaper. When he saw Philip Conway come into the shop, therefore, he went numb. Conway was a friend of Sergeant Leeming. The cobbler was worried that he’d been betrayed by the detective. Then he noticed the bandaging under his visitor’s hat.

‘What happened to your head?’

‘You, of all people, should know that,’ said Conway, angrily.

‘Why?’

‘You knocked me out with your truncheon.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘First of all, you threatened me, then — when I took no notice — you waited for your moment and attacked me in the churchyard.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Don’t lie, Hockaday. You know what you did. Dr Hadlow found some splinters from your truncheon in the wound. How do you explain that?’

‘I don’t need to explain it,’ said the other, trenchantly. ‘Wait here a moment.’

Hockaday went into the back room and could be heard rummaging around. When he returned, he was carrying a bunch of keys and a truncheon. He handed the latter to Conway.

‘Show me where the splinters could have come off,’ he challenged.

The reporter inspected the truncheon. It was exactly as Colbeck had described, hard, shiny and of the stipulated length. The wood had not splintered anywhere. It was certainly not the blunt object that had smashed into Conway’s skull. Doubts began to ripple in his mind. His assumption had been too hasty. With a murmured apology, he handed the truncheon back. Hockaday bent down behind the counter to retrieve something. When he stood up again, he was holding a stout length of timber with a jagged end.

‘This is what might have hit you, Mr Conway.’

‘Where did you get that?’

‘I took it off a man I arrested last night. He was rolling drunk and waving this around in the air.’ He put the weapon down. ‘Come with me.’

He took the reporter out of the shop and along the road to the local lock-up. Finding the right key, he inserted it in the lock then opened the heavy metal door. Half-asleep and smelling of beer, Bert Knowles peered at them through one eye.

‘This place stinks,’ he complained.

‘You brought the stink with you, Bert. Why did you hit Mr Conway?’

‘Who?’

‘He was attacked in the churchyard last night.’

‘Yes,’ said Knowles, grappling with a vague memory. ‘I filled in thar grave yest’day and I finds some bugger playin’ with the earth. Nobody was goin’ to ruin another grave o’ mine so I bashed ’im good and proper.’

‘This is the gentleman you bashed,’ said Hockaday, indicating Conway. ‘You’ll be had up for assault, Bert.’

‘T’were only a tap.’

‘Oh, no it wasn’t,’ said Conway, removing his hat to reveal the bandaging. ‘You cracked my head open, Mr Knowles.’

‘Serves yer right for messin’ wi’ my grave.’

Knowles broke wind with thunderous effect and burst out laughing. Closing the door, Hockaday locked it and turned to his companion.

‘I told you so, Mr Conway. It wasn’t me.’

He offered his hand. The two men would never like each other but that was not the point at issue. Conway had made an unfounded allegation. The extended palm was a sign that Hockaday was ready to forget the whole thing. Conway reached out and they exchanged a handshake. Inside the lock-up, Knowles began to kick the door mutinously and demand to be let out. The two men walked away.

In the privacy of their room, Colbeck studied the notes he’d made throughout the day spent in Derbyshire. Madeleine looked on fondly as he went over and over the evidence he and Leeming had gathered. In the end, he sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. She crossed over to him.

‘It’s not often that you’re baffled, Robert.’

‘We’ve taken too many wrong turnings.’

‘You always say that’s unavoidable.’

‘It is, Madeleine. Detection is a case of trial and error. So far, I have to admit, there’s been rather too much error.’

‘You should have visited Derby Works earlier,’ she suggested, ‘then you’d have seen that roundabout. Better still, you should have remembered my painting of the Roundhouse in Camden. That might have alerted you.’

‘It might indeed. But I’m not despondent,’ he said, getting up. ‘In fact, I feel remarkably optimistic this morning. We’re almost within touching distance of solving this murder.’

‘Does that mean an arrest is in the offing?’

‘Who knows? There may be more than one.’

‘You think it was the work of accomplices?’

‘Anything is possible, Madeleine,’ he explained. ‘I’ve just been going through the things that bother me about this case.’

‘What are they?’

‘Well, that top hat keeps worrying me. Why would anyone wish to steal an unusually tall top hat?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Was the thief a very short man who wishes to appear of more normal height?’

‘It may not have been stolen. It could just have been thrown away.’

‘Then someone would have found it.’

‘Not if it was deliberately hidden.’

‘Thieves don’t discard or conceal assets. That hat was expensive. The least he would have done was to get good money from a pawnbroker. No,’ he decided, ‘the man still has it, either as a souvenir or for some other reason.’

‘What else bothers you, Robert?’

He smiled sadly. ‘It’s the fact that I’m embroiled in a murder case when I’d rather be showing my dear wife the delights of Derbyshire. You’d love Melbourne Hall, and the countryside around it is breathtaking.’

‘All you have to is to arrange for the prime minister to invite us there.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s a possibility,’ he said with a laugh. ‘If I arrest his head gardener, Lord Palmerston is going to be exceedingly annoyed with me.’

‘Are you going to arrest him?’

‘I think that I probably shall. Gerard Burns was in the vicinity of Spondon on the night when the murder took place. He’s admitted that he visited a friend but refuses to divulge a name. His alibi is therefore unreliable.’

‘He does sound like the culprit, Robert.’

‘Superintendent Tallis met him and felt convinced he was our prime suspect. Mr Quayle, you must remember, was killed by a corrosive poison that contained elements from a weedkiller favoured by Burns.’

‘It was ministered by injection, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but the victim had been given a sedative beforehand. Where could Burns have got the sedative and how could he get hold of a syringe? They’re not the kinds of things you’d find in a garden shed, are they?’

‘So where could they be found?’

Grouped around the bed, they were in a solemn mood. It was very close to the end. Harriet Quayle was fading away before their eyes. On the eve of her husband’s funeral, she was about to join him. Stanley’s face was a mask of grief, Agnes’s eyes were moist and Lucas, wrestling with his own emotions, put an arm around his younger sister to steady her. Lydia stood apart from them, sad, lonely, out of place, yet glad that she was there at the moment of death.

The doctor opened the bedside drawer and took out a small black case, lifting the lid to reveal a syringe.

‘Nature is providing its own sedative now,’ he said, softly. ‘I could inject her again if you wish, but — quite frankly — it would be too late. I’m afraid that we must all prepare ourselves for the inevitable.’

He answered the summons at once. When Colbeck was told that someone had come to the hotel in search of him, he thanked the messenger then descended the stairs to the foyer. Waiting beside the reception desk, to his amazement, was Gerard Burns.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I thought I’d save you the trouble of coming to Melbourne again.’

‘That’s very considerate of you, Mr Burns. Are you also going to save me the trouble of proving your guilt by making a confession?’

‘It is a confession of sorts, Inspector.’

‘Let me hear it in private, then.’

The lounge was fairly empty and they sat in armchairs that were well away from the few other occupants. Burns needed time to gather his thoughts. Colbeck could see that his visitor had ridden to Derby. He wore riding boots and had the dishevelled look of someone who’d been in the saddle on a windy day for a length of time. Tucked into the side of one boot was a riding crop.

Colbeck spread his arms. ‘What have you come to tell me?’

‘I was less than honest with you, I’m afraid.’

‘We all know that, especially Superintendent Tallis. You were lucky that he didn’t haul you off to the police station. He’s convinced that you’re our man.’

‘Then he’s wrong, sir. I’m not.’

‘I thought you came to confess.’

‘The confession is not about me, Inspector,’ said Burns, uneasily. ‘It’s about someone else.’

‘Is it the person you spent time with on the night of the murder?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘He’s a good friend, sir, and I didn’t want to let him down. When we met here in Derby that night, he made me swear that I’d never tell a soul about it. To be honest, I couldn’t see why but I gave him my word nevertheless. And I’ve kept it.’

‘Why have you changed your mind?’

‘You and the superintendent have been breathing down my neck.’

‘Oh, so it’s a case of survival, is it?’ said Colbeck. ‘In order to save your own skin, you’re ready to incriminate a friend.’

‘No,’ replied Burns with passion, ‘that’s not why I’m here. He has nothing to do with the murder. The reason he didn’t want me to breathe a word of our meeting is that he was frightened it might cost him his job.’

‘Why should it do that?’

‘If it got back to his employer, my friend could have been dismissed.’

‘Why should the employer want to dismiss him?’

‘It’s because of me, sir. He didn’t know that we’d stayed in touch but we did. As it was, of course, my friend was in the clear but we didn’t know that at the time.’

‘I’m not sure that I follow you, Mr Burns.’

‘He worked for Mr Quayle. A dead man can’t give you the sack.’

Colbeck’s mind was racing. He thought about two young men who excelled at cricket and had been drawn together. He remembered thinking how the pair of them would bond easily and spend free time together whenever they could.

‘You’re talking about the coachman, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right, sir — John Cleary.’

Harriet Quayle’s death was slow, gentle and uneventful. She just passed away before their eyes. They had been ready for it for so long that there was no outpouring of grief. Each of them contained his or her own sorrow and watched as the doctor examined their mother. He confirmed her death with a faint nod. Lydia shed the first tears. Unable to mourn a murdered father, she was moved by the loss of her mother.

Within minutes, the news reached the servants below stairs and they expressed themselves with less restraint. A beloved mistress had been taken from them. Their weeping and moaning soon bordered on hysteria. John Cleary stayed long enough to comfort some of the women. When the wailing eventually gave way to maudlin reminiscences, he took his leave and went off to his room above the stables. The coachman had his own reasons for mourning the loss of a woman he liked and respected. Kneeling beside a wooden chest, he took out a key and used it to open the chest. Cleary then reached in and took out a tall, cylindrical hat. He then placed it gently on his head as if crowning himself.

It was rare that Victor Leeming was able to gather such comprehensive evidence in so short a period. When he caught the train, he was still congratulating himself on his success. The sense of triumph lasted all the way to Derby and made the journey seem ridiculously short. Alighting from his compartment, he expected to take a cab to the hotel so that he could pass on the fruits of his research. But he got no further than a dozen yards along the platform before Colbeck stepped out to greet him.

‘Welcome back, Victor!’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Was your visit a profitable one?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Leeming. ‘I’ve so much to tell you, sir.’

‘Get back onto the train and I’ll be happy to listen to it.’

Leeming was taken aback. ‘Where are we going?’

‘We’re off to Nottingham to make an arrest.’

They found an empty compartment and jumped into it. Saving his own news, Colbeck asked for details of the evidence that Leeming had managed to gather.

‘It was as you suspected, sir,’ explained the sergeant. ‘I found a number of occasions when Mr Quayle and Mrs Peet visited Christie’s together. Each of them not only bought items at the same auctions, they had them delivered to the same hotel.’

‘Which one?’

‘It was Brown’s Hotel in Albemarle Street. The manager wouldn’t let me see the booking register at first but he changed his mind when I told him that we’d discuss the matter at Scotland Yard.’

‘What did you discover?’

‘The two names cropped up time and again, sir. Mr Quayle and Mrs Peet stayed there — in separate rooms — when no auctions were being held at Christie’s. It was obviously their meeting place.’

‘You’ve done very well, Victor.’

‘It was your idea to look more closely at Mrs Peet.’

‘But it was Mr Haygarth who supplied the information about her obsession with oriental porcelain. He’d seen her collection at the house and had heard her praise the auction house which she patronised. Haygarth also told me what a handsome woman she’d been.’

‘She was a handsome woman with a much older husband.’

‘Significantly, Mr Peet had no interest at all in her collection. He once told Haygarth that china was something that ought to be used and not put on display in glass-fronted cabinets. But he loved his wife,’ Colbeck went on, ‘so he indulged her. At some point, Mrs Peet met a man with the same love of porcelain as herself. That friendship developed to the point where they had clandestine trysts.’

‘Now we know what he was doing in Spondon that night.’

‘He wanted to see the plot where her body was to be laid. If he’d turned up at the funeral, his presence would have been noted. The visit had to be surreptitious.’

‘How did he actually get to the village, sir?’

‘Thanks to Gerard Burns, I finally worked that out.’

‘Has he given himself away?’

‘No, Victor — without realising it, he’s just handed his friend a death sentence.’

Leeming was bemused. ‘So who are we going to arrest?’

‘It’s Mr Quayle’s coachman — John Cleary.’

Everything he needed was stuffed into the saddlebags. After several happy years there, Cleary was about to leave. As long as Harriet Quayle had been alive, he felt that he had to stay. She was the lonely, ailing, neglected wife of a wealthy man. The one pleasure in her life was to be taken on extended drives in the country. Over the years, she and Cleary had become more than mistress and servant. He offered a sympathy that she didn’t get from anyone in the family. Long before the detectives had found a link between Vivian Quayle and Cicely Peet, the coachman knew that his master was betraying his wife. When he returned from visits to London, Quayle was always in a mood of uncharacteristic bonhomie. Harriet, too, was keenly aware of it.

Reaching into the wooden chest, Cleary took out the last object in there. It was the appointments diary he’d stolen from Quayle on the night of the murder. A casual glance would suggest that it was merely a list of endless meetings about the Midland Railway. To the coachman’s eye, it was also a record of adultery. The dates of auctions at Christie’s had a tick beside them as did other occasions when Quayle had stayed at Brown’s Hotel. Each rendezvous with Mrs Peet was there.

Cleary had not needed to search through the ledger at the auction house or inspect the booking register. Harriet Quayle had insisted on ocular proof. She trusted her coachman enough to engage his services, sending him off to follow her husband to London. Cleary soon got conclusive proof for her. He saw the couple entering Christie’s together and he watched them getting out of the same cab at the hotel. While Harriet was in no position to fight back at her husband, the coachman was. All that Cleary had to do was to choose his moment to strike.

In a fit of anger, he tore the diary to shreds and tossed it away. Then he stood the top hat in the middle of the room and stamped on it several times until it was virtually flat. It was his final act of rebellion against a master he’d come to hate.

‘Why didn’t Burns tell you all this before?’ asked Leeming.

‘He’d given his word to his friend.’

‘He’s not the sort of friend that I’d want, sir.’

‘You’ve never played cricket,’ said Colbeck. ‘I have. It’s a game that breeds camaraderie. Burns and Cleary were the solid foundation of the team. It must have irked them to see Stanley Quayle receiving the plaudits as captain when the players who actually won games were them, the gardener and the coachman — with some help from Lucas Quayle, I fancy.’

‘Cricket’s not for people like me,’ Leeming said. ‘It’s too difficult. I could never hold a bat properly because I’m all fingers and thumbs. The only sport I ever liked was the tug of war. This case has been a bit like that,’ he added, reflectively. ‘First of all we were tugged in one direction and now we’re pulling in the opposite one.’

‘That’s a good metaphor, Victor.’

‘I loved the feeling of the rope in my hands.’

‘Cleary is going to feel it around his neck fairly soon,’ said Colbeck, wryly.

They were in a cab that had just passed between the main gates of the Quayle estate. Overawed as a rule when he visited mansions, Leeming felt no queasiness now. They were on their way to arrest a killer and that concentrated the mind. When the house rose up before them, he ignored it altogether. Like Colbeck, he turned his attention to the stables. As their cab got closer, they saw a lone horseman emerge and kick his mount into a canter. Colbeck recognised him at once. It was John Cleary.

‘Follow him!’ he barked.

The cabman obeyed the command, cracking his whip and making his horse jerk forward with sudden speed. The cab rocked and rattled. The chase was on.

The house was in turmoil over the death of Harriet Quayle. Nobody was taking the slightest interest in the stables. Cleary had therefore expected to steal quietly away and that his departure wouldn’t be noticed for several hours. Yet a cab was now in pursuit of him. Who the passengers were, he didn’t know and he wasn’t prepared to wait in order to find out. The horse felt his heels again and was soon galloping hell for leather along the track.

Inside the cab, meanwhile, Colbeck and Leeming were urging the drive to go faster but they knew it was an impossible task. A horse with one rider was always going to outpace a cab with three people aboard. The detectives were in luck. What the chase had done was to instil panic in the coachman. Fearful that he might be caught, he rode off the main track towards a stand of trees, hoping to dash through spaces that were far too narrow for the cab. It was a sensible course of action and it would have ensured his escape if it had not been for the badger’s sett in amongst the trees. Galloping wildly, the horse caught a foot in the cavity and lost its balance, tumbling forward and rolling over. Cleary was thrown free and he hit soft ground before somersaulting a few times. Dazed but unhurt, he got to his feet, grabbed the saddlebags from the stricken animal and began to run as fast as he could.

Unable to go into the trees, the cab was pulled to a halt. Colbeck and Leeming jumped out of the cab at once and ran towards the sound of the frantic neighing. When they saw Cleary lumbering off with the heavy saddlebags, they knew that they’d catch him easily. Colbeck gave the sergeant the honour of making the arrest. He let him surge ahead and dive onto the coachman’s back, knocking him to the ground. Leeming got up, dragged Cleary to his feet then stumbled backwards as a hefty punch caught him on the chin. Snatching up the saddlebags, the coachman used them as a weapon, swinging them hard to keep the detectives at bay. Colbeck was outraged when, as he tried to duck beneath the flailing saddlebags, his top hat was knocked off. He stepped back several yards then ran forwards and flung himself at Cleary’s legs, grasping him round the ankles and pulling his feet from under him.

The ensuing struggle was fierce. It took the two of them to overpower and handcuff the coachman. Colbeck retrieved his top hat and brushed off the dirt.

‘This is one hat you’re not going to have, Mr Cleary.’

Edward Tallis was not going to let a sore ankle keep him away from work. He sat behind his desk with one shoeless foot resting on a velvet footstool. Seen from the front, he looked to be in rude health. In addition, he was in unusually good spirits. A murder had been solved and a full report lay in front of him. Local and national newspapers had congratulated two of his detectives and he’d received further praise from the commissioner. After being ridiculed in the pages of Punch, Sir Richard Mayne had been delighted by the ringing endorsement of his leadership that came after the events in Derbyshire had finally been resolved.

It was the day after the arrest of John Cleary. Now in custody, he’d taken full responsibility for the murder so that the victim’s wife was not in any way implicated. Colbeck knew that there was something missing from the prisoner’s sworn statement. When he and Leeming called on the superintendent that morning, it was the first thing that the inspector raised.

‘He had an accomplice.’

‘It must have been that friend of his,’ said Tallis. ‘Gerard Burns.’

‘No, sir. He’s completely innocent.’

‘Then why was he so evasive when I questioned him?’

‘He wanted to protect his friend.’

‘Aiding and abetting a killer is an indictable offence.’

‘That’s not what he did, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘When he was asked to say nothing of that meeting with Cleary, he thought he was simply saving the man’s job. He had no inkling of the coachman’s real motives.’

‘So who was his real accomplice?’

‘We can never prove this, of course, because the person is dead and Cleary is determined to take the secret to the grave. The real killer was not a loyal coachman. In my opinion it was a vengeful wife.’

Tallis’s mouth was agape. ‘Mrs Quayle?’

‘It surprised me, too, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘But the woman was extremely poorly.’

‘Much of her illness,’ argued Colbeck, ‘was caused by the immense stress she was under from being overlooked by her husband in favour of a younger and healthier woman. The irony is that it was Mrs Peet who died first. I believe that Harriet Quayle instructed her coachman to exact revenge on her behalf. She lived in a huge house filled with people but the one who got closest to her was John Cleary. Look at the way the victim died. Poison is often thought of as a woman’s weapon.’

‘How did Cleary get hold of the poison?’

‘His explanation was that he used a weedkiller that Burns bought when he was a gardener there. It was mixed with other toxic elements. Where he got them from, and how he got hold of a syringe, he refused to say. But if Mrs Quayle had been unwell for so long, it’s likely that she’d have been given a variety of drugs, some of which would be administered by a syringe. On the night of the murder,’ said Colbeck, ‘Cleary had been told to pick up his master from Derby station and drive him to Spondon. Before that, of course, he spent the evening with Burns. According to the coachman, Quayle was so drunk when he arrived that he had to be helped off the train. Cleary had brought a brandy flask, spiked with a strong sedative. Thinking it would steady his nerves, Quayle took several swigs from the flask. The sedative made him defenceless. By the time they reached Spondon, he was fast asleep.’

‘So the coachman was able to inject the poison,’ said Leeming.

‘Yes, Sergeant, he confessed it. He hid the carriage near the church then waited until Quayle was dead. When he felt it was safe to do so, Cleary borrowed a wheelbarrow from a nearby garden and used it to push his master up the hill and into the grave dug for Mrs Peet. Though he denies it, I’m certain that he was obeying instructions from Mrs Quayle and I’m equally certain that she supplied the sedative.’

‘Have you confided this theory to anyone else?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘The sergeant knows but nobody else will.’

‘I think Mrs Quayle’s memory should be unsullied, sir,’ asserted Leeming. ‘There’s no need to reopen the case because nothing can be gained by doing so.’

‘What the world will see — and that includes her children — is a sick and lonely old woman collapsing under the weight of her bereavement. I think that’s all they should be allowed to see, Superintendent.’

Tallis was worried. ‘I don’t like the thought that she got away with it.’

‘You can’t prosecute a corpse, sir.’

‘It means that this case has loose ends hanging from it.’

‘You have your victim and his killer is in custody,’ said Leeming, bluntly. ‘What more do you need, Superintendent?’

‘I’m troubled. Colbeck’s theory is oddly convincing.’

‘But it is only a theory,’ said Colbeck. ‘My view is that it can never be substantiated with proof and is best left unexplored. Everyone is happy at the outcome of the case. The family is relieved, you are feted in the press and there is a glowing testimonial of the sergeant’s tenacity in the Derby Mercury.’

Leeming grinned. ‘Mr Conway was kind enough to show me a copy before it was printed in today’s edition.’

‘The praise was well deserved.’

‘Both of you are worthy of a commendation,’ said Tallis. ‘I will be pointing that out to the commissioner at our meeting later today.’

‘Thank you, Superintendent.’

‘Whoever first gave you the name of Burns set you off on a false trail.’

‘That had to be Maurice Cope,’ guessed Colbeck. ‘He actually had the reward posters printed and sent me one before the others had even been put up.’

‘I didn’t take to the fellow,’ said Tallis. ‘He looked too sly and devious. I’m grateful that we’ll have no more dealings with him.’ His smile was almost paternal. ‘Mr Haygarth must be overjoyed with what my detectives have done. In solving the murder, the pair of you removed an ugly stain from the Midland Railway.’

‘Some people think that Mr Haygarth is the ugly stain,’ observed Leeming.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘We heard rumours in Derby, sir.’

‘They’re more than rumours,’ said Colbeck. ‘According to Superintendent Wigg, there’s been something of a revolt. Mr Haygarth thought that his election simply needed to be confirmed but he now faces a challenger and many board members are turning to the new man. To quote an old adage,’ he went on, ‘there’s many a slip between cup and lip. I fancy that Donald Haygarth has contrived to drop the chalice altogether.’

As he was driven towards the church, Haygarth was still seething. The latest information from Maurice Cope was that some of those who’d agreed to support the acting chairman were now wavering. It was now likely that victory could be snatched away from him. Every board member would be attending the funeral of Vivian Quayle. Though he would not be wanted by the dead man’s family, Haygarth had decided to go in order to defy them and to be seen by the colleagues who’d anoint him as the successor. Dozens of vehicles were converging on the church. The local aristocracy and gentry were coming to pay their respects to a man who’d built a towering reputation in the county. Representatives from each of his coal mines had been given the day off to be there, miners whose whole lives depended on the Quayle family. A veritable multitude was coming to honour Haygarth’s hated rival.

When the carriage got within fifty yards, he lost his nerve completely.

‘Turn around,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not going to the funeral, after all.’

It was mid-evening before Colbeck finally got back home. Madeleine was waiting for him in the drawing room. After a welcoming kiss, she sat beside him on the sofa.

‘What did the superintendent say about your report?’ she asked.

‘He was very impressed.’

‘It’s just as well he doesn’t know the full story.’

‘Your role had perforce to be suppressed, my love,’ he said. ‘Superintendent Tallis is in enough pain with his ankle. If I told him that you’d helped to further the investigation by befriending Miss Quayle, he’d be in complete agony.’

‘I’m glad that you mentioned Lydia. I had a letter from her today.’

‘Really? What did it say?’

‘Well, it was written in the wake of her mother’s death,’ said Madeleine, ‘so it’s very emotional. I was touched that she chose to turn to me. Recent events have made her think twice about what she’s going to do. She’s staying in Nottingham until the funerals of both her parents are over then she’s coming back here. I thought that she and Miss Myler had parted company for ever,’ she explained, ‘but it appears that she’s been invited back by her friend. How long she’ll stay there is debatable. I fancy that Lydia will strike out on her own one day. The death of her parents has made a difference to her. It’s given her total independence. For the time being,’ she went on, ‘she’ll be living in London again.’

‘Until her father’s murder, she was perfectly contented here.’

‘She was such a pleasant woman. I’d like to see her again.’

‘Then you must invite her here at some point, Madeleine.’

‘I will,’ she replied. ‘I’m going to need female company if I’m to spend more time alone here. I can talk to Lydia. We got on so well together.’

Colbeck was startled by what he suspected might be a wonderful revelation. He remembered the fatigue she’d shown in Derby and how pale she’d seemed. He smiled tentatively and looked at her with nervous hope. When Madeleine nodded, he laughed with joy and grabbed her hands.

‘When is the …?’

‘Early in the New Year,’ she told him.

‘How long have you …?’

‘Does it matter, Robert? It’s certain now. Are you happy?’

‘I’m delirious,’ he said, taking her gently in his arms. ‘I feel as if that turntable is on the move again. There’ll be three of us from now on. We’ll have to look at life from a wholly different angle.’