Timetable of Death (14 page)

Leeming issued a warning. ‘You’d best keep out of his way, Mr Conway.’

‘Why is that?’ asked the reporter.

‘He’ll blame you for setting us on to him.’

‘All I did was to describe his behaviour in the churchyard.’

‘He lied about that as well,’ said Leeming. ‘I wouldn’t have a man like that under me. I think we should report him to Superintendent Wigg.’

‘No,’ decided Colbeck. ‘Let’s make sure that we have proper grounds for dismissal before we do that. We’ve frightened him and people don’t always act sensibly when they’re in that state. Keep an eye on him, Sergeant.’

‘What do you think he’ll do?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t rush off to Duffield at some stage to tell these friends of his what to say when questioned. We know they exist because Hockaday wouldn’t dare to give us false names.’

‘You can see why he’s not that popular in the village,’ said Conway.

‘Policemen never are,’ moaned Leeming. ‘When you put on a uniform, you lose a lot of friends. I discovered that. In Hockaday’s case, there’s another problem. He tries hard to be liked but he’s just not very likeable.’ He tasted his drink. ‘This is the best beer I’ve tasted in Spondon.’ He put the tankard down. ‘The inspector was telling me what you said about Mr Haygarth.’

‘What
did
I say?’

‘That your editor finds him a nuisance.’

‘Mr Haygarth is always complaining about something or other.’

‘What about the late Mr Quayle?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Did you have the same trouble from him?’

‘No, not at all – he was on amicable terms with the
Mercury
. He certainly didn’t charge into the office breathing fire the way that Haygarth does. My editor says that Haygarth is the opposite of the superintendent. Elijah Wigg does everything he can to butter us up but all that Haygarth does is to find fault. However,’ he went on, ‘they have one thing in common. They possess foul tempers.’

‘I know. I’ve had both of them shouting at me.’

‘They should be grateful that we came here,’ said Leeming.

‘We’ll never get gratitude out of the superintendent,’ warned Colbeck. ‘He sees us as trespassers. Mr Haygarth couldn’t have been happier to see us at first. But the moment I started to ask about his link with Spondon, he became angry.’

‘I thought he was born here.’

‘He was, Victor, but he doesn’t like to be reminded of the fact. He left the village as a boy and hasn’t been back here for decades.’

Conway was astonished. ‘Is that what he told you, Inspector?’

‘Yes, and he did so in no uncertain terms.’

‘Then he has a very poor memory. He attended Mrs Peet’s funeral.’

‘I didn’t see him there,’ said Leeming.

‘Then he must have made sure that you didn’t for some reason.’

‘It was easy to miss him in that sea of hats.’

‘Not really – his hat was somewhat taller than the others.’

Colbeck’s ears pricked up. ‘Are you certain that it was him?’

‘I daren’t make mistakes about things like that, Inspector.
It’s an article of faith with me. If you look at the list of names we printed with the obituary, you’ll see that Donald Haygarth is among them.’

Anyone involved with the Midland Railway knew the difference between the two men. Vivian Quayle had had a genuine love of the railway system. He was fascinated by each new technical development in the production of steam locomotives and rolling stock and was a frequent visitor to the Derby Works. He would spend hours talking to the chief engineer about the manufacturing process. Those who toiled in the pattern shop, the foundry, the carriage shop, the machine shop and the boiler shop knew Quayle as a regular and respected visitor. They’d never set eyes on Donald Haygarth. His realm was the boardroom and the public platform. He was known to have a desire to stand for Parliament. His ambition for the company was clear. He wanted to maximise its profits and turn the Midland Railway into the best in the country. But he refused to get his shoes dirty as he did so.

He was studying the accounts when Maurice Cope knocked before entering the office. Haygarth was too involved in what he was doing to pay him any attention. Cope had to wait until the other man finally glanced up.

‘What do you want?’ asked Haygarth.

‘This just arrived for you, sir,’ said Cope, handing over a letter. ‘I think that it’s the information you’ve been waiting for.’

‘It’s about time, too.’

As the acting chairman opened and read the letter, Cope watched him like a cat hoping to be tossed a morsel.
Haygarth smiled with satisfaction. He could have waited until the announcement was made in the
Derby Mercury
but he was too impatient for that. He always wanted advance notice.

‘Was I right, sir?’

‘Yes – it’s the details of the funeral.’

‘Is that an invitation?’

Haygarth smirked. ‘Oh, they won’t invite me.’

‘Then why were you so keen to learn when it’s taking place?’

‘I intend to go uninvited,’ said Haygarth. ‘It may cause something of a stir but I need to be seen there. Stanley and Lucas Quayle will probably ignore me. That’s to be expected. But everyone else will think it only proper that I pay my respects to the man I’ve replaced. And there’s something else.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘The press will be there in force. I’ll have publicity.’

They had settled into an uneasy and watchful truce. Though Lydia Quayle and Beatrice Myler were excessively polite to each other, there was no contact at a deep level. It remained to be seen if their former rapport had been lost or simply misplaced. The fact was that each had seen the other in an unflattering light. Lydia had been revolted by the discovery that her room had been searched and Beatrice had been wounded by the knowledge that someone from the family had got in touch with her yet she’d said nothing about it. While they took their meals together, they tiptoed around each other for most of the day. The servants too were all aware of the charged atmosphere.

In the end, it was Lydia who offered an olive branch.

‘We mustn’t let this come between us, Beatrice.’

‘Unfortunately, it already has.’

‘If we both make an effort, we can put it behind us in time.’

‘You shouldn’t have invited them into my house.’

Lydia was stung. ‘You used to call it
our
house.’

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ said the other, wistfully.

‘I’ve been so contented here.’

‘So why did you wish to spoil it all?’

‘It wasn’t deliberate. You must see that.’

But her friend was in no mood to make concessions. Lydia was made to feel that she was there on sufferance. Something had snapped. Beatrice showed no interest in wanting to repair it. They were sitting opposite each other in the drawing room. Both held books but neither had actually been reading. They’d been simmering away quietly. Not wishing to risk rejection again, Lydia held her tongue and thought about her visitors instead. Their arrival had given her hope yet left her despondent. Madeleine Colbeck had convinced her that Lydia might know something that would help a terrible crime to be solved but, in coming through the front door with Victor Leeming, she’d brought the real world and all its hideous associations into the haven of peace and harmony that the two women had created. A cosy and uncomplicated life had suddenly been snatched away from Lydia and, by extension, from Beatrice. An estranged daughter had a new reason to hate her father. Vivian Quayle had destroyed her happiness from beyond the grave.

‘What are you reading, Beatrice?’ she asked, softly.

‘It’s that new book about Venice.’

‘Is it from the Lending Library?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘What are the illustrations like?’

‘They’re very good. They bring back pleasant memories.’

Lydia smiled. ‘I’m glad that something does.’

‘It’s made me want to go there again. Venice is so magical.’

‘When are you thinking of going?’

‘I’ll need to look in my diary.’

‘Are you intending to travel alone?’

It was a nervous question and it received no answer. Beatrice simply buried her head in the book and pretended to read. The old companionship had withered. Lydia prayed that it might not be beyond recall. But the other woman was ignoring her as if she was not even there. She was not only punishing her friend. Beatrice seemed to be taking pleasure from doing so.

Hockaday was worried. Determined to impress the detectives, he’d instead ended up being exposed as a liar. He feared that it could cost him his post as a constable and that would deprive him of a status he relished. After brooding at length on his ill-fated conversation with Colbeck and Leeming, he came to a decision. He abandoned his work, took off his apron and put on a coat in its place. Thrusting a hat on his head, he locked up the premises and walked to the station as quickly as he could. People he passed on the way got only a curt response to their greeting. The cobbler’s mind was elsewhere. When he arrived at the station, he bought a ticket and asked about the next available train that would take him to his
destination. He then went out onto the platform and marched up and down.

Victor Leeming, meanwhile, entered the railway station cautiously. Sitting in the window of the Union Inn, he’d seen the cobbler go past in a hurry and followed him at a discreet distance. He already knew that a train to Duffield was imminent because Colbeck had consulted the copy of
Bradshaw
he usually had with him. Leeming bought a ticket then remained out of sight until the train arrived and the cobbler got into a compartment. Making sure he was not seen by the other man, the sergeant chose the last of the carriages.

During their brief acquaintance, Colbeck had grown to like Philip Conway. He had a mind like a sponge that soaked up information whenever and wherever he found it. Crucially, he was treating the pursuit of the killer as a mission in which he could both learn and be of practical assistance. At his first meeting with Superintendent Wigg, Colbeck had been unaware that the man would later be named by Lydia Quayle as one of her father’s enemies. The detective could not understand why until the reporter enlightened him. Armed with the information, he returned to Derby and made straight for the police station. He was shown into Wigg’s office immediately.

‘I’m glad you’ve come, Inspector,’ said the superintendent.

‘That’s a welcome change. When we first arrived here, you felt that we were intruders. Have we somehow won your approval?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

Colbeck smiled disarmingly. ‘I had a feeling you’d say
that, Superintendent. Tell me,’ he went on. ‘I recall your saying at one point that you had reservations about Mr Quayle. May I know what they were?’

‘One should never speak ill of the dead.’

‘That’s a pious platitude, in my view, and should be disregarded by anyone in our profession. The dead person in this instance is a murder victim and we need to be able to probe his vices as well as his virtues. Mr Haygarth has no problem in listing his rival’s shortcomings. Your perception of Mr Quayle, I suspect, may be different.’

Wigg was suspicious. ‘What’s behind this question?’

‘The simple desire to get as much information about the deceased as possible,’ replied Colbeck. ‘You didn’t like the man, did you?’

‘We had our differences.’

‘I fancy that it went deeper than that,’ said Colbeck.

‘Don’t listen to tittle-tattle, Inspector.’

‘My informant was that young reporter from the
Derby Mercury
and he’s no purveyor of tittle-tattle. Indeed you went out of your way to congratulate him on his work when he joined us at the hotel last night.’

‘What has Conway been telling you?’

‘I’d rather hear it from you, Superintendent.’

Wigg folded his arms. ‘If you have an accusation, make it.’

‘Very well,’ said Colbeck, meeting his gaze. ‘Before you joined the Derby Constabulary, you were a superintendent in the railway police here. Somewhere along the line, you fell foul of Mr Quayle and he had you dismissed. Is it true or false?’

‘It’s partially true,’ admitted the other.

‘What Mr Conway didn’t know was the nature of your crime, if that’s what it was. But he did point out that you joined the constabulary instead and rose quickly within the ranks to your present position. I admire you for doing that.’

‘The past is the past, Inspector. We’ve all made mistakes in our time. Mine was in falling out with a man in a position of authority. It wasn’t a “crime”. It was a misjudgement on my part. Even you must have made those.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘In fact, you might be making one at this very moment.’

‘That’s conceivable.’

‘Let’s leave the matter there, shall we?’

Colbeck agreed. He’d made Wigg aware that he knew about the animosity between the superintendent and Vivian Quayle and that it might have a bearing on the investigation. But he didn’t press the man too far. He needed to have firm evidence of Wigg’s involvement in the murder before he could do that.

‘You said that you were glad that I’d come.’

‘I am,’ said Wigg. ‘I have some news for you.’

‘What is it?’

‘The pathologist has consulted someone with more thorough knowledge of poisons and, as a result, he’s able to give us slightly more detail about what was injected into Mr Quayle.’

‘Excellent.’

‘He was killed by a compound of different poisons, some of which were detected at the post-mortem. One of them was not.’

‘What was it?’

‘See for yourself,’ said Wigg, picking up a sheet of paper
from his desk and handing it over. ‘I don’t know much about chemicals.’

Colbeck read the name. ‘This one is likely to be very corrosive.’

‘I asked the pathologist how someone could get hold of it.’

‘What was his answer?’

‘He said that it’s sometimes found in powerful weedkillers.’

Colbeck thought about a garden shed in Melbourne Hall.

Weapon at the ready, Gerard Burns knelt motionless behind the bushes and waited for his moment. The bird circled, hovered for an instant then descended to the fence and scanned the ground below. Burns pulled the trigger and the crow was instantly blown off its perch by the shotgun blast. The gardener’s dog scampered out from its hiding place to retrieve the bird and bring it back to its master. Burns took it from the animal’s jaws and walked across to the shallow pit he’d already dug, tossing the lifeless body into it then using a boot to cover it with earth. He hated crows more than anything else and killed them whenever possible. The noise of the shotgun had made the other birds scatter in a crescendo of squawks and screeches so he was able to put the weapon aside and reach for his spade to fill in the grave properly.

One of the undergardeners came around the angle of the house.

‘What have you shot this time, Mr Burns?’

‘It was another crow.’

‘Wood pigeons are better. You can eat those.’

‘I’ll kill any pests I can.’

‘Slugs are the worst.’

‘There’s poison in the shed. Use it.’

‘Yes, Mr Burns.’

Recognising that the head gardener was in no mood for conversation, the other man went off to hoe some flower beds. Burns, meanwhile, went back to the shed with the spade and the shotgun. Ejecting the empty cartridge, he dropped it into the bin he kept for rubbish. Everything was in full bloom during the summer so there was a lot to do in the garden and he worked long hours to keep everything under control. However, his time was not entirely taken up with horticulture. Reaching behind some tarpaulin in the corner, he brought out a heavy object and tested it for balance. It was not ready yet, he decided. There was still plenty of work to do on it but Burns loved the feel of it in his hands. Stepping outside the shed, he tried a few practice strokes with his new cricket bat. He heaved a sigh, conscious that his days of real prominence on a cricket field were over. What he missed most was the applause for a ball well struck or for the latest wicket he’d taken. Burns was no longer the leading light of a county team. He was now condemned to take part in lesser contests where spectators were few and ovations non-existent.

The new bat was part of a dream. He played one final cover drive, saw an imaginary ball hurtling through the air like a bullet, then went back into the shed. It was time to return to reality.

The train journey to Duffield did not take very long. In earlier days, the village had stood in an area of scenic beauty at the lower end of the Pennines. Situated near the junction of two rivers, the Derwent and the Ecclesbourne, it was like many other Derbyshire villages, agricultural communities that had been transformed by the growth of industry and the development of the railways. When first opened in 1841, the railway station there was little more than a halt but it was now a solid permanent structure. Farm labourers existed in dwindling numbers in tied cottages and the new houses in the village had, in many cases, been built by the Midland Railway for its employees who travelled to the Derby Works each day by train.

Victor Leeming was not interested in the history of Duffield. His only concern was to follow Jed Hockaday in order to confirm the alibi that had been given to the detectives. When the train steamed into Duffield station, therefore, he stayed in his compartment until the other passengers had alighted. Only when the train was about to depart again did he leap out onto the platform and slam the door shut behind him. Leeming looked around to see in which direction his quarry had gone. Over a dozen people were in view but Hockaday was not among them. Leeming had the lurching sensation that he’d been tricked. It looked as if the cobbler had been aware that he was being followed and, instead of getting off at Duffield, had simply stayed on the train. There was a consolation. The sergeant had the names and addresses of two people with whom Hockaday claimed to have spent time on the night of the murder. More to the point, he would not have been able to reach them first in order to tell them what to say to the detective.
The journey to Duffield was not in vain, after all.

The cottage in King Street was little more than a hovel. Clearly, Hockaday’s friends were in straitened circumstances. A rusty bell hung outside the front door. When he rang it, Leeming had to wait some time before the door was opened by a wizened old man bent almost double. Having established that he was talking to Seth Verney, the sergeant explained why he was there. The mention of Hockaday’s name put some animation into the old man.

‘Yes, sir, Jed was here that night.’

‘What time did he leave?’

‘He caught the last train back home.’

‘Had he been drinking?’

Verney cackled. ‘Oh, yes – he likes his beer.’

‘But he should have been on patrol in Spondon and constables are not allowed to drink on duty.’

‘It were his day off, sir.’

‘How long was he here?’

‘Jed’s never here for long but we loved seeing him.’

‘He told us he was in the village for some hours.’

‘That’s as maybe. We only saw him at the very end of the evening.’

‘So where did he go before he came here?’

‘I don’t know, sir, but he’d been drinking.’

‘How often do you see him?’

The old man cocked his head to one side. ‘What’s this got to do with that murder you talked about?’

‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Leeming.

‘Jed is a constable. He’s one of
you
, Sergeant.’

‘I appreciate that, Mr Verney.’

‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’

‘No, no, I’m just … checking up on something he told us.’

‘Why’re you doing that? Don’t you trust his word?’

‘It never does any harm to confirm certain facts.’

But the other man was increasingly defensive. Leeming found it hard to get the information he was after. What surprised him was Verney’s age and obvious penury. He seemed an unlikely friend for Hockaday, especially as the old man claimed that he’d signed the pledge and was thus no drinking companion of the cobbler. Leeming couldn’t imagine what they’d have to talk about. He was wondering with whom Hockaday had spent time before he came to see Verney and his wife.

‘Let me go back to a question I asked earlier,’ said Leeming.

‘Which one?’

‘How often do you see Mr Hockaday?’

‘He only comes every now and then.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘Shouldn’t you be back in Spondon, trying to catch that killer?’ asked the old man with a burst of anger. ‘It wasn’t Jed, I tell you. I’d swear to it.’

‘Why do you say that, sir?’

‘It’s because he only comes here when he has money to give us.’

‘Is he a relative of yours, Mr Verney?’

The old man looked over his shoulder to make sure that nobody inside the cottage could hear him, then he leant forward to confide in Leeming’s ear.

‘I’m Jed’s father.’

Harriet Quayle’s health had swiftly declined. Though there’d been no apparent ill effects from her sojourn in the grounds, she later became visibly unwell. Even though she was in a warm bed, she began to shiver. Her face whitened and her breathing was irregular. She complained of pain in her limbs. But the biggest change was in her attitude. Hitherto, she’d made an effort to cope with the devastating news of her husband’s murder and had even been able to go for a ride in the landau. It was almost as if the ugly truth had finally sunk in. She had lost the man who’d been beside her for so many years and who’d fathered her four children. Her grief was exacerbated by the fact that one of those children was no longer there to comfort her.

‘Mother is getting worse,’ said Agnes.

‘Give her something to help her sleep,’ advised her elder brother. ‘The doctor left those tablets.’

‘She’s rambling, Stanley. Her mind is crumbling.’

‘Stay with her. If Mother doesn’t improve, send for the doctor. I’ll look in on her when I get back.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve business in Nottingham.’

‘I feel so much better when you’re
here
– everybody does.’

‘Goodbye, Agnes.’

After brushing her cheek with a token kiss, he ignored her plea and left the house. The landau was waiting for him on the drive. Standing beside it and holding the door open was John Cleary. He acknowledged Stanley Quayle with a nod. After clambering into his seat, the passenger turned on the coachman.

‘Do you see what you did, Cleary?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ said the other, folding the step into position and closing the door.

‘Thanks to you, my mother is very ill.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘You should have considered her health before you agreed to take her for a drive. Her constitution was too weak for an outing.’

‘Mrs Quayle seemed well enough to me, sir.’

‘It wasn’t your place to make such a judgement.’

‘No, sir,’ said Cleary. ‘I know that.’

‘My mother left the house against the express wishes of my sister. You must have been aware of that when they came out together.’

‘I was too busy helping Mrs Quayle into her seat, sir.’

‘You’ve displeased me, Cleary,’ warned the other.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ said the coachman, earnestly, ‘and I didn’t think that it would do Mrs Quayle any harm. I was as worried as anybody when she disappeared. Well, you saw me, sir. I helped in the search for your mother and I was very relieved when she was found.’

Stanley Quayle looked at him with undisguised contempt. Unable to decide if the coachman was being honest or merely obsequious, he repeated his warning that Cleary’s job hung in the balance. If he was given the slightest cause for annoyance, Quayle would have him dismissed.

‘Do you understand, Cleary?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘When I make a threat, I always mean it.’

The coachman’s manner was courteous. ‘Yes, Mr Quayle.’

The passenger sat back in his seat and waved a lordly hand.

‘Take me to the railway station.’

Whether on the cricket field or off it, Gerard Burns always committed himself to the task in hand. In the time that he’d worked in the gardens at Melbourne Hall, he’d suggested a number of initiatives. Though some had inevitably been turned down, those that had been implemented proved to be universally successful. He was always looking for ways to improve vistas and add floral refinements. His latest project concerned the fountains and he was studying them yet again when he realised that he had a visitor. Robert Colbeck seemed to have materialised out of thin air.

‘I never expected to see you again, Inspector,’ said Burns.

‘I’d hoped it might not be necessary, sir.’

‘It’s not really convenient for me to talk now.’

‘Then I’ll wait for you in the police station, Mr Burns, and we can have the interview there. It might not be quite so private, I’m afraid.’

Colbeck’s threat had the desired effect. If Burns was seen giving a statement in the police station, it would soon become common knowledge. Several people were employed at the Hall. One of them was certain to catch wind of the development and taunting was sure to follow. If it was known that Burns was a suspect in a murder inquiry, his job might be at risk. Changing his mind, he led Colbeck to a quieter part of the garden and they sat on a bench in the sunshine.

‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’ asked the gardener.

‘I’m sure that you recall that cricket match in Ilkeston.’

‘Very clearly.’

‘I went there,’ said Colbeck, noting the look of surprise from the other man. ‘I have to say that I’ve seen better pitches.’

Burns recovered quickly. ‘If you took the trouble to check up on me, you’ll know that what I told you was the truth. I did play cricket there on that day.’

‘It’s not what you told me that’s at issue here, Mr Burns. It’s what you deliberately held back from me.’

‘And what was that?’

‘After the match, you took a train to Derby.’

Burns shrugged. ‘Is that a cause for suspicion?’

‘Why did you go there?’

‘That’s a personal matter.’

‘Did you go to see a friend or were you drawn there by an enemy?’

‘Speak more plainly, Inspector.’

‘If you were in Derby late that night, you were not far from Spondon.’

‘That doesn’t mean I went there.’

‘No, but it raises the possibility that you
could
have.’

‘I could have done all sorts of things.’

There was an underlying smugness in the reply that alerted Colbeck. He sensed that Burns had reverted to the posture he’d adopted at their first meeting when he’d been evasive and unhelpful. It was at their second encounter that he’d been far more honest. The gardener was behaving as if he’d expended his reserves of honesty and was falling back on prevarication. Waiting for the next question, he offered a challenging smile. Colbeck jolted him out of his complacency.

‘We’ve spoken to Miss Lydia Quayle.’

Burns was startled. ‘Where is she?’

‘The lady lives in London now, sir. I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting her myself but I’ve had a full report of what transpired.’ He could see the gardener’s extreme discomfort. ‘You may be relieved to know that Miss Quayle did not talk about you at any length.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘You belong to an episode in her life that she has left behind her.’

‘It’s the same in my case, Inspector.’

‘When we last spoke, you told me of a threat made against you. The same vile threat was repeated to Miss Quayle by her father. It was the final straw that broke the bond between them. And, of course,’ added Colbeck, ‘it severed the bond between you and the young lady.’

There was a lengthy pause. Burns gritted his teeth and looked him in the eye.

‘If you’re waiting for a comment,’ he said, eventually, ‘I don’t have one to make except to say that I wish Lydia … Miss Quayle well.’

‘I’ve no doubt that those are her sentiments with regard to you, sir.’

A note of aggression crept in. ‘So why are you really here, Inspector?’