Timetable of Death (24 page)

‘Can you see the way that my train of thought is heading?’

‘Yes, Robert, I believe so. Until now, you were baffled by the fact that Mr Quayle had somehow ended up in that village. You now think that he had a good reason to be there.’

‘I’d go further than that, Madeleine. My guess is that he wasn’t killed elsewhere and taken to Spondon so that the body could be disposed of there.’

‘How do you explain his presence in the village, then?’

‘He went there deliberately because he was drawn to do so.’

‘Was he set on in Spondon?’

‘It’s beginning to look that way.’

‘So who was the killer, Robert?’

He leant forward to kiss her gently on the lips.

‘That’s the one thing the turntable was unable to tell me.’

As soon as she’d entered the house, Lydia Quayle had felt its suffocating effect. Any pleasant memories it might have held had been smothered beneath a pillow of pain and recrimination. Though he was no longer there, the place was still dominated by her father. She could hear his voice ringing in her ears. The reconciliation with her mother had brought Lydia a satisfaction fringed with despair at the old woman’s poor state of health. Except for Lucas, her relations with her siblings were uneasy. Agnes came close to resenting her return and Stanley had signalled his profound disapproval of what he saw as her air of independence. There was another blow to absorb. Vague hopes of hearing that Gerard Burns had been pining for her had been shattered by what the coachman had told her. The gardener was married and forever beyond her reach. Lydia was therefore in a house stalked by the ghost of her father and surrounded by an estate redolent of happier times with the man she’d loved and lost.

‘I’m sorry,’ she announced, ‘but I can’t spend the night here.’

‘But your old room has been prepared,’ said Agnes, crossly. ‘When you turned up unannounced, I gave order for it.’

‘You must stay, Lydia,’ said Lucas.

‘Yes,’ added Stanley, peremptorily. ‘The funeral is the day after tomorrow. We need you on the premises.’

‘I’ll be here for the funeral,’ promised Lydia, ‘but I won’t spend a night under this roof.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous – you
must
.’

‘No, Stanley. I will not.’

Lydia’s robust response led to an uncomfortable silence. The four of them were seated in the drawing room. Stanley had been reminding them about the arrangements for the funeral and assuming that Lydia would fall into line with the rest of them. Her minor act of rebellion angered him.

‘All that we’re asking is that you behave in a civilised manner.’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do,’ she said.

‘Life in London has obviously coarsened your manners.’

‘That’s unfair,’ insisted Lucas. ‘Lydia didn’t deserve such a comment.’

‘I agree with it,’ said Agnes.

‘Then you should have more sense.’

‘There’s no point in Lydia’s coming back unless she becomes one of the family again and she can’t do that if she refuses to spend a night here.’

‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ said Lydia.

‘What use is that?’

‘You should be here, mourning with us,’ said Stanley.

‘All that we’re doing at the moment is arguing,’ said
Lucas. ‘Lydia has her reasons for not wishing to remain here tonight and we should respect them.’

‘Thank you, Lucas,’ said Lydia.

‘Your return has made a world of difference to Mother.’

‘I haven’t noticed it,’ said Agnes, waspishly. ‘If anything, Mother is even worse since Lydia came back. I’ve had to give her some of her tablets.’

‘Well, I think that Lydia rallied her.’

‘That’s what you want to think, Lucas, because you were the one who got in touch with her again. Stanley and I would never have done such a thing.’

‘It’s true,’ confirmed Stanley.

‘Thank you for the warmth of your welcome,’ said Lydia with light sarcasm.

‘You see what I mean about her coarseness?’

‘Oh, don’t be so pompous, Stanley. You’re too young for pomposity.’

‘I disagree,’ said Lucas with a grin. ‘He’s been pompous since the age of five.’

‘And you’ve been frivolous since the day you were born,’ his brother retaliated with a sneer. He turned to Lydia. ‘Where will you stay?’

She did not wish to admit that she was going to the Royal Hotel in Derby to see her friend, Madeleine Colbeck, because they would wonder what the inspector’s wife was doing there and how she’d befriended their sister. That might cause problems for Colbeck and his wife, so Lydia feigned uncertainty.

‘I’ll find somewhere,’ she said.

‘You could always go to Aunt Dorothea,’ Stanley pointed out.

‘I could but I certainly won’t.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It’s because it would defeat the object of my leaving here. Aunt Dorothea is family. She lives less than five miles away. I’d still be trapped overnight in a part of the county with unfortunate associations for me,’ said Lydia. ‘I’d rather get well away from here.’

‘We should accept that,’ suggested Lucas.

‘I don’t accept it,’ said Stanley. ‘It smacks of desertion.’

‘Lydia always had to be different to the rest of us,’ said Agnes. ‘Let her go.’

‘I’d prefer her to stay.’

‘You’ve no call to stop me from leaving,’ said Lydia, looking from one to the other. ‘I’ve already sent word to the coachman to harness the phaeton. Cleary will take me to the railway station and I’ll make my decision there.’

During his many appearances in court, Victor Leeming had watched the reaction of criminals as they were sentenced. Some were impassive and others attempted boldness but the majority were plainly terrified. When he was told to accompany Tallis back to London, he’d belonged to the third category, responding to his dire sentence with a quivering fear. The superintendent was in a vengeful mood. Suffering pain and deprived of the pleasure of leading a murder investigation, he’d be a scary companion on the train journey. Leeming prayed that they’d occupy a compartment with other passengers so that Tallis’s fire would be banked down somewhat. In fact, the superintendent chose an empty compartment in which he could, if he so wished, rant and rave at will.

Yet the anticipated tirade never came. Tallis was calm and reasonable.

‘I have this feeling about Burns,’ he said.

‘Do you, sir?’

‘It’s a feeling I’ve had before when I’ve been questioning a suspect. All of a sudden, I
know
that he or she has committed the crime. That’s what happened at Melbourne Hall. A sense of certainty welled up inside me.’

‘What should we do about him?’

‘Gather more evidence then perform the arrest.’

Tallis was no longer troubled so much by his injury. At Leeming’s suggestion, he was reclining lengthways on the seat so that his feet were off the floor. While the pain was dulled, his mind was stimulated.

‘Who did he see on the night of the murder?’ he asked.

‘He wouldn’t tell the inspector that.’

‘He refused to give me a name as well and I can guess why. He didn’t wish to disclose the identity of his accomplice.’

‘Would it have needed two of them?’ said Leeming. ‘Burns is powerful enough on his own, surely.’

‘He’s hiding someone, Sergeant. I want to know who he is.’

‘How do you know it’s a man?’

‘It would hardly be a woman, would it?’

‘If he wanted someone to assist in a murder, he’d probably choose a man. But perhaps he went to Derby that night for a different reason altogether. Suppose that he paid a visit to a woman?’

‘Adultery!’ exclaimed Tallis, making it sound a crime more heinous than any in the statute book. ‘No, I got no sense of that. He’s concealing an accessory.’

‘You could be mistaken, sir.’

‘The feeling I get rarely lets me down.’

Leeming was less dogmatic. He’d had a similar conviction about suspects on many occasions and it had often been misplaced. As a result, he’d learnt to be more cautious before he actually arrested anyone.

‘I had that same feeling until today, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘I was almost ready to let Mr Hockaday feel my handcuffs click into place.’

‘Is he that cobbler?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What held you back?’

Leeming told him about the visit to Duffield and the discovery of the father.

‘Why didn’t he give you that information at the start?’

‘It’s because he has
another
father,’ explained Leeming. ‘Seth Verney, a farm labourer, is his real father but the son was born out of wedlock. He was brought up by a Mr and Mrs Hockaday who live twenty miles beyond Duffield. That’s where he went first on the night of the murder and on the day that I followed him. When he realised that I’d spoken to Mr Verney, he begged me not to reveal his true parentage because it would destroy his reputation in the village.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I did, sir. For once, he was being honest with me.’

‘Why did he keep in touch with the father who abandoned him?’

‘That was a surprise to me,’ said Leeming. ‘Most sons would feel betrayed but Hockaday took the trouble to find out who his real parents were. The mother was a kitchen maid who died in childbirth but the father, Mr Verney, was still alive. When he discovered that his real father had fallen
on hard times, Hockaday used to give small amounts of money to him and his wife.’

‘What did the wife think about that?’

‘Mrs Verney was told that he was her husband’s nephew. She didn’t know that her husband had a child before he married. That was the reason Mr Verney made sure he was not overheard when he confided to me that he was Hockaday’s father.’

‘Lust is a fearful thing,’ said Tallis. ‘You see the deception it causes?’

‘I was the person deceived, Superintendent. I had a feeling that Hockaday was the killer and I was hopelessly wrong about him. You might be wrong about Burns.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘You’ve made errors of judgement before.’

‘If you’re referring to the fact that I promoted you to the rank of sergeant,’ warned Tallis, ‘you may be right. I thought you would be reliable and respectful.’

‘I strive to be both, sir.’

‘Then let’s have no more questioning of my judgement.’

‘No,’ said Leeming. ‘Thanks to you, the killer has finally been named.’

‘Remind the inspector of that when you return to Derby.’

‘Is there no chance that I could go home to see my wife first?’

‘What!’ roared Tallis.

Leeming went into retreat. ‘Forget that I said that, sir.’

‘You’re a detective, not a doting husband. Domestic concerns must be put aside when you’re on duty. It’s a strict edict of mine, Leeming, as you well know. There is no place whatsoever for a wife in a murder investigation.’

After listening to his copious notes, Madeleine Colbeck felt that she was well versed in the intricacies of the case. Her husband had collected a mass of material during his time in the town and she was grateful to be there when an important new development had taken place. Colbeck was embarrassed that he knew so little about the family of Cicely Peet. He promised to repair his ignorance quickly. Meanwhile, he’d been liberated from any fear of bumping into Tallis at the hotel so he felt able to take his wife downstairs on his arm. They arrived in the foyer at the same time as Lydia Quayle and the two women embraced affectionately. Standing back, Madeleine introduced her husband.

‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Quayle,’ said Colbeck.

‘And I’m delighted to meet you, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘Madeleine has given me the most flattering biography of you.’

‘Pay no attention to her.’

‘Every word was true,’ said Madeleine.

‘Let Miss Quayle be the judge of that,’ said Colbeck, indicating the lounge. ‘Shall we go somewhere more comfortable?’

When they were seated together in a corner of the room, they ordered drinks from the waiter. Colbeck was able to appraise the newcomer properly and had the same reaction as his wife and Victor Leeming. Lydia was a striking young woman. Her self-possession reminded him of Madeleine when they first met and it was not the only resemblance. When he asked why she’d chosen to stay at the hotel instead of at her home, Lydia was not afraid to tell him the
truth. The drinks soon arrived and they engaged in casual conversation for a while. Colbeck then ventured on to a more serious subject.

‘Miss Quayle,’ he began, ‘I’m fully aware of the reservations you have about your father but I’d like, if I may, to ask some questions about him.’

‘You may ask whatever you wish, Inspector,’ she said, tensing slightly. ‘I want the killer caught.’

‘We all want that,’ said Madeleine.

‘Have you ever heard of a Mrs Cicely Peet?’ asked Colbeck.

Lydia shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t. Who is she?’

‘She was the lady buried in the churchyard where your father’s body was found. Inconveniently, he was occupying the grave dug for her.’

‘How eerie!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mrs Peet was not mentioned in the newspaper reports I saw. What do you know about her?’

‘I was hoping that
you
could tell
me
.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’

‘What about the husband, Roderick Peet?’

‘That name is new to me as well, I’m afraid.’

‘Mr Peet is a well-respected member of the local gentry. You can imagine how he felt when he learnt that his wife’s grave contained the body of a murder victim. He insisted that another one should be dug for her.’

‘I don’t blame him,’ said Madeleine.

‘Neither do I,’ added Lydia. ‘Where is all this leading, Inspector?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to establish,’ he said. ‘It’s my belief that the choice of Spondon was not accidental. Your
father had some as yet unknown link with the village or with the Peet family. It may be, for instance, that Roderick Peet was a former business associate of his.’

‘You’d have to ask my brothers about that, Inspector. I know nothing about my father’s business affairs beyond the fact that they consumed every minute of his time. Our mother once told me she felt more like his widow than his wife.’

‘Unfortunately, that’s the role now assigned to her.’

‘I did get to meet some of Father’s business associates,’ said Lydia, searching her memory, ‘but I can’t recall a Mr Peet. It’s a name I’d remember. Father liked to use my sister and myself at social gatherings. We had to be nice to certain people.’

‘That must have been a trial,’ said Madeleine.

‘It was – we both hated it.’

‘Did your father ever talk about Spondon to you?’

‘No, he never did.’

‘So what was he doing there that night?’

‘More to the point,’ said Colbeck, ‘who was with him?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Lydia.

‘What sort of man was he?’

‘I’ve already told you how badly he treated me.’