Timetable of Death (26 page)

‘Will you give my apology to him?’

‘Have no fear, Victor. I’ll take care of Mr Conway for you.’

It was dark when Philip Conway came out of the Union Inn. The stiff breeze was like a slap on the face that reminded him just how much he’d drunk in the course of the evening. His legs were rubbery and he took a moment to steady himself. Since he would be working on another story the next day, he’d done his utmost to gather a few last clues relating to the murder. Though he went to three public houses in a row, he heard nothing of consequence from any of the patrons there. Everyone was glad to see him and to offer their versions of what must have happened on the night in question but no hard facts emerged. The large reward had failed to produce the significant evidence needed.

Before leaving the town, Conway decided to take a last look at the churchyard where the body of the murder victim had been found. Letting himself in through the gate, he walked across to the plot where Cicely Peet should have been buried. When he’d passed it earlier, the grave was still yawning wide. During his time in the village, it had somehow been filled in. Conway bent down and took up a handful of earth before letting it fall through his fingers. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. When the blow struck him on the head, he pitched forward on the ground and lapsed immediately into unconsciousness.

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.