Timetable of Death (6 page)

The short time that Victor Leeming spent with the gravedigger gave him more amusement than information. Over a pint of beer guzzled down at enormous speed, Bert Knowles told him that on the night in question he’d been drinking with friends at the Union Inn and, when he rolled out of there, a sense of duty made him walk to the
churchyard to make sure that the grave he’d dug for Cicely Peet was still sound and that none of the sides had caved in. When he got there, he claimed, he felt that somebody was watching him though he saw nobody even though he stayed in the churchyard for a long time. Knowles insisted that the invisible watcher must have been the killer, biding his time until it was safe to put the dead body into the ground.

Leeming felt sorry for the man. He earned a pittance as a labourer and work at the church was intermittent. But the sergeant was firm, telling him that the tale about a phantom in the dark was not worth one penny of the reward money. Knowles promptly burst out laughing, slapped him on the arm and said that his story, freely acknowledged as being fictitious, had been ‘worth a try’. Yet the purchase of a pint of beer for him had been a profitable investment. Thanks to Knowles, word of Leeming’s presence there would be quickly disseminated throughout the village. Those who felt they had something of importance to tell him would certainly do so when they read the reward notice. The sergeant was pleased with himself. In the space of a few hours, he’d befriended a reporter who’d given him a brief criminal history of Spondon, and a local character who was also a mine of information about the village.

Having walked back to the forge with Knowles, he waited until the labourer had taken the horse back to the farm then asked if he could speak to the blacksmith’s children. Walter Grindle agreed with the proviso that he had to be present. When he met Lizzie and Sam, Leeming realised that he’d get very little of value out of them. The girl kept collapsing in a flood of tears when she recalled her moment
of discovery and her brother was paralysed with fear in the presence of a detective from Scotland Yard. The interview with the children was mercifully short for all concerned.

As he strolled along the street Leeming heard the sound of running feet behind him. He stopped and turned so that a lanky, dishevelled man with unusually large and staring eyes could catch up with him. Leeming put his age close to forty.

‘Are you the sergeant?’ asked the man.

‘Yes, sir – who are you?’

‘My name is Barnaby Truss,’ said the other, breathlessly, ‘and I just had a word with Bert Knowles when he went past my shop. He’s an old friend and always stops if he sees me. I’m a glove-maker, sir, like many people in this village.’

‘What kind of gloves?’

‘
Silk
ones – the best you can buy.’

Leeming saw a chance to educate himself about local industry.

‘Someone mentioned a stocking frame. What exactly is that?’

‘Oh,’ said Truss, ‘you won’t find many of them in Spondon because this is a place for gloves. Happen you’ve heard the sound of our frames as you’ve walked along the street. They’re worked by hands and feet and make a lot of noise.’

Leeming was gratified to talk to someone who didn’t lapse into the dialect that he found incomprehensible. In every sense, Truss was a cut above Bert Knowles. The glove-maker read his mind.

‘Oh, I can talk the language as well as any of them, if I’ve a mind to,’ he explained, ‘but I’ve got ambitions, Sergeant.
I want to go into local politics in Derby one day. That means a lot of public speaking so I’ve took lessons. You can probably tell.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Leeming without conviction.

The only thing he could tell was that Truss’s ambitions were doomed. Of the man’s sincerity he had no doubt, but Truss was altogether too tentative and subdued for the cut-and-thrust of political debate. Besides, the staring eyes would frighten away any potential voters. However, the man’s commitment had to be applauded so the sergeant passed a few encouraging comments.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Truss?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got something to report.’

‘I can see that Mr Knowles has told you about the reward.’

‘Oh, I’m not looking for any money,’ said Truss as if hurt by the suggestion. ‘I’d just feel guilty if I didn’t report something I saw. Of course, it may be nothing to do with the murder but, then again, it just might.’

‘Go on, sir.’

‘Well, Sergeant, what I witnessed was this …’

As he launched into his story, Truss began to wave his hands about in the air as if showing off a pair of his silk gloves. The gestures were so inappropriate as to be another deadly strike against his hopes of ever making his mark in local government and Leeming felt that whoever had been giving the man instruction in public speaking had no right to take a fee for his service. The glove-maker’s evidence was markedly more interesting than the cock-and-bull story invented by Knowles. On the night when the murder occurred, Truss had been returning home when he saw
something that he first dismissed from his mind as being unimportant. In view of what had happened, he wondered if he’d instead accidentally bumped into the killer.

‘What time was this?’ asked Leeming.

‘Oh, it was well after midnight, Sergeant.’

‘That was rather late to be out, wasn’t it?’

The hands fluttered wildly like a pair of doves suddenly released from a cage.

‘I was … on my way home f-from a f-friend,’ said the other, introducing a stutter that had never been there before. ‘I was coming down Church Hill when I saw him.’

‘How far away was he, Mr Truss?’

‘It must have been twenty or thirty yards.’

‘Could you see him at all clearly in the dark?’

‘No, I couldn’t,’ replied the other, ‘but I saw enough to know that a man was pushing a wheelbarrow and that there was something in it covered with a cloth. I took no notice, to be honest, because it’s not an unusual sight in Spondon. We’ve had to wheel Bert Knowles home in a barrow more than once when he’s been drunk. But this barrow was heading for the church and the person pushing it was struggling as if he wasn’t used to doing anything like that. A dead body can be heavy. Suppose
that’s
what was under the cloth? I’ve been asking myself that ever since.’ His arms fell to his sides and he grinned inanely. ‘Was I right to tell you, Sergeant Leeming?’

‘You were indeed, Mr Truss, and I’m very grateful.’

‘Please don’t mention to anyone else that I told you. It could be … awkward for me, you see.’

Leeming suspected that the real awkwardness would be felt by the friend whom Truss had called on that evening.
From the man’s behaviour, he guessed that the glove-maker had had a rendezvous with a woman and that he was anxious to protect her from any gossip and embarrassment. After reassuring him, Leeming sent him on his way and reviewed what he’d just learnt. As he did so, he recalled the old adage that bad news always came in threes. Could it be equally true that good news also came in triplicate? That’s what had happened to the sergeant. Since he’d arrived in Spondon, he’d met Philip Conway, recruited Bert Knowles to his cause and heard about the nocturnal adventures of a glove-maker. He’d had three pieces of good news to pass on to Colbeck.

Something told him that the last of them was by far the best.

Robert Colbeck had enjoyed his visit to the tailor’s shop in Nottingham. He felt wholly at ease in such an environment and was so struck by the quality of items on display he had purchased a new cravat there. But it was the missing top hat that had taken him to the establishment and he left with a drawing of it in his pocket. Much as he’d liked Simon Hubbleday and revelled in their conversation, he’d been unable to prise from him all the information about the Quayle family that the tailor clearly knew. Hubbleday had been both discreet and professional, yielding a few details about his customers while holding many others back. Colbeck was certain that the man could have said far more about Stanley Quayle, for instance, and about the reason that drove one of his sisters away from the house.

His next port of call was the police station where a pleasant surprise awaited him. Having met with muted hostility from the Derbyshire Constabulary, in the person of Superintendent Wigg, he was given an affable welcome
by the duty sergeant, Thomas Lambert, who was quick to offer any help that he could. Lambert was a stolid man in his forties with a flat face enlivened by rosy cheeks and a pair of mischievous eyes. He seemed to radiate goodwill. Colbeck’s reputation ensured him a firm handshake.

‘Ask me anything you wish, Inspector,’ said Lambert, obviously thrilled to take part, albeit tangentially, in a murder investigation. ‘We knew Mr Quayle well. We want his killer brought to book.’

‘That’s a common objective for all of us, Sergeant.’

‘He was a kind and charitable man. At least, that was how we saw him. I don’t think there was much kindness and charity in his business life, mind. At meetings of the board of directors and such like, I daresay he’d have had to fight tooth and claw. Where big decisions need to be made, blood usually flows.’

‘What do you know of Donald Haygarth?’

Lambert sniffed. ‘I know little to his credit, Inspector.’

‘He was Mr Quayle’s rival.’

‘There were whispers he was hatching a plot to seize control of the company.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘You pick up things in this job,’ said Lambert, tapping the side of his nose.

‘How well do you know Mr Quayle’s family?’

Lambert grinned. ‘I’m not exactly on visiting terms at their house, but I’ve come across them all over the years. Mrs Quayle – God bless her – is a poor old dear who’s been dogged by all kinds of maladies. She’s a wealthy woman in her own right. Old money,’ he said, knowingly. ‘It’s the best kind, in some ways. Her husband made his fortune
out of coal and, since he sold so much of it to various railway companies, it was only natural that he should join the board of the Midland Railway. He was very rich. The Quayle family lives in style.’

‘I know,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve been to the house. It wasn’t the best time to call but I’d have appreciated slightly more cooperation than I was offered.’

‘That means you met Stanley Quayle.’

‘It was not a meeting of true minds. He was quite rude to me.’

‘He’s like that with most people, Inspector. He’s taken over the running of the coal mines from his father and it’s gone to his head. Fair’s fair, he very efficient and conscientious but – well, if you want it in plain language – he can be a bastard.’

‘What about his brother?’

The duty sergeant chuckled. ‘Lucas Quayle is an altogether different person,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘He’s open, friendly and full of life. In his younger days, he had a few brushes with the law but they were minor incidents and settled out of court. Marriage quietened him down a bit – that and his big brother.’

‘Does he work alongside Stanley?’

‘He works
beneath
him, sir.’

Lambert talked at length about the relationship between the two brothers before being forced to break off when two constables brought in a prisoner they were having great difficulty in controlling. The duty sergeant came out from behind his desk, pinioned the man’s arm behind his back and marched him off to one of the cells at the rear of the building. Colbeck heard the iron door clang shut.

‘I’m sorry about that, sir,’ he said when he returned. ‘That was Jake Daggett, a regular customer of ours. He hit the landlord of The Red Lion over the head with a chair this time.’ When a yell of rage came from the cell, Lambert closed the door to muffle the sound. ‘Now, then, where was I?’

‘You were telling me about the two brothers,’ Colbeck reminded him, ‘but what I really want to hear is something about the two sisters.’

‘If the two men are like chalk and cheese, Inspector, the two ladies are as different as coal and chocolate. I don’t mean this unkindly because she’s a good woman, by all accounts, but Agnes Quayle is as plain as a pikestaff. They say that she gave up her chances of marriage to look after her mother. If you ever meet her, you’ll see that any chances were very thin on the ground.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I speak as the father of two daughters. You’re always worried that they may be unable to find husbands and hang around your neck forever.’

‘Tell me about the elder sister.’

‘Lydia is a real beauty, sir – a lot of young men took an interest.’

‘Did she marry one of them?’

‘No, Inspector – and I’m only passing on a rumour here – she believed that she was already spoken for. However …’

‘Her parents opposed her choice,’ guessed Colbeck.

‘They did more than that. They packed her off to Europe on a tour and they sacked the fellow straight away. He was their head gardener.’

One mystery was solved. ‘It was Gerard Burns, I’ll wager.’

‘It was, indeed.’

‘That explains why Stanley Quayle was so angry when I mentioned him.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Why?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Was Burns such an ogre or did the family think that his low status made him a highly unsuitable attachment?’

‘I reckon they turned their noses up at him. Money does that to people. Nice as pie as he could be on the surface, Mr Quayle stamped out his daughter’s romance.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘I don’t rightly know, Inspector. Talk was that she’s in London.’

‘Apparently, there’s a doubt over her return for the funeral.’

‘She must come back for that,’ said Lambert with passion. ‘Her father was
murdered
, for heaven’s sake!’

‘Quite so.’

‘It’s unnatural.’

‘Let’s go back to Gerard Burns.’

Lambert pursed his lips. ‘Shame to see him go, Inspector.’

‘Why – did you know him?’

‘Not personally, but I watched him many a time. Do you have any interest in cricket, Inspector?’

‘Yes, I do,’ replied Colbeck. ‘I loved playing it in my younger days.’

‘Burns was not only a canny gardener,’ said Lambert, ‘he was the best bowler in the county. Nottinghamshire’s loss is Derbyshire’s gain.’

‘Is that where he went – over the border?’

‘He couldn’t stay here. Mr Quayle made that very clear.’

‘So where exactly is he?’

‘Oh, he’s fallen on his feet in one way,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s a promotion of a kind. He looks after the gardens at Melbourne Hall.’

Gerard Burns was a tall, lean, sinewy man in his thirties with a mop of fair hair imprisoned under his battered hat. The gardens under his aegis were among the finest in the county, comprising broad tracts of lawn, avenues of trees, explosions of colour in the flower beds and tasteful statuary. As he walked around the edge of the Great Basin, he watched the insects buzzing merrily above the water. Burns took great pride in his work and made every effort to maintain the high quality of grounds constructed a hundred and fifty years earlier after consultation with no less than the royal gardeners. He turned along a path that led to the ponds and saw two men busy with their hoes. One of them suddenly bent down to retrieve an object from behind a shrub. He held it up for Burns to see.

‘Iss thar ball the children lost,’ he called out. ‘You’d best ’ave this, Mr Burns. Catch it.’

He threw it high in the air but the head gardener caught it easily with one hand. Burns rolled the ball over in his palm. Aware of his skill on the cricket field, the undergardeners were both watching him expectantly. He obliged them with a demonstration. After walking away from it, he turned to face the Birdcage, the outstanding feature of the gardens, a large and elaborate wrought iron arbour created by a celebrated ironsmith at the start of the previous century and still retaining its full majesty. Burns, however, was not there to admire it. Having measured out his run-up, he set
off, accelerated, then flung the ball with all his strength. Flashing through the air, it struck the arbour and bounced harmlessly off. The undergardeners gave him a round of applause.

‘I told ter,’ said one of them to the other. ‘He’s like a strick o’ lightnin’.’

Victor Leeming was gazing reflectively into the empty grave in the churchyard. He tried to envisage what Vivian Quayle had looked like when he lay there on his back. Fortunately, the dead man had fitted into the cavity without difficulty. A much taller or broader corpse would have been crumpled up.

‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ asked the vicar, coming up beside him.

‘I’m just thinking.’

‘This is a day for contemplation. I made that point in my address.’

‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ said Leeming. ‘It was … very moving.’

‘Thank you. I’ve just come from the family. They’re still bemused by the suddenness of it all. A month ago, Mrs Peet was a healthy, active lady with decades ahead of her – or so it seemed. Then the headaches began and she went downhill with indecent haste. The brain tumour was a silent enemy growing in stealth. It’s ironic.’

‘What is, Vicar?’

‘Well, my dear wife is plagued by all sorts of minor ailments and has never been very robust, yet she will probably go on forever. A fit and lively person dies without warning while a near invalid soldiers on from year to year.’

‘Death can be very cruel.’

‘Yet it’s always the working out of God’s purpose. There must have been a reason why he called Mrs Peet into his presence. What that reason was, I’ve yet to decide.’ He looked across at the other grave, now hidden under a mound of fresh earth. ‘You, too, are still looking for reasons, of course.’

‘Yes,’ said Leeming, ‘I’m wondering how and why Mr Quayle ended up in Spondon. It’s the first thing I’ll ask the killer when we catch him.’

‘I spotted a reward notice on my way back here. It should bring results.’

‘It’s already brought your gravedigger to me.’

‘What did Bert Knowles have to say?’

‘Oh, he made up a story about being in here on the night of the murder and feeling that he was being watched. When I told him his evidence was worthless, he admitted he’d made the whole thing up and had a good laugh.’

The vicar sighed. ‘That’s typical of Knowles. He’s incorrigible.’

‘Actually, he was very helpful. He told someone why I was here and the man, a Mr Truss, came running to see me. He really did have something useful to say.’

‘Yes, I know Truss. He’s a sound, God-fearing fellow.’

‘Is he a married man?’

‘No,’ said the vicar, ‘he can be a little alarming until you get used to those eyes. I think he’s accepted that he holds no attraction for the gentler sex.’

Leeming didn’t disillusion him by telling him about Truss’s night-time activity. After taking the funeral then trying to comfort the family, Sadler was already in a delicate
state. The loss of faith in one of his parishioners would be painful to him and, in any case, Leeming would not break his promise to the glove-maker.

‘I really came to look for the marks of a wheelbarrow,’ he explained.

‘You won’t find many of those, I’m afraid. A lot of feet have trampled across the churchyard today.’

‘Some marks are still visible.’

‘Then they were put there by Bert’s wheelbarrow. It’s monstrously heavy but he shoves it around as if it’s as light as a feather.’ He turned to point. ‘He keeps it out of the way behind the tool shed.’

‘I know, Vicar. I made a point of finding it.’

‘Why do you have such a fascination with a rusting old wheelbarrow?’

‘I wanted to eliminate it,’ explained Leeming. ‘There are traces of it all over the place. But there’s also the marks of another wheelbarrow and they end right here beside the grave. Do you see, Vicar?’ He bent down to pat the earth. ‘This wasn’t made by the wheel on Knowles’s barrow. So I’m bound to ask where it did come from. Mrs Peet arrived for the funeral in a glass-panelled hearse,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if Mr Quayle got here in a meaner form of transport.’

When Lucas Quayle went in search of his brother, he found him seated at the desk in the study and flicking through the pile of papers he’d taken from a drawer.

‘What are you doing in here, Stanley?’ he asked.

‘I’m searching for Father’s will.’

‘Mother would tell you where that’s kept.’

‘She’s far too unwell to be bothered,’ said Stanley. ‘Besides, according to Agnes, the doctor has given her something to make her sleep. Mother needs rest.’

‘Are you certain that the will is actually here?’

‘I’m convinced of it.’

‘Father must have lodged it with his solicitor, surely.’

‘He’ll have kept his own copy. He did everything in duplicate.’

‘That’s true.’

Annoyed at the intrusion, he put the papers aside and rose to his feet.

‘Why do you need to bother me, Luke?’

‘There’s something we must discuss.’

‘If it’s what I think, you’re wasting your breath. That matter is long over and done with. Forget all about it.’

‘Lydia is our
sister
. We can’t just ignore that fact.’

‘She left this family of her own accord and she is not coming back to it.’

‘I disagree.’

Lucas Quayle usually lost any arguments with his brother because the latter had established his dominance over a long period. This time, however, the younger man would not give way. Tall and well built, he had something of his father’s good looks and had cultivated a similar moustache. The resemblance ended there. While Vivian Quayle had been wholly committed to his responsibilities as the owner of some profitable coal mines, his second son had been more wayward, embarking on two or three different careers before abandoning each in turn, and feeling the lash of his father’s tongue and that of his elder brother’s. It was only when he’d married after a succession of dalliances that he’d introduced
any stability into his life. It irked him that his brother still treated him like the aimless drifter he’d once been.