Timetable of Death (7 page)

‘I think that we should get in touch with Lydia,’ he declared.

‘I won’t hear of it.’

‘She has a right to be here, Stanley.’

‘Lydia spurned this family and lost all claim on it as a result. When I finally find the will, I’ll guarantee that her name is never mentioned in it.’

‘Our sister is not expecting it to be. She and Father … broke apart decisively. I accept that. But the nature of his death will surely wipe away the old bitterness. Lydia needs to be told that she’s welcome in this house again.’

Stanley stamped a foot. ‘It will never happen while I’m here.’

‘Think of Mother. She’d want to see her daughter.’

‘Don’t drag Mother into this. I’m the head of the household now and my writ runs here. No more argument, Luke,’ he affirmed. ‘Lydia is
persona non grata
here.’

His brother was appalled. ‘Do you hate her so much?’

‘I don’t even acknowledge her existence.’

‘What’s happened to you, Stanley? You’ve changed since you took over the mines. Father could be callous when forced to be but you make a virtue of it. I don’t have to ask Mother or Agnes how they feel. I know that, in their hearts, they’re ready to forgive and forget. They’d love to see Lydia again.’

‘Well, it won’t happen.’

‘You can’t keep her away from the funeral if she chooses to come.’

‘Yes, I can. I’ll see that she’s refused entry to the church.’

‘Would you really
do
such a thing?’ asked his brother.

‘I’m confident that it won’t come to that,’ said the other, softening slightly, ‘but I’ll do what Father would have wanted and that’s to shun her completely. As for getting in touch with Lydia, we don’t even know where she is.’

‘I do,’ said the other.

For a few seconds, his brother was stunned. His eyes smouldered and, when he spoke again, his voice was dripping with accusation.

‘You
dared
to maintain a correspondence with her?’ Stanley grabbed his brother’s lapels.

‘I’m entitled to make my own decisions about Lydia.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

Lucas waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘How
long
, I asked?’ demanded his brother.

‘I tracked her down a few months ago.’

‘Whatever for?’ he shouted, veins standing out on his temples.

‘I was curious.’

Stanley Quayle released him and stood back, eyeing him with complete disgust. Before he could say anything, there was a tap on the door and the butler entered with a telegraph. Aware of the taut atmosphere, he simply handed it to the elder brother and left at once.

‘If it’s a telegraph, it must be important,’ said Lucas Quayle.

After glaring at him, his brother tore open the missive and glanced at it.

‘The post-mortem has been completed,’ he said, curtly. ‘Father’s body will be released to us tomorrow.’

Staying at the Malt Shovel was a mixed blessing. While he enjoyed its food and relished its beer, Victor Leeming found himself under siege. At the end of the working day, a stream of people came in turn to see him, each with what they felt was information worthy of attention and, possibly, of reward. Some of it was clearly fabricated and therefore easily dismissed, some was so confused as to be of no help at all and the rest was well meant but irrelevant. In the interests of maintaining goodwill, however, he took down all the statements and thanked each witness. When there was a lull in activity, he was tempted to slip off to his room but another person came through the door, a basket-maker from Potter Street. He was an old man with watery eyes and a croaking voice but his memory seemed unimpaired. Having taken his dog out for a walk on the night in question, the basket-maker recalled seeing a man pushing a wheelbarrow towards the church. He was too far away to see what was in the barrow but said that it was moving slowly.

Leeming was so glad for the corroboration of Barnaby Truss’s evidence that he bought the man a drink. He then retired to his room to sift through the statements he’d taken in the course of the day and to have a quiet moment alone. His escape was short-lived. The landlord pounded on the door before flinging it open.

‘There’s someone to see you, sir,’ he grunted.

‘Tell him to wait.’

‘He said he’d come up here, if you prefer.’

‘This room is not big enough for two of us,’ complained Leeming. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll come down at once,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘But I can’t spend the whole evening
down there. The world and his wife want to see me.’

When he clattered down the stairs, he was in a resigned mood but his face brightened when he saw who his visitor was. Colbeck was seated at a table in the corner with two tankards of beer on it.

‘This is good,’ he said, taking another sip. ‘What about the food?’

‘It’s wholesome, sir.’

‘How does it compare with the menu at the Royal Hotel?’

‘The pork pie is grand but the choice is a bit limited.’

After taking the seat opposite Colbeck, the sergeant downed the first couple of inches of his beer before using the back of his hand to wipe the froth from his mouth. He gave an abbreviated account of his day and was pleased with the way that Colbeck complimented him on his visit to the churchyard to search for marks of a barrow.

‘This could be an important sighting,’ said the inspector.

‘It was verified by a second man.’

‘Then you have to find out if someone else was abroad at that time of night. What’s the latest train to get into Spondon? Who was on it and which way did they walk home? I suppose it’s not unusual for someone to be pushing a wheelbarrow about in a village like this.’

‘It is if there’s a dead body in it, sir.’

‘We don’t know that for certain.’

‘What else could he have been taking up that hill?’

‘Did anyone actually see him enter the churchyard?’

‘No,’ conceded Leeming, ‘but I found those wheel marks there. They were quite deep and obviously caused by a heavy load. Anyway,’ he went on, taking another long drink, ‘what have you been up to, sir?’

‘Oh, it’s been a full day.’

Colbeck’s version of events was concise and lucid. He talked about his visit to Nottingham and what he’d learnt there about the Quayle family. He’d returned to Derby, called in at the hotel and found an important letter awaiting him.

‘What was it, sir?’

‘It was a copy of the post-mortem report, Victor. It appears that the victim was sedated before he was injected with a poison. Since he’s not an expert toxicologist, the man who conducted the post-mortem was not entirely sure of all the elements in that poison but his conclusion is that death would have been fairly swift. Whoever killed Mr Quayle knew exactly what he was doing.’

Lost in thought, Lydia Quayle walked along the Thames embankment in the fading light of a warm evening. She was torn between family loyalty and an abiding hatred, nudged by an impulse to return home for the funeral yet repelled by the memory of the man who would be lowered into his grave. Years of deep anger could not be so easily laid to rest. When she’d made the decision to leave Nottingham and all its associations behind her, she’d vowed never to return, trying to create a new life for herself elsewhere. Lydia had even persuaded herself that she was happy being independent and free from the dictates of others. But the move to London had not been without its disappointments and limitations. It had taken her time to adapt to them.

When she first saw the newspaper report about the murder of her father, she’d felt an instant elation and wanted to meet the killer in order to thank him for doing something that she had considered doing in her darkest moments. Shame had quickly set in, to be replaced by a
distant pity but that, too, had soon evaporated. Recalling what her father had done and – above all – said to her, the bitterness had returned afresh. Devoid of love for him, she could not even find an ounce of regret, still less of forgiveness. If she went back home, it would be to rejoice in his death.

Lydia made an effort to put her father aside and to consider the other members of her family. Her mother might be glad to see her, though she’d offered her elder daughter little support when the turmoil had occurred. On the other hand, she was a sick woman and that had been taken into account. She’d had no strength to oppose the wishes of her husband or to protect Lydia in some way and had therefore appeared to condone what was going on. Stanley would certainly not welcome her and might even forbid her to enter the house. He was simply a younger version of their father with the same implacable resentment towards her. Nor would Stanley’s wife speak up for her. She was far too dutiful and submissive.

Agnes lacked the spirit or the desire to stand up against her elder brother. She and Lydia had never been close. They had played together as young children but any bond between them had soon been stretched to breaking point. Lydia had been the clear favourite of their parents and of the wider family. She was more attractive, appealing, intelligent and venturesome. Living in her sister’s shadow, Agnes had been almost invisible. Since Lydia had shown little care or sympathy for her, she could expect none in return. In the years since she’d been cut off from her family, Lucas was the only member of it that she really missed. Significantly, he was the one who had got in touch with her.

While she had never really enjoyed the company of her sister or her elder brother, Lydia still had fond memories of Lucas Quayle. He was bright, engaging and had a streak of wildness that had got him into trouble in earlier days. Agnes had been horrified by some of his escapades and Stanley had been as outraged as their father but Lydia had always admired his youthful bravado and was sorry that it had slowly been suppressed. She and her younger brother had too much in common to grow completely apart. Lydia decided that she would like to see him again, but he was only one member of the family and she had good reason to avoid the others. On balance, therefore, she felt that it would be wiser to stay away from Nottingham.

Preoccupied as she was, Lydia hardly felt a shoulder brush hers.

‘Oh,’ said the man, raising his top hat, ‘I do apologise.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ she murmured.

‘It was my mistake.’

His voice was soft and educated and her first impression was that he was a polite, well-dressed man of middle years who’d been strolling harmlessly along the embankment when he’d made unintended contact with her. Lydia then saw the look in his eyes. It was no accident. Mistaking her for a prostitute, he had deliberately sought her out. His gaze was a compound of interest, invitation and sheer lust. A burning disgust coursed through her whole body but a stronger emotion followed. What she saw in front of her was not a complete stranger but the figure of her father, compact, stern, arrogant and entitled to everything he wanted in the way that he wanted it. As the man smiled at
her and offered his arm, she pushed him angrily away and emitted a long, loud, high-pitched scream of pure hatred.

‘How much do you know about the Midland Railway?’ asked Haygarth.

‘I’m more well-informed than most people, I fancy.’

‘Big changes have taken place in the last decade.’

‘They were forced upon you, Mr Haygarth.’

‘I’d rather draw a veil over our former manager, if you don’t mind. George Hudson did wonderful things for us in the early days, one must acknowledge that, but he … left us with problems. That chapter in our history is closed.’

‘The succeeding one had much to recommend it.’

‘We like to think so.’

‘Mr Ellis was the ideal choice as your chairman.’

To Haygarth’s chagrin, Colbeck gave a brief and accurate outline of the recovery of the Midland Railway under its recently retired chairman, thereby robbing the other man of the chance to lay claim to some of the improvements. With Maurice Cope in attendance, they were at the company headquarters, Haygarth occupying the chair behind the desk like a usurper seated on a throne. He and Cope had been impressed and sobered by the inspector’s detailed knowledge of the history of the Midland. It warned them that they could not make unjustified assertions without being challenged by him.

After explaining what he’d done the previous day, Colbeck told them that Sergeant Leeming had made what appeared to be progress in Spondon itself. While Haygarth was pleased to hear it, Cope made no comment and remained watchful.

‘What it all boils down to,’ said Colbeck in conclusion, ‘is this. Should we be looking for someone inside the company or outside it?’

‘Oh, outside it, surely,’ bleated Cope, breaking his silence.

‘Do you agree, Mr Haygarth?’

‘You must leave no stone unturned,’ replied the other, sonorously.

‘Does that include
Enoch
Stone?’ asked Colbeck, unable to resist the comment and swiftly apologising for it. ‘So I have complete access to the company?’

‘Of course – Cope will make sure of that, Inspector.’

‘Yes,’ said Cope with a marked absence of enthusiasm. ‘You may call on me.’

‘During my brief conversation with him,’ said Colbeck, ‘Stanley Quayle was of the opinion that his father might have had enemies among his fellow directors. I’m not suggesting in any way that you incited them to commit murder, Mr Haygarth, but passions can run high in a contest and you wouldn’t be the first person embarrassed by the zeal of one of your supporters.’

‘I accept that,’ said Haygarth, urbanely, ‘but you’ll find no killers in my camp, Inspector. They are all law-abiding individuals.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ added Cope.

‘Then you’ll be happy to give me a list of all board members,’ said Colbeck.

‘Well …’ Cope looked for a prompt from Haygarth.

‘We’ll be quite happy,’ said the acting chairman. ‘We have nothing to hide.’ He shot Cope a glance before turning back to Colbeck. ‘What help have you had from Superintendent Wigg?’

‘Not a great deal,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Apart from the fact that he sent a copy of the post-mortem report, he’s done very little beyond mocking me for claiming that I had the name of a suspect.’

‘Oh?’

‘It was written on the back of a reward notice and delivered to my hotel. When I mentioned the name to the superintendent, he said the man probably never existed.’

‘And does he?’

‘Oh, yes. Stanley Quayle confirmed that.’

‘Who is the fellow?’

‘Gerard Burns.’

Haygarth frowned. ‘I’ve heard that name before somewhere.’

‘I gather that he’s a talented cricketer.’

‘Ah, that’s it, of course!’ said the other, snapping his fingers. ‘I have no interest in cricket myself but Vivian Quayle had something of an obsession about it. Burns was his head gardener, I think. Every summer Mr Quayle used to host a couple of cricket matches. His elder son, Stanley, used to captain a team made up largely from household servants and the estate staff. Because of this man, Gerard Burns,’ said Haygarth, ‘they won every match.’

‘He was good enough to represent the county, I hear.’

‘That may well be so, Inspector.’

‘Why was he named as a suspect?’ asked Cope.

‘He was dismissed by Mr Quayle,’ said Colbeck. ‘To get rid of his finest cricketer, he must have had good reason. I’m told that Burns left in disgrace.’

‘I knew nothing of that,’ claimed Haygarth. ‘Vivian Quayle and I saw very little of each other socially so I was
not aware of events at his home any more than he knew about my private life. What about you, Cope?’

‘The name is entirely new to me, sir.’

‘Are you taking him seriously as a suspect, Inspector?’

‘I must do,’ replied Colbeck. ‘He appears to have had a motive and, being young and strong, would have the means to overpower his victim. Whether or not he had the opportunity to do so, of course, is another matter.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He works in the garden at Melbourne Hall. I’ll visit him today.’

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Haygarth. ‘You’ll be in exalted company. Do you know who happens to live at Melbourne Hall?’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t.’

‘It’s the prime minister – Lord Palmerston.’

Having taken the wheelbarrow from the churchyard, Victor Leeming had borrowed two sacks of potatoes from a greengrocer so that he was pushing a substantial weight. He even covered them with a cloth. He took his cargo to the bottom of the hill and began the slow ascent. In reconstructing what he believed might have been the route taken by the killer, he hoped that he might jog the memory of a passer-by who’d happened to have been in the vicinity on the night of the murder. Disappointingly, the only villagers he encountered were two old ladies and a postman. They all asked him what he was doing but none was of any help to him.

The load was heavy and even someone of Leeming’s considerable strength was feeling the strain. Before he
reached the gate to the churchyard, he was confronted by a big, broad, rugged man in his thirties with a swagger. The newcomer was carrying a pair of riding boots.

‘You must be Sergeant Leeming,’ he said with a lazy grin.

‘That’s right. Who might you be?’

‘Oh, I’m Jed Hockaday, sir. I’m a cobbler by trade but I was also sworn in as a special constable, so you might say we’re in the same business. What are you doing?’

‘Were you anywhere near here on the night of the murder?’

‘No, sir, I was visiting friends in Duffield.’

‘Then you’re of no use to me.’

Hockaday was wounded. ‘Don’t say that, Sergeant. I was hoping you’d call on me. I’ve been involved in a murder case before, you see.’

‘Was that the one involving Enoch Stone?’

‘Yes – he was a good friend of mine.’

‘I was told he was killed by a traveller.’

‘No, no,’ argued the other man. ‘The murderer lives here in Spondon. I’d swear to that. Most folk in this village are good, kind, honest people. They’d do anything to help someone in a spot of bother. Then there are the others,’ he went on, glancing around, ‘those who keep themselves to themselves. You never know who’s hiding behind a closed door, do you, or what they might be planning? I hate to say it because I’ve probably mended his shoes at some point, but Enoch’s killer is one of us.’

Leeming had seen enough of Hockaday to realise that he was a man of limited intelligence. His sheer bulk and his willingness had recommended him for police work and he would be very effective at dealing with anyone in a brawl.
As an assistant in a murder investigation, however, he would be a handicap.

‘I’ll be standing by all the time, Sergeant,’ said the cobbler. ‘You’re staying at the Malt Shovel, aren’t you? My shop is farther along Potter Street.’

‘Thank you. I’ll remember that.’

‘A man dressed like you shouldn’t be pushing a wheelbarrow. Would you like me to take over from you?’

Leeming was affronted. ‘No, I wouldn’t. I can manage on my own.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to it and deliver these boots. Remember my name.’

‘I will, Mr Hockaday.’

‘Everyone here calls me Jed.’

He treated Leeming to another lazy grin then swaggered off. Though there was a link between them, Hockaday was no Philip Conway. Both men were excited to make the acquaintance of a Scotland Yard detective. While the young reporter was a reliable source of information, however, the cobbler was better left to his trade. In the hands of such amateur constables, Leeming believed, the murder of Enoch Stone would remain unsolved until Doomsday. Grasping the handles of the barrow again, he gave it a shove and it creaked into action but he did not get as far as the church. A horse and cart came into view with a pungent load of manure piled high on it. The driver was enraged by what he saw.

‘Leave my barrer alone!’ yelled Bert Knowles. ‘Thass stealin’, thar is.’

Since the railway had yet to reach Melbourne, Colbeck was obliged to take the train to the nearest station then hire a
cab. It took him through rolling countryside with pleasing vistas wherever he looked. Derby might be a railway town, with its works contributing liberally to the regular din, smoke and grime, but whole areas of the county were still untouched by industry. Colbeck found the leisurely journey both restorative and inspiring. Melbourne was a small village in the Trent valley that still retained its rustic charm. Standing at the south-east end, the Hall was by far the largest and most striking house in the area, a fitting place of residence for a prime minister. The cab went down the hill towards it, giving Colbeck the opportunity to see the smaller houses and cottages of ordinary mortals.

When he reached the house, his attention instead went straight to the church of St Michael with St Mary, standing close to the stables and the servants’ quarters of the Hall. One of the finest Norman churches in the kingdom, it was a truly magnificent structure with a size and quality worthy of a cathedral. Colbeck promised himself that he would take a closer look at the place before he left Melbourne. The Hall itself was an arresting edifice in an idyllic setting. Its origins were medieval but it had fallen into such a state of disrepair during the later years of Elizabeth’s reign that its new owner had pulled down and rebuilt large parts of it. Substantial alterations were also made in the next century and, over the years, each new owner felt the urge to stamp his mark upon the house.