Timetable of Death (8 page)

Colbeck was unable to take in all the architectural felicities. He was there simply to speak to the head gardener. The garrulous housekeeper insisted on telling Colbeck that Melbourne Hall actually belonged to the former Emily Lamb who’d inherited it from her brother, Frederic, who
had himself acquired the place at the death of his elder brother, William Lamb, erstwhile Lord Melbourne, another prime minister. Colbeck didn’t wish to alarm her by saying that he was treating the head gardener as a murder suspect so he merely said that he hoped Gerard Burns would be able to help him with enquiries relating to an estate in Nottinghamshire on which he once worked.

When he met the gardener himself, he was able to be more forthright. After introducing himself, he explained exactly why he had come to Melbourne. Gerard Burns stared at him with what seemed like genuine surprise.

‘Mr Quayle is
dead
?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘Have you not heard the news?’

‘How could I? We are very cut off here.’

‘Reports of the murder have been in all the newspapers, Mr Burns.’

‘I’ve no time to read newspapers, Inspector. Looking after these gardens takes up all of my time.’ With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the grounds. ‘It’s hard work to keep them in this condition all the time.’

‘You’re obviously very proficient at your trade, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Though I suspect it’s rather like the one in which I’m engaged. It’s never possible to master it because one always has to learn new things.’

‘That’s very true of horticulture,’ said Burns, ‘because new plants and shrubs arrive from abroad all the time. You have to learn how to nurture them. Then there are the new ways they keep inventing to kill weeds.’

Burns spoke openly but there was an underlying surliness in his voice and manner. He clearly wanted to be left alone
to get on with his job. What he least wanted to do was to talk about his time with the Quayle family but Colbeck needed answers and pressed on.

‘Where were you three nights ago, sir?’ he asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Were you here in Melbourne?’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ admitted the other. ‘I went over to Ilkeston to play cricket.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about your prowess as a bowler. I believe that you played for the county when you lived in Nottinghamshire.’

Burns smiled. ‘We beat the All-England team once. I took seven wickets.’

‘And you also played for a team organised by Mr Quayle, I’m told.’ The glowing pride vanished instantly from the gardener’s face. ‘Thanks to you, victory was assured every time. What sort of a captain was Stanley Quayle?’

‘That world is long behind me, Inspector.’

‘I should imagine that he liked to throw his weight around.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Burns, sharply, ‘I’d rather not talk about all that.’

‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to, sir. Otherwise, I may have to invite you to accompany me to the nearest police station where we can have a more formal interview. A pleasant chat out here in these wonderful gardens is surely preferable to that, is it not?’ Burns gave a reluctant nod. ‘Why did you leave Mr Quayle’s employ?’

‘I think you already know that.’

‘All I have is one side of the story. I’d like to hear yours.’

‘It was a mistake,’ said Burns, vehemently. ‘I broke their
rules and I was dismissed. When you work for people like that, there are lines you’re never allowed to cross. I strayed over them and paid the penalty. Mr Quayle not only had me thrown off the estate, he made sure that I’d never get another job in the county again.’

‘So how did you end up here?’

‘One of the gentlemen who ran the county cricket team had some influence here. He gave me a letter of introduction and I was taken on. When the head gardener retired, I’d done enough to show that I could replace him.’

‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ observed Colbeck, looking around. ‘But you must have had regrets when you left your former post.’

Burns shifted his feet. ‘I had no regrets on my own account.’

‘Yet I daresay you felt sorry for the lady herself.’

‘That’s as maybe, Inspector.’

‘Have you seen Miss Lydia Quayle since?’

There was a studied pause. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Did you
want
to see her?’

‘As I told you,’ snapped Burns, ‘that world is behind me. I’ve put down roots here. I’m married now. I’ve got all I want.’

Colbeck took a long, hard look at him. Burns met his gaze with a mingled bitterness and defiance. Someone had identified him as a killer and there were aspects of his character that easily qualified him for the role. Yet he’d taken pains to distance himself from the Quayle family and had started afresh in a quiet, rural refuge. Colbeck wondered just how deep his acrimony still was.

‘That’s a beautiful church you have on your doorstep, Mr Burns.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Do you worship there?’

‘My wife and I go most Sundays.’

‘Then you’re obviously acquainted with Christian virtues,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m going to take a look inside the church. It will give you time to think over what you’ve told me. Some of it is very plausible yet I have a nagging sensation of being deceived. When I come back, I hope that you’ll realise the importance of being completely honest with me. See it as an opportunity of getting something off your chest.’

‘I’ve nothing new to add, Inspector,’ insisted Burns.

‘In that case, you might wish to subtract from your statements.’

‘You’ll be wasting your time if you come bothering me again.’

‘We can talk about cricket,’ said Colbeck, airily. ‘That’s never a waste of time, is it? If you played against the All-England XI, you’ll no doubt have encountered the redoubtable Mr Stephenson.’

Burns straightened his shoulders. ‘I bowled him out.’

‘Why did H. H. Stephenson play for that team when Gerard Burns did not?’

‘Gardening’s what I love. Cricket’s just for fun.’

Colbeck appraised him again. Lydia Quayle’s romance with him was understandable. Apart from his physical attractions, Burns was well spoken, self-possessed and highly skilled. The inspector was bound to wonder which of them had made the first move. Had he set his cap at one of the daughters of the house or had she been the one to initiate things? Colbeck would be interested to find out.

‘When I told you about Mr Quayle’s death,’ he recalled, ‘you were surprised but there was no other reaction from you.’

‘Why should there be?’

‘Don’t you feel even the slightest regret at his murder?’

‘No,’ said Burns, stoutly. ‘To be honest, I am delighted.’

When the family gathered in the drawing room, there was a surprise in store for them. Harriet Quayle, widow of the murdered man, insisted on being present. Though she had to be helped to her seat by her daughter, Agnes, a spindly young woman with an anxious face, she was determined to be involved in what would be an important discussion. Stanley Quayle was irritated by her arrival, not least because it would inhibit him slightly. He tried to get rid of her.

‘Are you sure that you feel well enough to be here, Mother?’ he asked.

‘I do feel poorly,’ she confessed, ‘but I’m staying.’

‘It may be a long debate.’

‘I’ll manage to remain awake somehow.’

‘We can tell you afterwards what’s been decided.’

‘You won’t have to, Stanley. I can help to make any decisions.’

‘Very well,’ he said, resignedly.

‘Mother is entitled to be here,’ said Lucas Quayle. ‘I agree
that both my dear wife and Stanley’s wife are best excluded. They’re only members of the family by marriage and, in any case, neither of them felt that it would be right to join us.’

‘All needed are now here,’ said Stanley.

‘All except Lydia, that is,’ said his brother, waspishly.

‘Let’s keep her name out of this, please. This doesn’t concern her.’

They all looked towards Harriet for a word or sign of confirmation but she said nothing. Sitting deep in an armchair, she seemed frailer than ever. Stanley was the only person still on his feet. He struck a pose.

‘Father’s body has been returned to us,’ he began, ‘so we can make all the necessary funeral arrangements. Lucas and I have already had a preliminary talk on that subject but now is the time for anyone else to offer their opinion as to how the event should be planned. Under other circumstances, we would invite mourners back here after the event but – given Mother’s weakened condition – that would put far too big a strain on her.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Stanley,’ she said.

‘Stanley is right,’ argued his brother. ‘Your health comes first, Mother.’

‘That’s nonsense, Lucas. The person you should first consider is your poor father. This is his funeral not mine. We must ask ourselves what he would have wanted and I think that we all know the answer. He would like a dignified ceremony followed by a gathering of family and friends under this roof.’

‘I agree,’ Agnes piped up.

‘So do I,’ said her younger brother.

‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ said Stanley Quayle, irked that
they were all of one mind. ‘There are other factors to consider. Father, alas, did not die a natural death. He was the victim of a cruel murder.’

Harriet clutched at her throat. Agnes quickly put a comforting hand on her shoulder and shot a look of reproof at Stanley for being so carelessly explicit. Her elder brother surged on regardless.

‘In the first instance,’ he declared, ‘it might be better to have a small, private service for the immediate family. After a decent interval to allow for the investigation to continue, and for an arrest to be made, we can hold a memorial service for all and sundry. By that time, Mother may be fully recovered and more able to cope.’

‘By that time,’ said Harriet, wryly, ‘I may well be dead myself.’

‘Mother!’ exclaimed her daughter.

‘I don’t have unlimited time, Agnes.’

‘You shouldn’t even think such things.’

‘I agree,’ said Stanley Quayle. ‘It’s morbid.’

‘My view is this,’ said his brother, sitting up. ‘Please listen carefully.’

The argument had started and it went on for a long time, rising in volume and growing in intensity. Agnes was the surprise. Normally so subdued, she spoke up for once and did so to some effect. Lucas Quayle seemed more intent on opposing his brother’s views than on putting forward an alternative plan and it caused a deal of friction between them. It was the elder brother who first started shouting. Harriet took a full part in the quarrel and it was only when she lost her voice that it came to an abrupt end. They sat there in silence, looking around at each other and feeling
embarrassed that they’d descended into an unseemly squabble at a time when they should have been mourning the death of Vivian Quayle.

Several minutes went by before Stanley Quayle finally spoke. His voice was low and almost sepulchral. He looked from one to the other.

‘I’ve not had an opportunity to tell you all that a detective from London called here yesterday,’ he said. ‘An Inspector Colbeck has been put in charge of the case.’

‘What kind of man was he?’ asked his brother.

‘He seemed competent but I was too distracted to spend much time with him.’

‘You should have let me talk to him, Stanley.’

‘That’s precisely what I didn’t want to do. We must be discreet and restrained, Lucas. I didn’t want you blurting out family secrets to him.’

‘If he’s any kind of detective, he’s bound to find out the full facts about Lydia’s departure from here.’

‘Don’t bring
her
name up again,’ pleaded Agnes.

‘We can’t just pretend that she never existed.’

‘That’s exactly what we must do.’

‘Be reasonable, Agnes.’

‘Remember what Father told us. She must be banned from coming here.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said Harriet, regaining her voice. ‘What’s this about a detective from London?’

‘He’s from Scotland Yard,’ explained her elder son. ‘He’s far more likely to solve the crime than the police in Derbyshire.’

‘Who sent for him? Was it you, Stanley?’

‘No, Mother, I should imagine that it was Mr Haygarth.’

‘Keep that dreadful man away from me,’ wailed Harriet in distress. ‘I won’t have him in this house. He’s been plotting against your father for years. If that inspector is hunting the killer, he should look no further than Donald Haygarth.’

‘Mr Haygarth tried to poach me away from the estate,’ said Burns.

‘But he told me that he only knew you as a cricketer.’

‘Then he was lying.’

‘He said that he’d simply heard about your feats as a demon bowler.’

‘It was my gardening expertise that he prized, Inspector. He didn’t approach me in person, mark you, but he sent a man to sound me out. Somehow, he knew exactly how much I was paid and was told to offer me more.’

‘But you declined the offer.’

‘Yes, I did, and for two good reasons.’

‘I think we both know the first one,’ said Colbeck, tactfully. ‘You had emotional commitments to a member of the family. What was the other reason?’

‘Mr Haygarth didn’t really want me for what I could do to his garden. He just wanted to spite Mr Quayle. When I realised that I sent the go-between away.’

‘Who was the man? Did he give you a name?’

‘Yes – it was Maurice Cope.’

Colbeck was not surprised. When he’d seen them together that morning, he’d worked out the relationship between the two of them without difficulty. Cope was Haygarth’s henchman, a company employee who was in a good position to know everything that went on at the
headquarters of the Midland Railway and who reported it immediately to his master. Haygarth’s crude attempt to lure away the head gardener was yet one more instance of the bad blood between him and Vivian Quayle. Colbeck was ready to wager that it would have been only one of many such attempts to annoy or wound his rival.

The second visit to Melbourne Hall was more productive. After a long and fascinating exploration of the church, Colbeck had returned to find that Gerard Burns was less defensive. He talked a little more about his romance with Lydia Quayle and admitted that it had reached the point where they’d considered marriage, even if it involved an elopement. Evidently, it was no passing attachment. The pair had been betrayed by one of the servants who’d seen them together in the woods. Dismissal was instant. Lydia was locked in her room and Burns was hustled off the property and forbidden to return.

‘I misled you earlier,’ said Burns, contritely. ‘I did make an effort to see Lydia afterwards. She’d never have forgiven me if I hadn’t at least tried.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was seen and chased away again.’

‘Did you make a second attempt?’

Burns hung his head. ‘I intended to,’ he said, ‘but he changed my mind.’

‘Who did?’

‘Lydia’s father.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Mr Quayle sent two men to the house where I was staying. They were paid ruffians, Inspector. There’s no other word for them. I put up a good fight and bloodied their
noses but they were too strong for me. When they made their threat, I knew that they were deadly serious.’

‘What threat was that?’

‘I still shudder when I remember it.’

‘Tell me what they said,’ urged Colbeck.

Burns needed a full minute to compose himself before he did so. Long-suppressed memories streamed through his brain and the agony showed in his face. Eventually, he licked his lips before speaking.

‘They said that, if I tried to get anywhere near Lydia again, they’d cut off my right hand. They meant it, Inspector. They’d take away my livelihood without a second thought. One of them sneered at me and said I wouldn’t be able to bowl a cricket ball again.’

‘Are you certain that Mr Quayle put them up to it?’

‘They never mentioned his name but who else could it have been?’

‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ asked Colbeck.

Burns gave a hollow laugh. ‘What use would that have been?’ he said, sourly. ‘They’ve no power over a man like Mr Quayle. It would have been my word against his. Besides, I’d already been frightened off by those two men. They said that, if I dared to go to the police, they’d cut off
both
my hands and that they wouldn’t stop there. From that day on, I’ve always had this with me,’ he went on, pushing back his coat so that he could take a long knife from its sheath. ‘It’s my protection.’

‘Mr Quayle can’t hurt you now.’

‘I’d like to spit on the bastard’s coffin!’

Colbeck understood the sentiment. What he wanted to know was whether or not Burns would do anything
to put the man
into
the coffin. In view of the treatment meted out to the gardener, he felt sorry for him but he also realised that what he was hearing was a powerful motive for murder. With a knife in his hand, Burns looked more than capable of using it. Had he waited for a few years before wreaking his revenge? The bond between him and Lydia Quayle had been broken asunder and his subsequent marriage to someone else had proved that. But the urge for revenge could lie dormant for a long time before bubbling back to the surface again. Had that happened in the case of Gerard Burns? He’d freely confessed that he’d been playing cricket in Ilkeston on the day of the murder. Colbeck knew enough of Derbyshire geography to realise how easy it would have been to get to Spondon the same night. The revelation about the wheelbarrow could also be pertinent. As they were talking, a barrow was standing no more than a few yards away. It was part of a gardener’s stock-in-trade.

Burns sheathed his knife. ‘Will that be all, Inspector?’

‘Yes, Mr Burns – for the time being, anyway.’

‘There’s no need for you to come back, is there?’

‘One never knows.’

‘I did
not
kill Mr Quayle.’

Colbeck looked him in the eye. ‘I’d like to believe that.’

He took his leave and strolled away, taking a few moments to admire the landscaping. Melbourne Hall clearly had its own Garden of Eden. Colbeck walked on past an avenue of cedars. Tucked away behind them was a garden shed and he took the trouble to stroll across to it. Since the door was unlocked, he eased it open and glanced inside. A copy
of the
Derby Mercury
lay among the implements on the table. It appeared that Gerard Burns did find time to read newspapers, after all.

Victor Leeming was pleased to see Philip Conway back in the village again. The reporter had picked up various snippets of information in Derby and he passed them on. The one that interested Leeming most was the fact that Superintendent Wigg had been overheard pouring scorn on the efforts of the Scotland Yard detectives and boasting that he would solve the crime before them.

‘Then where is he? The murder was committed
here
.’

‘But it may have been planned somewhere else, Sergeant.’

‘We’ve already accepted that. What does the superintendent know that we don’t? If he’s holding back anything from us, Inspector Colbeck will tear him to pieces. The man is supposed to help.’

‘Derbyshire police can be very territorial.’

‘It’s a common weakness among certain constabularies. Thinking they can handle complex investigations themselves, they get into a terrible mess then call on us to bail them out. Superintendent Wigg is only one of a kind.’

They were sampling the beer at the White Swan in Moor Street. Arriving with high expectations, Conway was disappointed that there’d been no apparent progress.

‘I was hoping you’d have … something to tell me,’ he said.

‘I do have something,’ said Leeming. ‘This beer is nowhere near as good as the stuff at the Malt Shovel. You should have warned me.’

‘You wanted to get around the village. Men who drink
here wouldn’t go anywhere near the Malt Shovel or the Union Inn or the Prince of Wales, for that matter. Like any other village, Spondon is a collection of little groups.’

‘I found that out.’ He put a hand on the reporter’s arm. ‘I need a favour from you, Mr Conway.’

‘It’s granted before you even ask it.’

‘There’s something you could put in your newspaper for me.’

Leeming told him about the double sighting of a man with a wheelbarrow at a crucial time on the night of the murder. The post-mortem had been unable to give a precise time of death but it did specify the likely hours between which it must have occurred. The barrow had been seen well inside that wide spectrum of time. Leeming wanted an appeal for anyone else who might have spotted it to come forward and he suggested that the reward on offer be mentioned once again. Conway agreed to do his bidding and began to speculate on the murder.

‘Why push him up the hill in a wheelbarrow when the killer could have driven a horse and carriage right up to the church gate and unloaded the body there?’