Timetable of Death

by Edward Marston

  ‘The railway police are the worse, sir.’

  ‘I agree, Victor. They never accept that they have no power to investigate major crimes on the network. Some of them always try to do our work for us. There’s no knowing what we’ll face when we get there but we’d better brace ourselves for resistance of some sort. One thing is certain,’ he said, philosophically. ‘There won’t be a brass band waiting to greet us at Derby station.’

  Donald Haygarth walked so quickly up and down the platform that his companion had difficulty in keeping up with him. Haygarth was a big, barrel-chested man in his fifties with an expensive tailor, paid to conceal his customer’s spreading contours. For all his bulk, he moved at speed and exuded self-importance. Trotting beside him was Elijah Wigg, the cadaverous Superintendent of Derby Police, the brass buttons of his uniform gleaming like stars and his boots brushed to a high sheen. Wigg’s side whiskers were so long and luxuriant that they threatened to join forces under his chin and blossom into a full beard. Weary of trying to have a conversation on the hoof, he put a skeletal hand on Haygarth’s shoulder and pulled him to a halt.

  ‘There’s no need to wear out the soles of your shoes,’ he said, spikily. ‘It won’t make your famous Railway Detective come any sooner.’

  ‘He’ll be here any minute,’ said Haygarth, fussily. ‘I know the train that he caught because he had the forethought to inform me by telegraph. If it’s running on time, as it should be, I expect him to be only a mile or so away from us.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. The next train to London arrives here in twenty minutes. Inspector Colbeck can go straight back where he came from.’

  ‘And why on earth should he do that?’

  ‘We will be handling the investigation, Mr Haygarth.’

  ‘I’ve called in an acknowledged expert.’

  ‘An acknowledged expert on what?’ demanded Wigg. ‘He doesn’t know this part of the country, he doesn’t understand the people and he won’t be able to make head or tail of the Derbyshire dialect. Why have a complete stranger blundering around when we have a police force equipped with local insight?’

  ‘Be honest, Superintendent,’ said Haygarth. ‘This case is too big for you.’

  ‘I deny it.’

  ‘It’s a complex murder inquiry.’

  ‘We can handle it better than anyone.’

  ‘That’s patently untrue.’

  Wigg bristled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that you already have one unsolved murder on your hands. Need I remind you that it’s three years since a man named Enoch Stone was killed in Spondon and that nobody has yet been brought to book for the crime?’

  ‘That investigation continues. We’ll find the culprit eventually.’

  ‘I want a quicker result in this case,’ said Haygarth, acidly. ‘That’s why I’ve turned to Scotland Yard. I don’t have three years to wait for the arrest and conviction of the man who murdered Mr Quayle. You keep chasing your tail over the Enoch Stone case, Superintendent. I need Inspector Colbeck to take charge of this one.’

  Elijah Wigg spluttered. Before he could reply, however, he was diverted by the sound of a train’s approach and saw it powering towards them in the distance. When he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket, Haygarth was delighted to see that the train was punctual. He walked briskly back up the single platform with Wigg scampering at his heels.

  When the train finally squealed to a halt, there was a tumult of hissing steam, acrid smoke and the systematic clamour of compartment doors being opened. While passengers were waiting to climb aboard, others were welcoming those who’d just alighted. Haygarth didn’t need to find the detectives. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, Colbeck had spotted the police uniform and made straight for it. Introductions were performed. Wigg glowered, Haygarth beamed, Colbeck tossed an approving glance at the station itself and Leeming stretched.

  ‘I’m so glad that you’ve come,’ said Haygarth, pumping the hands of the newcomers in turn. ‘I’ve reserved rooms for each of you at the Royal Hotel. You will, of course, be staying at the expense of the Midland Railway.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘But the sergeant and I are still very much in the dark. What we’d like to do in the first instance is to visit the scene of the crime and learn what steps have been taken by the police.’

  ‘We’ve done all that’s appropriate,’ said Wigg, officiously. ‘We are not bumpkins in some rural backwater, Inspector. You’re standing in one of the nation’s finest manufacturing towns and it has a police force worthy of its eminence. We follow the correct procedures here. My suggestion is that we have your luggage sent to the hotel so that you can accompany me to Spondon.’

  ‘We just stopped there,’ said Leeming. ‘Is that where the murder occurred?’

  ‘It is, Sergeant.’

  ‘Do you have a police station there?’

  ‘No, but we have six constables, all local men.’

  ‘They’re well-meaning fellows,’ observed Haygarth, ‘but they are not trained detectives. In fact, they’re still struggling to solve a murder that took place in the village three years ago.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ snapped Wigg.

  ‘I beg leave to doubt that, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck. ‘The overwhelming majority of villages in this country, I’m pleased to say, have never had a single homicide yet Spondon, it appears, has had two in the space of three years. The place has already aroused my interest. Did Mr Quayle, the more recent victim, have any connection with the village?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ replied Haygarth. ‘He lived in Nottingham.’

  ‘Then what was he doing there?’

  ‘I’ll be grateful if you could find out, Inspector.’

  ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘We’re not entirely sure. We await the results of a post-mortem.’

  ‘This case gets more intriguing by the second,’ said Colbeck, smiling. ‘It is positively swathed in mystery. Thank you for inviting us here, Mr Haygarth. I have a feeling that Derbyshire is going to yield a whole battery of surprises.’

  Leeming turned to Wigg. ‘Do you have any suspects?’ he asked. ‘Are there any people who would profit directly from Mr Quayle’s death?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wigg, seizing a chance to embarrass Haygarth. ‘One of them is standing right next to you, Sergeant.’

  ‘How dare you!’ exclaimed Haygarth.

  ‘Facts are facts, sir. There’s a vacancy for the chairmanship of the Midland Railway. Vivian Quayle was the obvious candidate but you also threw your hat into the ring. His death leaves the field clear for you,’ said Wigg, enjoying the other man’s obvious discomfort. ‘What’s more, you know Spondon intimately because you were born there.’ He stroked a side whisker as if it were a favourite cat. ‘I’m bound to find that a cause for suspicion.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Peace had finally been restored at St Mary’s church and, although both disputants still nursed hurt feelings, a compromise had been reached. The Reverend Michael Sadler might know little about exerting control over a furious argument but he knew a great deal about grief and its corrosive effects. Having persuaded Roderick Peet to return home, the vicar had worked subtly on Bert Knowles, urging him to show compassion towards a bereaved husband and reminding the gravedigger of how he had felt in the wake of his own wife’s death some years earlier. Seeds of doubt were planted in the man’s mind. They were irrigated in the vicarage where Knowles was offered the rare treat of a glass of sherry and, when he’d downed that in an unmannerly gulp, a second glass. The memory of his loss was still a raw wound for Knowles. Tears welled up in his eyes as he recalled it and, while he still smarted at Peet’s display of arrogance, he came to see that they did have a kinship of sorts. Both had felt the pain of losing a beloved wife. When the vicar asked him how he would have reacted if a murder victim had suddenly appeared in the grave destined for Margery Knowles, the question was like a stab in the heart for Knowles and he at last
capitulated, agreeing to dig a second grave for Cicely Peet.

  When he left the vicarage, Knowles did so with a meditative trudge in place of his usual brisk stride. The vicar, meanwhile, offered up a prayer of thanks to God then poured himself another glass of sherry. He had managed a first, delicious sip before his wife came bustling into the room.

  ‘There are three strangers in the churchyard,’ she said, querulously.

  ‘Surely not, my dear – there’s a constable at the gate to keep everyone out.’

  ‘I could have sworn that I saw them.’

  Enid Sadler was a pale, thin wraith of a woman with poor eyesight and a habit of nodding her head whenever she spoke. The discovery of the dead body in a grave dug for someone else had shredded her nerves and her hands still shook.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said the vicar, solicitously, helping his wife to a chair then handing her the glass of sherry. ‘Drink this – I won’t be long.’

  On the short train journey to Spondon the detectives had been given all the salient details. When the corpse had been found in the churchyard, it had been identified from the business card in the man’s wallet. There were no marks of violence on Vivian Quayle and, since he had a pocket watch and money on him, robbery could be ruled out as a motive for his murder. It was the local doctor who’d established that the man had been poisoned but he was unable to say which particular poison was used or how it had been administered. The body had been removed to the home of Dr Hadlow where it was awaiting a post-mortem.

  Colbeck, Leeming and Wigg stared into the open grave. In the course of removing its uninvited guest, two of the local constables had inadvertently kicked some of the earth piled up beside it into the cavity and left their footprints along its edge. The neat handiwork of Bert Knowles had been badly disturbed.

  ‘I feel sorry for the girl,’ said Colbeck. ‘When she jumped in there, she must have been frightened to death.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t have been?’ asked Leeming, sympathetically.

  ‘In my view,’ said Wigg, bluntly, ‘she got what she deserved. Lizzie Grindle and her brother shouldn’t have been playing in the churchyard. If they were my children, I’d have given them a good hiding.’

  ‘Do you have children, Superintendent?’

  ‘No, Sergeant – as it happens, I don’t.’

  ‘I thought not,’ said Leeming. ‘Being a father makes you look at things very differently. I have two sons. If one of them had been through this experience, I’d have wanted to help them cope with it. The poor girl in this case is young and vulnerable. She may have nightmares for years to come.’

  Wigg was brusque. ‘Serves her right.’

  ‘How was he found?’ asked Colbeck, staring at the grave. ‘I mean, in what exact position was he lying?’

  ‘He was stretched out on his back, Inspector.’

  ‘So he wasn’t just tossed in there?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Was his clothing torn in any way?’

  ‘No,’ replied Wigg. ‘It was sullied, of course, but that was inevitable. You’ll be able to judge for yourself when I take you to meet Dr Hadlow. The coroner has been informed and is sending someone out to conduct the post-mortem.’

  ‘How did Enoch Stone die?’

  ‘That’s immaterial.’

  ‘We’re always interested in unsolved murders.’

  ‘We’ll solve it one day,’ said Wigg, stoutly. ‘Have no fear.’

  ‘You haven’t answered the inspector’s question,’ said Leeming. ‘Who was Enoch Stone and how was he killed?’

  ‘I can tell you that,’ said the vicar as he walked towards them. ‘I’m relieved to see that you’re here, Superintendent. Unable to see you properly, my wife was afraid that you were grave robbers.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Technically, I suppose, it was Mr Quayle who deserves that appellation. It was he who robbed Cicely Peet of her grave. A new one is going to be dug.’ He looked at Colbeck and Leeming. ‘Welcome to St Mary’s, gentlemen. I’m Michael Sadler, the vicar.’

  There was an exchange of handshakes as Colbeck introduced himself and the sergeant. When he told the vicar that they’d taken charge of the investigation, he saw the superintendent wince. Evidently, Wigg was going to be a problem for them. In his eyes, it was the Scotland Yard detectives who were the grave robbers. They’d stolen the case from right under his nose.

  ‘In answer to your questions,’ the vicar began, ‘Enoch Stone was a man of middle years who worked as a framework knitter.’ He saw the bewilderment on Leeming’s face. ‘Anyone in Spondon will tell you what that is, Sergeant. One night in June, 1856, Stone was found on the Nottingham road with severe head injuries. He’d been battered to the ground, then robbed.’

  ‘There’s no need to preach a sermon about it, Vicar,’ said Wigg, impatiently. ‘We’re here to investigate the murder of Mr Quayle.’

  ‘Let the vicar finish,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re learning something about this village and the information is invaluable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ resumed the vicar. ‘In brief, Stone was still alive after the assault and was carried to the home of Dr Hadlow. Though nursed throughout the night, he succumbed to his injuries and died. Everyone was shocked. Stone was a quiet and well-respected man who was universally popular, all the more so because he was also a musician. When a reward of a hundred pounds was offered, the people of Spondon were quick to add another twenty pounds to the amount. Sadly, it failed to bring forth information leading to the arrest of the malefactors.’

  ‘That’s enough of Enoch Stone,’ said Wigg, testily.

  Colbeck raised an eyebrow. ‘Were you in charge of the investigation?’

  ‘I was, Inspector, and I still am. The search for the killer continues.’

  ‘I admire your dedication.’

  ‘We never give up.’

  ‘But this is a relatively small village,’ observed Leeming. ‘That should have made your task much simpler. We’ve had to solve murders in major cities where killers have to be winkled out of a large population.’

  Wigg was nettled. ‘If you think it’s easy to solve a murder in Spondon,’ he said, rounding on the sergeant, ‘I’ll be interested to see how you fare with the present case, especially as you’re doing so with no knowledge whatsoever of this village and its inhabitants.’ He jabbed a finger at Leeming. ‘Show me how it’s done.’

  ‘We gladly accept your challenge, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck, suavely, ‘but don’t underestimate our capacity for learning and for doing so quickly. It seems that we’ve come too late to catch the person or persons responsible for the death of Enoch Stone but we can assure you that whoever murdered Mr Quayle will not remain at liberty for long.’

  ‘Derby?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she said. ‘There’s been a murder at a village nearby.’

  ‘Then I pity Robert.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘He’ll have to travel on the Midland Railway,’ said Caleb Andrews. ‘It’s a dreadful company – even worse than the GWR.’

  ‘The victim was a director of the Midland Railway.’

  ‘That proves my point. The killer was probably a discontented customer and there are plenty of those, believe me.’

  Madeleine Colbeck was so struck by the absurdity of her father’s claim that she burst out laughing. It only encouraged Andrews to repeat his claim. Having retired after a lifetime’s service on the railway, the former engine driver had contempt for all the companies except the one for whom he’d worked. In the past, he’d reserved his bitterest criticism for the Great Western Railway but, Madeleine now discovered, he was ready to pour even more scorn on the Midland.

  ‘It’s a complete hotchpotch, Maddy,’ he said. ‘It’s made up of three companies who should have been strangled at birth – North Midland, Midland Counties, Birmingham and Derby Junction. Not one of them could provide a decent service. When they joined together to form the Midland Railway, they fell into the hands of a money-grubbing monster named
George Hudson.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Robert has told me all about the so-called Railway King. He was forced to resign in the end, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He should have been lashed to the buffers of one of his own engines.’

  ‘But he was hailed as a hero at one time.’

  ‘Not by me, he wasn’t. From the very start I thought he was a crook.’

  Madeleine let him rant on. When her father was in such a mood, he was like a locomotive with a full head of steam and had to be allowed to let some of it off. They were in the house in John Islip Street that she shared with her husband and was always pleased when her father came to visit, especially as he’d finally become accustomed to the notion of her having servants at her beck and call. Andrews was a short, wiry man with a fringe beard now salted with white hairs. Rocked by the death of his wife years earlier, he’d been helped through the period of mourning by his daughter who’d had to accommodate her own anguish at the same time. It had drawn them closer, though there were moments when Madeleine reminded him so much of his beautiful wife that Andrews could only marvel at her.

  She had undergone a remarkable transformation, moving from a small house in Camden Town to a much larger one in Westminster and leaving a crotchety father to live with an indulgent husband. What united all three of them was a mutual passion for railways. There was only one disadvantage to that. With a son-in-law dedicated to solving crimes connected with railways, Andrews kept trying to appoint himself as an unpaid assistant.

  ‘Robert should have come to me before he left,’ he asserted. ‘I’d have told him all that he needed to know about the Midland Railway.’

  ‘Valuable as it would have been,’ she said, tactfully, ‘he didn’t have time to listen to your advice. When the summons came, he dashed off to Derby without even coming home first. Robert sent word of where he’d gone.’

  ‘When you hear more about this murder, let me know.’