‘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.’
CHAPTER NINE
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 di
dn’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?’
‘People were about that night. Two of them, at least, saw the barrow. I fancy that a few more would have seen something as conspicuous as a horse and carriage outside the church. That would have attracted too much attention. Someone would have been bound to be curious.’
>
‘I never thought of that.’
‘If that’s what the killer used,’ said Leeming, ‘it was safer for him to leave the horse and carriage out of sight. That’s my theory, anyway. Earlier on, I borrowed the wheelbarrow from the churchyard and went back down the hill. I found a likely place to tuck away a horse and carriage. When I pushed the barrow uphill, I discovered what a struggle it was and I was only carrying some sacks of potatoes.’
‘You were being very thorough.’
‘I was hoping someone would see me who’d been out and about on the night of the murder. I wanted to jog their memory.’
‘And did you?’
‘I’m afraid not. The only person who stopped to talk to me was one of the village constables.’
‘Which one was it?’
‘He was a burly fellow named Jed Hockaday.’
‘Yes,’ said Conway, ‘I’ve met him. He’s a cobbler.’
‘He didn’t strike me as being all that intelligent. But he was very keen to help. He boasted that he’d been involved in the Enoch Stone case. Hockaday told me that he and Stone had been good friends.’
‘Then he was telling a barefaced lie, Sergeant.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve read all the reports of that investigation and Hockaday’s name pops up more than once. Far from being a friend of the victim, he was one of Stone’s enemies. The two of them came to blows over something. Hockaday deliberately misled you.’
‘Why should he do that?’
‘He was trying to impress you.’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘I wouldn’t trust him an inch,’ said Conway.
‘He insisted that the killer still lived in the village.’
‘Did you believe him?’
In the light of what he’d just heard, Leeming’s view of the cobbler had altered considerably. He’d been inclined to dismiss the man as someone of no practical use to him. Looking back, he remembered Hockaday’s size and obvious strength. Behind the lazy grin and the confident manner, there could be a more calculating person than he’d realised. Though unaware of the full details of the earlier murder case, Leeming had a strange presentiment.
Timetable of Death Page 9