Timetable of Death

by Edward Marston

  ‘If you’ve spoken to Burns, you’ll have heard about our matches.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I understand that he was your prize asset.’

  ‘Frankly, we’d never have won without him.’

  ‘I believe that your brother was captain of the team.’

  ‘Stanley insisted.’

  ‘Did he have any special talent for the game?’

  The other man laughed. ‘No, Inspector, I think his highest score was eleven. He couldn’t bowl to save his life and he wasn’t mobile enough to be any use in the field. Yet he strutted around as if he’d just scored a century. We had three good players in our team – Burns was one, Cleary, the coachman, was another and I was the third. I was a far better batsman than Stanley,’ he went on, ‘but there was never any chance of my being captain. Do you have an elder brother?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I don’t. I was an only child.’

  ‘Then you can count yourself, lucky, Inspector. The worst thing to be in my family is a younger brother.’

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, Mr Quayle,’ argued Colbeck, ‘but it seems to me that that unwelcome distinction should go to your elder sister. You stayed and remained on amicable terms with your parents. Your sister was effectively banished.’

  Lucas Quayle was contrite. ‘You are quite right to remind me of that,’ he said. ‘Taking everything into account, I’ve had a remarkably happy life. Lydia has never enjoyed that same contentment and that upsets me.’

  ‘It must also upset your mother and your other sister.’

  ‘Mother has been unwell for years, Inspector. She was rocked when Lydia left home but could do nothing to stop her. Poor Agnes must have been sorry to lose her sister but she’s never spoken about it. She was too scared of Father and of Stanley. There you are, Inspector,’ he added. ‘Agnes is another member of the family worse off than me. She’s trapped there in perpetuity. I had the chance to escape.’

  ‘Mr Quayle,’ said Colbeck, ‘there’s something that I put to your brother and he was unable to help me. I’m hoping that you can. What possible reason could your father have had for going to Spondon?’

  The other man’s brow wrinkled in concentration. ‘I can’t think of one, Inspector,’ he said at length.

  ‘Nor could your brother, I fear. That leaves me with alternative explanations.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Your father either went there under compulsion or he was killed elsewhere and taken to the village. He may, of course, have had a connection with Spondon in the past that nobody seems to know about.’

  ‘I can’t for a moment imagine what it could be, Inspector. My father was a Nottinghamshire man through and through. He rather despised Derbyshire.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Quayle,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m very grateful that you came here. You’ve filled in many of those empty gaps I mentioned. Will you tell your brother about this meeting?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the other, ‘I’ll tell him the truth. I’m already braced for an almighty row with him. It won’t be the first one, alas. Stanley and I locked antlers over Lydia. I was all for inviting her to the funeral. Stanley was apoplectic.’

  ‘How can you invite her when you don’t know where she is?’

  ‘I hired someone to find her, Inspector. I love my sister. I wanted her to know that there was at least one member of the family who cared about her.’ He saw the smile on Colbeck’s face. ‘Have I said something amusing?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Quayle – I’m smiling at this unexpected good fortune. As we speak, someone is scouring London for her at my behest. His job would have been made far easier if you’d just given him the address.’

  Mudie’s Lending Library occupied several rooms at the address in New Oxford Street. Victor Leeming was once again dazzled by the sheer number of books under one roof. They were helped this time by a tall, bespectacled woman of middle years. She took them into an office and produced a list of members in alphabetical order. It ran to several thousand. After going through it with meticulous care, she looked up with a sweet smile of apology.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but we have nobody of that name.’

  Madeleine was disappointed. ‘I could have sworn we’d find her here.’

  ‘You can see the list yourself, if you wish.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘We might as well go,’ said Leeming. ‘She’s obviously not here.’

  ‘Wait a moment – I’ve had a thought.’ Madeleine turned to the woman. ‘Do you keep a record of borrowings, by any chance?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied the woman. ‘We have to, Mrs Colbeck. We need to know exactly where our books are at any given time. Reading habits are fairly constant. Almost half of the books borrowed are novels but that’s hardly surprising, I suppose. History and biography account for over half of what remains.’

  ‘What about travel?’

  ‘Yes, that is very popular with some members. Over ten per cent of our borrowings relate to travel and you can subdivide that in different groups. People tend to have a particular interest in one country or in one part of the world.’

  ‘The person we’re after is fond of Italy.’

  ‘We have a large collection of books on Italy and its culture.’

  ‘This lady, it appears, is a fervent admirer of the country.’

  ‘She’s not here, Mrs Colbeck,’ said Leeming. ‘We must accept that.’

  ‘She may not be here as Lydia Quayle,’ said Madeleine, ‘but she might have become a member under another name. You suggested that possibility.’

  ‘It’s true – I did.’

  ‘Then let’s see if we can find her by her reading habits rather than by name.’

  The librarian was already ahead of Madeleine, flicking her way through a ledger that contained borrowings over recent months. Every so often, she would stop to jab at something with a finger before moving on.

  ‘We do have someone who is clearly devoted to Italian culture,’ she told them. ‘As soon as a new book on the subject comes out, she is the first to borrow it. But her name is not Lydia Quayle, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Madeleine.

  ‘It’s Miss Beatrice Myler.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Philip Conway was disappointed to learn that Leeming had gone back to London without any explanation. The reporter had been hoping to hear about the progress of the investigation. Instead, he was forced to gather what evidence he could on his own, talking to local people of all kinds and seeing if the newspaper appeal regarding the wheelbarrow had borne fruit. Distressingly, most people had not even been aware of the appeal because they didn’t read the newspaper. None of those who did actually buy the Derby Mercury could recall having seen a wheelbarrow on the night of the murder. Conway baulked at the prospect of returning to his editor with nothing new to say about the case so he made continuous sweeps of the village, asking questions of everyone he met. His rewards were scant. It was when he walked past the church that he had his most interesting encounter. Spotting a familiar figure in the churchyard, he went over to him.

  Jed Hockaday was staring intently at the grave of Cicely Peet.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mr Hockaday?’ asked Conway, joining him.

  ‘Oh.’ The cobbler looked up. ‘I’m just paying my respects.’

  ‘Did you know Mrs Peet well?’

  ‘She was a customer of mine and kind enough to praise my work. When she needed something repaired, of course, a servant always brought it to me but, if ever I did bump into Mrs Peet at the annual fair or such like, she always had a good word for me.’

  ‘Most people do – you’re proficient at your trade.’

  ‘Kind of you to say so, Mr Conway,’ said the other with a lazy grin. ‘Though, between you and me, I’d rather be thought of as a constable than as a cobbler at the moment.’ He nudged the reporter. ‘What’s the latest news?’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘I’ve seen you nestlin
g up to the sergeant.’

  ‘I’m paid to get the facts, Mr Hockaday.’

  ‘Then what are they?’

  ‘Read the Mercury and you’ll know all that I do.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Mr Conway,’ said the cobbler. ‘I got your measure. I spoke to the landlord at the Malt Shovel. Sergeant Leeming stayed there and I’m told the pair of you was chirping away together like two birds in a nest.’

  ‘The sergeant wanted to know about the Enoch Stone case.’

  Hockaday squinted at him. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him the truth. It’ll never be solved.’

  ‘It will one day. We owe it to Enoch.’

  ‘I thought that you and he fell out over something.’

  ‘Oh, that was forgot as soon as it happened,’ said Hockaday, dismissively. ‘Me and Enoch were friends, really. We went to school together. I always liked him.’ His voice hardened. ‘That’s why I want to catch the villain who battered him to death.’

  ‘The killer is long gone.’

  ‘No, Mr Conway – he’s right here. I’ll dig him out eventually.’

  ‘You’ve had three years to do that.’

  ‘That means he thinks he safe – but he’s not. If I catch up with the rogue, I’ll strangle him to death with my bare hands.’ His anger subsided and he grinned again. ‘That’s a silly thing for a constable to say, isn’t it? I’ve been sworn in to follow the due processes of law. I’ll have to hand him over to the court.’

  ‘Did you ever mend Enoch Stone’s boots?’

  ‘That’s a strange question to ask!’

  ‘What’s the answer, Mr Hockaday?’

  The cobbler shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. Enoch mended his own boots.’

  ‘I thought you were friends.’

  ‘We were – but we didn’t live in each other’s pockets.’ He slapped the reporter on the arm. ‘Good to see you, Mr Conway. Be sure to let me know what’s afoot if the sergeant turns up again.’

  ‘You can ask him yourself.’

  ‘He’s taken to you. You’re the only one he’ll give the real titbits.’

  After a final glance at the grave, Hockaday ambled off, leaving the younger man to wonder why the cobbler had been there in the first place. The chances of his having ever spoken more than a few words to Cicely Peet were remote. If he was likely to visit any grave to pay his respects, it would have been that of Enoch Stone, his alleged friend. Conway was baffled. As he was turning away, he saw the vicar trotting towards him. There was an exchange of greetings.

  ‘What did Jed Hockaday have to say to you?’ asked Sadler.

  ‘It was rather odd, Vicar. Is he a religious man?’

  ‘He doesn’t come to church very often, if that’s what you mean. You can always tell when he does. Walk past him and you catch a strong whiff of leather.’

  ‘He was standing beside Mrs Peet’s grave.’

  ‘That’s the second time today, Mr Conway.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was here first thing this morning, holding a vigil here then walking over to look into the open grave.’

  ‘Does he have an obsession with death?’

  ‘I didn’t ask him. I was just grateful when he was chased away.’

  ‘Who chased him?’

  ‘I was speaking figuratively. Bert Knowles drove past on his cart. When he saw Hockaday beside the first grave he’d dug for Mrs Peet, he yelled out a warning to leave it alone. I won’t give you his exact words,’ said Sadler, meekly, ‘because they were rather ripe. What they amounted to is this. If Hockaday so much as touched the earth piled up beside the grave, Bert threatened to bury him alive.’

  When the cab dropped them off outside the house, Leeming paid the fare then turned to look up at it. It was an attractive terraced property with a small garden in front of it. He and Madeleine opened the gate and went through it to the front door. A ring on the doorbell brought a maidservant who opened the door and looked from one to the other with a pleasant smile.

  ‘May I help you?’ she said.

  ‘Does a Miss Beatrice Myler live here?’ asked Madeleine.

  ‘Yes, she does.’

  ‘May we speak with her, please?’

  ‘I’ll handle this, Dora,’ said a voice from behind her and the servant immediately moved away. The newcomer appraised the callers. ‘I’m Beatrice Myler. Can I help you in any way?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Madeleine, hopes vanquished by the sight of a middle-aged woman.

  ‘I told you it was the wrong house,’ said Leeming.

  ‘We do apologise for disturbing you, Miss Myler. We thought you might be someone else, you see.’

  ‘But obviously you’re not Miss Lydia Quayle.’

  ‘No,’ said Beatrice, defensively. ‘You’ll have to look elsewhere.’

  ‘You share the same interest in Italy with her,’ explained Madeleine. ‘That’s how the mistake arose. You and Miss Quayle are obviously kindred spirits.’

  Beatrice was keen to send them on their way but Lydia suddenly appeared.

  ‘Did I hear my name?’ She looked at the visitors. ‘I’m Lydia Quayle.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Leeming. ‘We were led to believe that—’

  ‘We’ve found you at last,’ said Madeleine, interrupting him and ignoring the fact that Beatrice had lied to them. ‘May we have a word with you, please?’

  ‘If you wish,’ said Lydia, guardedly. ‘Please come in.’

  She stood aside to let them enter the house. Beatrice was less welcoming. As they went through the door, Madeleine could feel that the older woman resented their arrival. It had aroused her protective instinct.

  Colbeck had found the conversation with Lucas Quayle illuminating. He now had far more insight into the mechanics of the family. Having secured the address where Lydia was living, he went to Derby railway station and sent a telegraph that would eventually reach Leeming at Scotland Yard. When he stepped out of the office, he saw Donald Haygarth standing on the platform. In a remarkably short space of time, Haygarth was behaving as if already appointed to the post of chairman of the Midland Railway. A distinct air of ownership surrounded him.

  ‘Good day to you, sir,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘Hello, Inspector,’ replied the other. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I’ve been making use of your telegraph station. Thank you for putting Mr Cope at my disposal, by the way. He’s been very helpful.’

  ‘Cope is both knowledgeable and loyal, two qualities I happen to admire.’

  ‘He told me that he rides here from Kedleston every day.’

  ‘Yes, he’s much more robust than he looks.’

  ‘How did he get on with Mr Quayle?’

  ‘He treats every member of the board in the same way,’ said Haygarth, smoothly, ‘and was on excellent terms with Vivian Quayle. Men like Cope are true servants of this company.’

  ‘That confirms my impression.’

  ‘Do you have anything to report, Inspector?’

  ‘We continue to make progress, sir.’

  ‘But you’re nowhere near making an arrest yet, I fancy.’

  ‘There’s a lot more evidence to collect before we can do that,’ said Colbeck. ‘What happens when a train comes into the station?’

  ‘Apart from the ear-splitting noise, there’s a lot of smoke and steam.’

  ‘It’s the same with a murder investigation, sir. At the start, everything is covered with smoke and steam. It takes time for it to clear. We’re starting to make out the shape of the carriages and even the outline of the locomotive. What we can’t yet see is the killer on the footplate.’

  ‘Will he have had a fireman to help him?’

  ‘It’s possible, Mr Haygarth, or he may be on his own.’

  ‘What have you been doing since I last saw you?’

  ‘The most significant development was a breach in the wall of silence around the Quayle family. Stanley Quayle was virtually unapproachable.’

&
nbsp; ‘How did you get through to them?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Colbeck. ‘In fact, they got through to me. To be more precise, I had a visit from Lucas Quayle. He was vastly more informative than his elder brother.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything that advanced the investigation?’

  ‘I think so. He put flesh and bone on a number of nebulous characters. I have a much clearer image of the family now. He also had something interesting to say about Gerard Burns.’

  ‘He still sounds the most likely killer to me.’

  ‘If you have any evidence to support that view, sir, I’d be happy to see it.’

  Haygarth was peevish. ‘You said yourself that he had to be considered as a suspect.’

  ‘He’s only one of a number, sir.’

  ‘Who are the others?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you at the moment.’

  ‘But you do have people in mind?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘We have a list of possible names.’

  ‘What about Sergeant Leeming? Has he turned up anything of interest in Spondon?’

  ‘The sergeant always uncovers useful information. But he’s not in the village at the moment. I sent him back to London.’

  ‘What on earth is he doing there?’

  ‘He’s following a line of inquiry, sir. I suppose that I should have asked him to speak to you,’ Colbeck went on before the other man could question him further. ‘If he wanted information about Spondon, you could have given it to him. After all, you were born there.’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  Hiding his irritation, he glanced down the line at the approaching train.

  ‘Superintendent Wigg didn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘The superintendent can be a troublemaker at times. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t want him to handle this case. He has too many axes to grind.’

  ‘How long did you live in Spondon?’

  ‘We moved when I was only a boy.’

  ‘But you were baptised in the local church, I take it.’