‘It’s partially true,’ admitted the other.
‘What Mr Conway didn’t know was the nature of your crime, if that’s what it was. But he did point out that you joined the constabulary instead and rose quickly within the ranks to your present position. I admire you for doing that.’
‘The past is the past, Inspector. We’ve all made mistakes in our time. Mine was in falling out with a man in a position of authority. It wasn’t a “crime”. It was a misjudgement on my part. Even you must have made those.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘In fact, you might be making one at this very moment.’
‘That’s conceivable.’
‘Let’s leave the matter there, shall we?’
Colbeck agreed. He’d made Wigg aware that he knew about the animosity between the superintendent and Vivian Quayle and that it might have a bearing on the investigation. But he didn’t press the man too far. He needed to have firm evidence of Wigg’s involvement in the murder before he could do that.
‘You said that you were glad that I’d come.’
‘I am,’ said Wigg. ‘I have some news for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘The pathologist has consulted someone with more thorough knowledge of poisons and, as a result, he’s able to give us slightly more detail about what was injected into Mr Quayle.’
‘Excellent.’
‘He was killed by a compound of different poisons, some of which were detected at the post-mortem. One of them was not.’
‘What was it?’
‘See for yourself,’ said Wigg, picking up a sheet of paper from his desk and handing it over. ‘I don’t know much about chemicals.’
Colbeck read the name. ‘This one is likely to be very corrosive.’
‘I asked the pathologist how someone could get hold of it.’
‘What was his answer?’
‘He said that it’s sometimes found in powerful weedkillers.’
Colbeck thought about a garden shed in Melbourne Hall.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Weapon at the ready, Gerard Burns knelt motionless behind the bushes and waited for his moment. The bird circled, hovered for an instant then descended to the fence and scanned the ground below. Burns pulled the trigger and the crow was instantly blown off its perch by the shotgun blast. The gardener’s dog scampered out from its hiding place to retrieve the bird and bring it back to its master. Burns took it from the animal’s jaws and walked across to the shallow pit he’d already dug, tossing the lifeless body into it then using a boot to cover it with earth. He hated crows more than anything else and killed them whenever possible. The noise of the shotgun had made the other birds scatter in a crescendo of squawks and screeches so he was able to put the weapon aside and reach for his spade to fill in the grave properly.
One of the undergardeners came around the angle of the house.
‘What have you shot this time, Mr Burns?’
‘It was another crow.’
‘Wood pigeons are better. You can eat those.’
‘I’ll kill any pests I can.’
‘Slugs are the worst.’
‘There’s poison in the shed. Use it.’
‘Yes, Mr Burns.’
Recognising that the head gardener was in no mood for conversation, the other man went off to hoe some flower beds. Burns, meanwhile, went back to the shed with the spade and the shotgun. Ejecting the empty cartridge, he dropped it into the bin he kept for rubbish. Everything was in full bloom during the summer so there was a lot to do in the garden and he worked long hours to keep everything under control. However, his time was not entirely taken up with horticulture. Reaching behind some tarpaulin in the corner, he brought out a heavy object and tested it for balance. It was not ready yet, he decided. There was still plenty of work to do on it but Burns loved the feel of it in his hands. Stepping outside the shed, he tried a few practice strokes with his new cricket bat. He heaved a sigh, conscious that his days of real prominence on a cricket field were over. What he missed most was the applause for a ball well struck or for the latest wicket he’d taken. Burns was no longer the leading light of a county team. He was now condemned to take part in lesser contests where spectators were few and ovations non-existent.
The new bat was part of a dream. He played one final cover drive, saw an imaginary ball hurtling through the air like a bullet, then went back into the shed. It was time to return to reality.
The train journey to Duffield did not take very long. In earlier days, the village had stood in an area of scenic beauty at the lower end of the Pennines. Situated near the junction of two rivers, the Derwent and the Ecclesbourne, it was like many other Derbyshire villages, agricultural communities that had been transformed by the growth of industry and the development of the railways. When first opened in 1841, the railway station there was little more than a halt but it was now a solid permanent structure. Farm labourers existed in dwindling numbers in tied cottages and the new houses in the village had, in many cases, been built by the Midland Railway for its employees who travelled to the Derby Works each day by train.
Victor Leeming was not interested in the history of Duffield. His only concern was to follow Jed Hockaday in order to confirm the alibi that had been given to the detectives. When the train steamed into Duffield station, therefore, he stayed in his compartment until the other passengers had alighted. Only when the train was about to depart again did he leap out onto the platform and slam the door shut behind him. Leeming looked around to see in which direction his quarry had gone. Over a dozen people were in view but Hockaday was not among them. Leeming had the lurching sensation that he’d been tricked. It looked as if the cobbler had been aware that he was being followed and, instead of getting off at Duffield, had simply stayed on the train. There was a consolation. The sergeant had the names and addresses of two people with whom Hockaday claimed to have spent time on the night of the murder. More to the point, he would not have been able to reach them first in order to tell them what to say to the detective. The journey to Duffield was not in vain, after all.
The cottage in King Street was little more than a hovel. Clearly, Hockaday’s friends were in straitened circumstances. A rusty bell hung outside the front door. When he rang it, Leeming had to wait some time before the door was opened by a wizened old man bent almost double. Having established that he was talking to Seth Verney, the sergeant explained why he was there. The mention of Hockaday’s name put some animation into the old man.
‘Yes, sir, Jed was here that night.’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘He caught the last train back home.’
‘Had he been drinking?’
Verney cackled. ‘Oh, yes – he likes his beer.’
‘But he should have been on patrol in Spondon and constables are not allowed to drink on duty.’
‘It were his day off, sir.’
‘How long was he here?’
‘Jed’s never here for long but we loved seeing him.’
‘He told us he was in the village for some hours.’
‘That’s as maybe. We only saw him at the very end of the evening.’
‘So where did he go before he came here?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but he’d been drinking.’
‘How often do you see him?’
The old man cocked his head to one side. ‘What’s this got to do with that murder you talked about?’
‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Leeming.
‘Jed is a constable. He’s one of you, Sergeant.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Verney.’
‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’
‘No, no, I’m just … checking up on something he told us.’
‘Why’re you doing that? Don’t you trust his word?’
‘It never does any harm to confirm certain facts.’
But the other man was increasingly defensive. Leeming found it hard to get the information he was after. What surprised him was Verney’s age and obviou
s penury. He seemed an unlikely friend for Hockaday, especially as the old man claimed that he’d signed the pledge and was thus no drinking companion of the cobbler. Leeming couldn’t imagine what they’d have to talk about. He was wondering with whom Hockaday had spent time before he came to see Verney and his wife.
‘Let me go back to a question I asked earlier,’ said Leeming.
‘Which one?’
‘How often do you see Mr Hockaday?’
‘He only comes every now and then.’
‘Why is that, sir?’
‘Shouldn’t you be back in Spondon, trying to catch that killer?’ asked the old man with a burst of anger. ‘It wasn’t Jed, I tell you. I’d swear to it.’
‘Why do you say that, sir?’
‘It’s because he only comes here when he has money to give us.’
‘Is he a relative of yours, Mr Verney?’
The old man looked over his shoulder to make sure that nobody inside the cottage could hear him, then he leant forward to confide in Leeming’s ear.
‘I’m Jed’s father.’
Harriet Quayle’s health had swiftly declined. Though there’d been no apparent ill effects from her sojourn in the grounds, she later became visibly unwell. Even though she was in a warm bed, she began to shiver. Her face whitened and her breathing was irregular. She complained of pain in her limbs. But the biggest change was in her attitude. Hitherto, she’d made an effort to cope with the devastating news of her husband’s murder and had even been able to go for a ride in the landau. It was almost as if the ugly truth had finally sunk in. She had lost the man who’d been beside her for so many years and who’d fathered her four children. Her grief was exacerbated by the fact that one of those children was no longer there to comfort her.
‘Mother is getting worse,’ said Agnes.
‘Give her something to help her sleep,’ advised her elder brother. ‘The doctor left those tablets.’
‘She’s rambling, Stanley. Her mind is crumbling.’
‘Stay with her. If Mother doesn’t improve, send for the doctor. I’ll look in on her when I get back.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve business in Nottingham.’
‘I feel so much better when you’re here – everybody does.’
‘Goodbye, Agnes.’
After brushing her cheek with a token kiss, he ignored her plea and left the house. The landau was waiting for him on the drive. Standing beside it and holding the door open was John Cleary. He acknowledged Stanley Quayle with a nod. After clambering into his seat, the passenger turned on the coachman.
‘Do you see what you did, Cleary?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ said the other, folding the step into position and closing the door.
‘Thanks to you, my mother is very ill.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘You should have considered her health before you agreed to take her for a drive. Her constitution was too weak for an outing.’
‘Mrs Quayle seemed well enough to me, sir.’
‘It wasn’t your place to make such a judgement.’
‘No, sir,’ said Cleary. ‘I know that.’
‘My mother left the house against the express wishes of my sister. You must have been aware of that when they came out together.’
‘I was too busy helping Mrs Quayle into her seat, sir.’
‘You’ve displeased me, Cleary,’ warned the other.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ said the coachman, earnestly, ‘and I didn’t think that it would do Mrs Quayle any harm. I was as worried as anybody when she disappeared. Well, you saw me, sir. I helped in the search for your mother and I was very relieved when she was found.’
Stanley Quayle looked at him with undisguised contempt. Unable to decide if the coachman was being honest or merely obsequious, he repeated his warning that Cleary’s job hung in the balance. If he was given the slightest cause for annoyance, Quayle would have him dismissed.
‘Do you understand, Cleary?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When I make a threat, I always mean it.’
The coachman’s manner was courteous. ‘Yes, Mr Quayle.’
The passenger sat back in his seat and waved a lordly hand.
‘Take me to the railway station.’
Whether on the cricket field or off it, Gerard Burns always committed himself to the task in hand. In the time that he’d worked in the gardens at Melbourne Hall, he’d suggested a number of initiatives. Though some had inevitably been turned down, those that had been implemented proved to be universally successful. He was always looking for ways to improve vistas and add floral refinements. His latest project concerned the fountains and he was studying them yet again when he realised that he had a visitor. Robert Colbeck seemed to have materialised out of thin air.
‘I never expected to see you again, Inspector,’ said Burns.
‘I’d hoped it might not be necessary, sir.’
‘It’s not really convenient for me to talk now.’
‘Then I’ll wait for you in the police station, Mr Burns, and we can have the interview there. It might not be quite so private, I’m afraid.’
Colbeck’s threat had the desired effect. If Burns was seen giving a statement in the police station, it would soon become common knowledge. Several people were employed at the Hall. One of them was certain to catch wind of the development and taunting was sure to follow. If it was known that Burns was a suspect in a murder inquiry, his job might be at risk. Changing his mind, he led Colbeck to a quieter part of the garden and they sat on a bench in the sunshine.
‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’ asked the gardener.
‘I’m sure that you recall that cricket match in Ilkeston.’
‘Very clearly.’
‘I went there,’ said Colbeck, noting the look of surprise from the other man. ‘I have to say that I’ve seen better pitches.’
Burns recovered quickly. ‘If you took the trouble to check up on me, you’ll know that what I told you was the truth. I did play cricket there on that day.’
‘It’s not what you told me that’s at issue here, Mr Burns. It’s what you deliberately held back from me.’
‘And what was that?’
‘After the match, you took a train to Derby.’
Burns shrugged. ‘Is that a cause for suspicion?’
‘Why did you go there?’
‘That’s a personal matter.’
‘Did you go to see a friend or were you drawn there by an enemy?’
‘Speak more plainly, Inspector.’
‘If you were in Derby late that night, you were not far from Spondon.’
‘That doesn’t mean I went there.’
‘No, but it raises the possibility that you could have.’
‘I could have done all sorts of things.’
There was an underlying smugness in the reply that alerted Colbeck. He sensed that Burns had reverted to the posture he’d adopted at their first meeting when he’d been evasive and unhelpful. It was at their second encounter that he’d been far more honest. The gardener was behaving as if he’d expended his reserves of honesty and was falling back on prevarication. Waiting for the next question, he offered a challenging smile. Colbeck jolted him out of his complacency.
‘We’ve spoken to Miss Lydia Quayle.’
Burns was startled. ‘Where is she?’
‘The lady lives in London now, sir. I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting her myself but I’ve had a full report of what transpired.’ He could see the gardener’s extreme discomfort. ‘You may be relieved to know that Miss Quayle did not talk about you at any length.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You belong to an episode in her life that she has left behind her.’
‘It’s the same in my case, Inspector.’
‘When we last spoke, you told me of a threat made against you. The same vile threat was repeated to Miss Quayle by her father. I
t was the final straw that broke the bond between them. And, of course,’ added Colbeck, ‘it severed the bond between you and the young lady.’
There was a lengthy pause. Burns gritted his teeth and looked him in the eye.
‘If you’re waiting for a comment,’ he said, eventually, ‘I don’t have one to make except to say that I wish Lydia … Miss Quayle well.’
‘I’ve no doubt that those are her sentiments with regard to you, sir.’
A note of aggression crept in. ‘So why are you really here, Inspector?’
‘An odd coincidence has occurred, Mr Burns.’
‘What is it?’
‘Before I tell you that,’ said Colbeck, gazing around, ‘can you tell me how you keep these gardens in such pristine condition. The lawns are like brushed velvet and the flower beds have nothing but flowers in them. How do you control weeds?’
‘We dig them out by the root.’
‘Some will already have propagated.’
‘I treat those with a herbicide,’ explained Burns. ‘Horticulture is a science that is constantly changing and you have to keep up with the changes. The Americans have done a lot of research on herbicides but I get my inspiration from the Germans.’
‘What do they recommend?’
‘It used to be sodium chloride but some scientists experimented with sulphuric acid and iron sulphate. As it happens, I prefer a herbicide that uses both.’
‘May I see it, please?’ asked Colbeck.
Harriet Quayle had rallied enough to be able to sit up in bed and to talk with more coherence than she’d earlier managed. Watching her with concern, her younger daughter and her younger son sat either side of the bed.
‘Where’s Stanley?’ asked Harriet.
‘He’s gone to Nottingham,’ replied Lucas.
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t say, Mother.’
‘He should be here, mourning with the rest of the family.’
‘I agree,’ said Agnes. ‘Nothing is more important than that.’
‘Stanley is attending to business somewhere,’ said her brother. ‘That’s the one certain thing I can tell you. It proves what I’ve believed all along. He doesn’t feel things the way that the rest of us do. Stanley has no heart.’
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