Timetable of Death

by Edward Marston

  ‘Let’s have no backbiting, Lucas,’ warned his mother.

  ‘It’s just an observation.’

  ‘Where could your brother have gone?’

  ‘We honestly don’t know, Mother.’

  ‘He was driven off in the landau,’ said Agnes. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘It’s so inconsiderate of him,’ scolded their mother. ‘Stanley was my firstborn. He was such a delight as a baby. He had such a pleasant disposition.’

  ‘There’s no sign of that now,’ said Lucas under his breath.

  ‘In fairness to Stanley,’ said Agnes, ‘he’s taken responsibility for things that neither Lucas nor I really wanted to do. We should acknowledge that.’

  ‘I agree, Agnes. He’s borne the brunt.’

  Harriet went off into a trance for a few minutes and the others waited in silence, communicating by looks and gestures. Their mother finally spoke.

  ‘If he went to Nottingham,’ she said, ‘he might have been going to the undertaker because the premises are in the town. Stanley may have gone somewhere else, of course, and I’d like to know where.’

  ‘There’s no need to do that, surely,’ he said.

  ‘I’m curious.’

  ‘Then wait until Stanley comes back and ask him.’

  ‘I want to know now,’ Harriet told him. ‘If Cleary took him to the station, he might know what Stanley’s destination was.’ She clenched her fists and the veins stood out on the backs of her hands. ‘My elder son should be here. I want to know where he is and what he’s doing there.’

  Victor Leeming had arranged to meet Colbeck back at the hotel so that they could compare notes but, when he got there, the sergeant saw no sign of him. He was not long without company. As soon as Leeming went into the lounge, Stanley Quayle rose from an armchair and came across to him. He was still in black garb.

  ‘Superintendent Wigg told me I might find the inspector or a Sergeant Leeming here.’

  ‘That’s me, sir.’

  ‘I’m Stanley Quayle.’

  ‘I guessed that you might be,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Where’s Inspector Colbeck?’

  ‘I’m not entirely certain, sir, but he’ll be collecting evidence somewhere.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to talk to you, I suppose.’

  There was a note of resignation in his voice that Leeming did his best to ignore. Working all the time in Colbeck’s shadow, he was used to being undervalued and disregarded. Quayle resumed his seat and Leeming took the chair next to him.

  ‘First of all,’ said the other, ‘I must apologise for being so uncooperative when the inspector called at the house.’

  ‘I understand, sir. You were distracted.’

  ‘That doesn’t excuse my rudeness.’

  Though the words were trotted out smoothly, Leeming couldn’t hear a vestige of sincerity in them and the expression of disdain on the other man was unmistakable.

  ‘Your brother came to see the inspector, sir. He was very helpful.’

  ‘It was my brother’s visit that prompted this one. I wanted to correct any misleading statements he made.’

  ‘That’s a matter between you and your brother, surely.’

  ‘It has a bearing on this investigation,’ said the other. ‘Lucas may have given you the impression that we were a disjointed and unhappy family. It’s a travesty of the truth, Sergeant. Most of the time, I can assure you, we live in perfect harmony with each other. If my brother and I were not on such amicable terms, we could not run the coal mines so efficiently together.’

  ‘I thought that you ran the business and that your brother merely assisted.’

  ‘Lucas has clearly misled you on that score.’

  ‘I never actually spoke to him, Mr Quayle. I’m only going on what the inspector told me.’

  ‘Then I must correct some misapprehensions.’

  Stanley Quayle was still unwilling to divulge any new information about the family that might assist the investigation. He simply wanted to portray it in a more favourable light than his brother. He spoke of a loving father who’d imbued his sons with the aspirations that drove them on. While conceding that his brother had been wayward at times, he insisted that Lucas was now following in the Quayle tradition of enterprise. The other reason for coming to Derby was to find out if there had been any developments in the case. Leeming was succinct, explaining that they’d made some encouraging progress but were in no position to make an arrest as yet.

  ‘What we really need to know is where your father was on the day when he was murdered. Didn’t he keep a diary?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Quayle, ‘and he filled it in scrupulously. If we could find it, a lot of things would become clearer, but it’s disappeared. You’ll have to manage without it, I fear.’ He sighed. ‘But you do have suspects in mind, I take it?’

  ‘There are people at whom we’re looking more closely, sir,’ said Leeming, guardedly. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Mr Haygarth is one of them, I hope. And then, of course, there’s …’

  Quayle drew back from mentioning the name of Gerard Burns.

  ‘That gentleman has been interviewed, sir,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘He was no gentleman, Sergeant.’

  ‘But he was a good cricketer, I’m told.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ said the other, curtly. ‘We indulged the fellow in all manner of ways and he repaid us with …’ He gestured with both hands. ‘My brother will have told you about the betrayal we suffered.’

  ‘We’ve heard about it from all sides, Mr Quayle.’

  ‘Don’t believe a word that Burns told you.’

  ‘Yet his version of events was supported by your sister.’

  ‘What?’ cried the other, aghast. ‘You’ve seen Lydia?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we did. We tracked her down in London.’ There was fury in the other man’s eyes. ‘Your sister had a right to know what was going on, sir,’ argued Leeming. ‘After all, it’s her father as well as yours.’

  Stanley turned away. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

  ‘Your sister has no intention of coming home.’

  ‘No more!’ snapped Quayle. ‘We have enough problems without getting embroiled in that one again. As far as I’m concerned, my elder sister does not exist.’

  ‘Your brother takes a different view.’

  ‘Lucas will do what he’s told.’

  ‘Don’t you wish to know where Miss Quayle has been since you parted?’

  ‘The subject is closed, Sergeant, and so is this conversation. I’m sorry that I was unable to see the inspector instead of having to put up with your impertinent questions.’ He got up. ‘I’ll bid you farewell.’

  ‘One moment,’ said Leeming, also on his feet. ‘There’s another name that’s come to our ears and it’s a most unlikely one. We gather that this person might bear ill will against your father.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Superintendent Wigg.’

  ‘I’d forgotten him.’

  ‘Should we treat him as suspect?’

  Stanley Quayle pondered. ‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘Yes, you should.’

  Now that the shock of the murder was wearing off in Spondon, people were starting to remember things that had seemed irrelevant at the time. The reporter was therefore able to pick up scraps of information here and there that might be of use to the detectives. Having become a familiar figure in the village, he’d won the trust of most of the inhabitants so they were more ready to confide in him. When his work was done, he strolled towards the railway station with the feeling that his day had been well spent. Before Conway reached the building, however, he saw Jed Hockaday emerging from it. Spotting the reporter, the cobbler bore down on him with a vengeance.

  ‘I want a word with you,’ he said, angrily.

  ‘You can have as many as you like,’ replied the other, coolly.

  ‘Stop telling lies about me to those two detectives.’
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  ‘You’re the one who’s been telling lies, Mr Hockaday. According to you, on the night of the murder, you weren’t even in Spondon. Yet when the sergeant had a word with the stationmaster, he discovered that you got back here on the last train.’

  ‘I’d been drinking,’ said Hockaday. ‘I was confused.’

  ‘You were sober in the morning. When you woke up in your own bed, you must have realised that you got back home somehow.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘If it’s relevant to the murder investigation, it is my business.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with the murder,’ said the cobbler, brandishing a fist, ‘so you can stop saying that I did. I never even knew the dead man.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ challenged Conway.

  ‘I’m very sure.’

  ‘What about Mr Haygarth?’

  Hockaday glared. ‘Who?’

  ‘Donald Haygarth – did you know him?’

  There was a momentary delay in replying that gave the cobbler away and his manner was shifty. Though he insisted that he was neither friend nor acquaintance of Haygarth, his claim was unconvincing. The question had put him on the defensive and it irked him. He went back on the attack again.

  ‘Keep away from Spondon,’ he warned.

  ‘It’s a free country. I can come here, if I want to.’

  ‘You’re not welcome.’

  ‘You don’t speak for the whole village,’ said Conway. ‘Most people have been very friendly. They’ve been glad to help, especially as it may get their names in the Mercury.’

  Hockaday stepped in close. ‘Don’t spread lies about me – or else.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Hockaday?’

  ‘There’s such a thing as slander.’

  Conway laughed. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ he said. ‘I work for a newspaper so I’ve had the laws of libel and slander drummed into me. It’s the reason I always tell the truth. Malicious lies can be expensive.’

  ‘You’d do well to remember that.’

  Hockaday stood over him as if about to strike a blow. In the end, he took a step to the side so that the reporter could go past. Conway paused.

  ‘Let me ask you again,’ he said. ‘Do you know Donald Haygarth?’

  Unable to contain his anger, Hockaday stalked off.

  Colbeck was intrigued. Of all the people involved in the case, he found Gerard Burns the most interesting and not only because of his prowess as a cricketer. On the journey back to Derby, he reflected on the character of the gardener. Until his romance with Lydia Quayle, he’d been viewed as an ideal employee, honest, dependable, hard-working, keen to improve the gardens he tended and ready to lend his skills to the family on the field of play. Yet he was also capable of dishonesty, entering into a relationship that called for systematic deception on his part. Having heard from Leeming what an attractive young woman she was, Colbeck could understand how Burns had been drawn to her but he sensed that there was another element at work. Gerard Burns was a man who liked danger and who would be drawn into a romance by the very thing that should have kept him at bay. He might have been beaten by hired ruffians, but he’d taken care to point out that he’d given both men a good fight before he was overpowered.

  Where had he been after the match in Ilkeston? The groundsman there had placed him in Derby on the night of the murder and Burns had admitted it freely. What he refused to say was what he was doing there and who might vouch for his whereabouts at a time when Vivian Quayle was being lowered into a grave in Spondon. Colbeck had left Melbourne Hall with many questions unanswered. Burns had been unmoved when it was pointed out that poison similar to that in the herbicide he used had been found in the murder victim. Of the main suspects – Burns, Wigg and Haygarth – the gardener was the one most likely to have committed the crime on his own. The others would probably have used a trusted confederate. As a policeman, Wigg seemed the least likely candidate but Colbeck had arrested a murderous sergeant in his time so he knew that a police uniform was no proof of innocence. Wigg might have had a ready assistant in someone like Jed Hockaday and Haygarth merely had to call on Maurice Hope.

  His meditations took him all the way back to the headquarters of the Midland Railway. Colbeck felt that the warm welcome he received from the acting chairman was a trifle forced. Haygarth pressed for details. When he heard that Colbeck had made a return visit to Melbourne Hall, he wondered why the inspector had not arrested Gerard Burns on the spot.

  ‘I had insufficient evidence, sir,’ explained Colbeck.

  ‘You had him lying about where he was on the night of the murder and you discovered that he uses a weedkiller which contains a poison found in the victim’s body. What else do you need?’

  ‘Mr Burns didn’t lie to me. He merely withheld the truth and that’s a slightly different thing. As for the herbicide, he’s not the only gardener who uses it.’

  ‘But you just told me that it came from Germany. How many people would even know that such a product existed?’

  ‘Good horticulturalists are observant people,’ said Colbeck. ‘They read articles about developments abroad. Mr Burns is luckier than most in that he’s encouraged to keep abreast of the latest news.’

  ‘I think you’ve got enough to put him behind bars.’

  ‘Then you have an inadequate grasp of the law.’

  ‘I don’t think so. On the evidence we have – including his hatred of Vivian Quayle – a clever barrister could send him off for a rendezvous with the hangman.’

  ‘I dispute that,’ said Colbeck, firmly, ‘and I speak as a former barrister. When you prosecute an innocent man, it can be embarrassing and not without consequences. To begin with, the police can be sued for wrongful arrest. Before you go to court, you must ensure that you have watertight evidence of guilt.’

  ‘But you have it, Inspector. Burns is the obvious killer.’

  ‘The burden of proof still lies with us.’

  ‘Arrest him now before he makes a run for it.’

  ‘Where would he go, sir?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Burns has a wife and a child on the way. It’s one of the factors that I deem important. He loves his job. Would he risk losing everything by committing a murder?’

  ‘Yes,’ asserted Haygarth, ‘if he could get away with it.’

  ‘Most killers suffer from that delusion.’

  The remark produced a long, heavy silence. Haygarth pretended to look for something on his desk then opened a drawer to continue the search. He slammed it shut in annoyance.

  ‘There was something I wanted to show you,’ he said, ‘but I can’t find it.’

  ‘Give it to me another time, sir.’

  ‘It was the list of the new locomotives being built for the Midland. I thought you might be interested in it.’ He looked up. ‘And you still haven’t visited the Works, have you? Cope is ready to show you round.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Colbeck knew that he was just trying to change the subject. In an office as tidy as his, Haygarth would know exactly where everything was. He’d instituted the false search because he’d been knocked off balance. Colbeck exploited the weakness.

  ‘Is it true that you haven’t been to Spondon for decades, sir?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I told you so.’

  ‘Then you must have a twin, Mr Haygarth. I have reliable reports that someone looking remarkably like you attended the funeral of Mrs Peet.’ He gave a quizzical smile. ‘Have you any idea who that might have been?’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The situation was intolerable. They both felt that. Lydia Quayle and Beatrice Myler still had their meals together but they were ordeals rather than occasions for pleasure. They were conducted largely in silence and what conversation they did manage was brief and brittle. Blaming herself for what had happened, Lydia kept more and more to her room, the one place in the house where she didn’t feel that she was intruding. Beatrice, too, often sought privacy. Yet even though they were physically a
part, they felt each other’s presence keenly. When they did move about the house, it was as if they were walking on eggshells, each afraid that she might accidentally bump into the other. Mutual love and understanding had perished.

  Unable to stand it any longer, Lydia came to a decision. When she found her friend in the drawing room, she tried to sound as pleasant as possible.

  ‘I think that we need some time apart, Beatrice,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking the same thing. Where will you go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, I fancy that you do, Lydia.’

  ‘Truly, I don’t.’

  ‘You want to go there, don’t you?’ said Beatrice, accusation hanging on the air. ‘In spite of everything you promised, you intend to go home.’

  ‘That’s not the case at all. I simply … don’t want to be in the way.’

  Beatrice made no reply. Lowering her eyes, she sat in silence. The tension between them was almost tangible. For several minutes, they wrestled with words that refused to come out of their mouths. It was only when Lydia was about to move off that her friend recovered her voice.

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘How long do you want me to be away?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘But you’d value a break from me, is that it?’

  ‘We’d both profit, Lydia.’

  It was gone. The ability that each of them had had to read the other’s mind had vanished. They were like strangers, meeting for the first time, unable to get beyond a surface politeness, bereft of any affection. Lydia suddenly noticed what a plain and unbecoming woman she was and, by the same token, Beatrice was struck by the fact that there was so little about her companion to interest her. Neither would believe that they had lived together so agreeably.

  ‘Are you still reading that book about Venice?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And you still want to go there again?’

  ‘I need a holiday.’