‘What happened to her?’
‘I don’t rightly know, Inspector. Talk was that she’s in London.’
‘Apparently, there’s a doubt over her return for the funeral.’
‘She must come back for that,’ said Lambert with passion. ‘Her father was murdered, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Quite so.’
‘It’s unnatural.’
‘Let’s go back to Gerard Burns.’
Lambert pursed his lips. ‘Shame to see him go, Inspector.’
‘Why – did you know him?’
‘Not personally, but I watched him many a time. Do you have any interest in cricket, Inspector?’
‘Yes, I do,’ replied Colbeck. ‘I loved playing it in my younger days.’
‘Burns was not only a canny gardener,’ said Lambert, ‘he was the best bowler in the county. Nottinghamshire’s loss is Derbyshire’s gain.’
‘Is that where he went – over the border?’
‘He couldn’t stay here. Mr Quayle made that very clear.’
‘So where exactly is he?’
‘Oh, he’s fallen on his feet in one way,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s a promotion of a kind. He looks after the gardens at Melbourne Hall.’
Gerard Burns was a tall, lean, sinewy man in his thirties with a mop of fair hair imprisoned under his battered hat. The gardens under his aegis were among the finest in the county, comprising broad tracts of lawn, avenues of trees, explosions of colour in the flower beds and tasteful statuary. As he walked around the edge of the Great Basin, he watched the insects buzzing merrily above the water. Burns took great pride in his work and made every effort to maintain the high quality of grounds constructed a hundred and fifty years earlier after consultation with no less than the royal gardeners. He turned along a path that led to the ponds and saw two men busy with their hoes. One of them suddenly bent down to retrieve an object from behind a shrub. He held it up for Burns to see.
‘Iss thar ball the children lost,’ he called out. ‘You’d best ’ave this, Mr Burns. Catch it.’
He threw it high in the air but the head gardener caught it easily with one hand. Burns rolled the ball over in his palm. Aware of his skill on the cricket field, the undergardeners were both watching him expectantly. He obliged them with a demonstration. After walking away from it, he turned to face the Birdcage, the outstanding feature of the gardens, a large and elaborate wrought iron arbour created by a celebrated ironsmith at the start of the previous century and still retaining its full majesty. Burns, however, was not there to admire it. Having measured out his run-up, he set off, accelerated, then flung the ball with all his strength. Flashing through the air, it struck the arbour and bounced harmlessly off. The undergardeners gave him a round of applause.
‘I told ter,’ said one of them to the other. ‘He’s like a strick o’ lightnin’.’
Victor Leeming was gazing reflectively into the empty grave in the churchyard. He tried to envisage what Vivian Quayle had looked like when he lay there on his back. Fortunately, the dead man had fitted into the cavity without difficulty. A much taller or broader corpse would have been crumpled up.
‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ asked the vicar, coming up beside him.
‘I’m just thinking.’
‘This is a day for contemplation. I made that point in my address.’
‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ said Leeming. ‘It was … very moving.’
‘Thank you. I’ve just come from the family. They’re still bemused by the suddenness of it all. A month ago, Mrs Peet was a healthy, active lady with decades ahead of her – or so it seemed. Then the headaches began and she went downhill with indecent haste. The brain tumour was a silent enemy growing in stealth. It’s ironic.’
‘What is, Vicar?’
‘Well, my dear wife is plagued by all sorts of minor ailments and has never been very robust, yet she will probably go on forever. A fit and lively person dies without warning while a near invalid soldiers on from year to year.’
‘Death can be very cruel.’
‘Yet it’s always the working out of God’s purpose. There must have been a reason why he called Mrs Peet into his presence. What that reason was, I’ve yet to decide.’ He looked across at the other grave, now hidden under a mound of fresh earth. ‘You, too, are still looking for reasons, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Leeming, ‘I’m wondering how and why Mr Quayle ended up in Spondon. It’s the first thing I’ll ask the killer when we catch him.’
‘I spotted a reward notice on my way back here. It should bring results.’
‘It’s already brought your gravedigger to me.’
‘What did Bert Knowles have to say?’
‘Oh, he made up a story about being in here on the night of the murder and feeling that he was being watched. When I told him his evidence was worthless, he admitted he’d made the whole thing up and had a good laugh.’
The vicar sighed. ‘That’s typical of Knowles. He’s incorrigible.’
‘Actually, he was very helpful. He told someone why I was here and the man, a Mr Truss, came running to see me. He really did have something useful to say.’
‘Yes, I know Truss. He’s a sound, God-fearing fellow.’
‘Is he a married man?’
‘No,’ said the vicar, ‘he can be a little alarming until you get used to those eyes. I think he’s accepted that he holds no attraction for the gentler sex.’
Leeming didn’t disillusion him by telling him about Truss’s night-time activity. After taking the funeral then trying to comfort the family, Sadler was already in a delicate state. The loss of faith in one of his parishioners would be painful to him and, in any case, Leeming would not break his promise to the glove-maker.
‘I really came to look for the marks of a wheelbarrow,’ he explained.
‘You won’t find many of those, I’m afraid. A lot of feet have trampled across the churchyard today.’
‘Some marks are still visible.’
‘Then they were put there by Bert’s wheelbarrow. It’s monstrously heavy but he shoves it around as if it’s as light as a feather.’ He turned to point. ‘He keeps it out of the way behind the tool shed.’
‘I know, Vicar. I made a point of finding it.’
‘Why do you have such a fascination with a rusting old wheelbarrow?’
‘I wanted to eliminate it,’ explained Leeming. ‘There are traces of it all over the place. But there’s also the marks of another wheelbarrow and they end right here beside the grave. Do you see, Vicar?’ He bent down to pat the earth. ‘This wasn’t made by the wheel on Knowles’s barrow. So I’m bound to ask where it did come from. Mrs Peet arrived for the funeral in a glass-panelled hearse,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if Mr Quayle got here in a meaner form of transport.’
When Lucas Quayle went in search of his brother, he found him seated at the desk in the study and flicking through the pile of papers he’d taken from a drawer.
‘What are you doing in here, Stanley?’ he asked.
‘I’m searching for Father’s will.’
‘Mother would tell you where that’s kept.’
‘She’s far too unwell to be bothered,’ said Stanley. ‘Besides, according to Agnes, the doctor has given her something to make her sleep. Mother needs rest.’
‘Are you certain that the will is actually here?’
‘I’m convinced of it.’
‘Father must have lodged it with his solicitor, surely.’
‘He’ll have kept his own copy. He did everything in duplicate.’
‘That’s true.’
Annoyed at the intrusion, he put the papers aside and rose to his feet.
‘Why do you need to bother me, Luke?’
‘There’s something we must discuss.’
‘If it’s what I think, you’re wasting your breath. That matter is long over and done with. Forget all about it.’
‘Lydia is our sister. We can’t just ignore that fact.’
‘She left this family of her own accord and she is not coming back to it.’
‘I disagree.’
Lucas Quayle usually lost any arguments with his brother because the latter had established his dominance over a long period. This time, however, the younger man would not give way. Tall and well built, he had something of his father’s good looks and had cultivated a similar moustache. The resemblance ended there. While Vivian Quayle had been wholly committed to his responsibilities as the owner of some profitable coal mines, his second son had been more wayward, embarking on two or three different careers before abandoning each in turn, and feeling the lash of his father’s tongue and that of his elder brother’s. It was only when he’d married after a succession of dalliances that he’d introduced any stability into his life. It irked him that his brother still treated him like the aimless drifter he’d once been.
‘I think that we should get in touch with Lydia,’ he declared.
‘I won’t hear of it.’
‘She has a right to be here, Stanley.’
‘Lydia spurned this family and lost all claim on it as a result. When I finally find the will, I’ll guarantee that her name is never mentioned in it.’
‘Our sister is not expecting it to be. She and Father … broke apart decisively. I accept that. But the nature of his death will surely wipe away the old bitterness. Lydia needs to be told that she’s welcome in this house again.’
Stanley stamped a foot. ‘It will never happen while I’m here.’
‘Think of Mother. She’d want to see her daughter.’
‘Don’t drag Mother into this. I’m the head of the household now and my writ runs here. No more argument, Luke,’ he affirmed. ‘Lydia is persona non grata here.’
His brother was appalled. ‘Do you hate her so much?’
‘I don’t even acknowledge her existence.’
‘What’s happened to you, Stanley? You’ve changed since you took over the mines. Father could be callous when forced to be but you make a virtue of it. I don’t have to ask Mother or Agnes how they feel. I know that, in their hearts, they’re ready to forgive and forget. They’d love to see Lydia again.’
‘Well, it won’t happen.’
‘You can’t keep her away from the funeral if she chooses to come.’
‘Yes, I can. I’ll see that she’s refused entry to the church.’
‘Would you really do such a thing?’ asked his brother.
‘I’m confident that it won’t come to that,’ said the other, softening slightly, ‘but I’ll do what Father would have wanted and that’s to shun her completely. As for getting in touch with Lydia, we don’t even know where she is.’
‘I do,’ said the other.
For a few seconds, his brother was stunned. His eyes smouldered and, when he spoke again, his voice was dripping with accusation.
‘You dared to maintain a correspondence with her?’ Stanley grabbed his brother’s lapels.
‘I’m entitled to make my own decisions about Lydia.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
Lucas waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘How long, I asked?’ demanded his brother.
‘I tracked her down a few months ago.’
‘Whatever for?’ he shouted, veins standing out on his temples.
‘I was curious.’
Stanley Quayle released him and stood back, eyeing him with complete disgust. Before he could say anything, there was a tap on the door and the butler entered with a telegraph. Aware of the taut atmosphere, he simply handed it to the elder brother and left at once.
‘If it’s a telegraph, it must be important,’ said Lucas Quayle.
After glaring at him, his brother tore open the missive and glanced at it.
‘The post-mortem has been completed,’ he said, curtly. ‘Father’s body will be released to us tomorrow.’
Staying at the Malt Shovel was a mixed blessing. While he enjoyed its food and relished its beer, Victor Leeming found himself under siege. At the end of the working day, a stream of people came in turn to see him, each with what they felt was information worthy of attention and, possibly, of reward. Some of it was clearly fabricated and therefore easily dismissed, some was so confused as to be of no help at all and the rest was well meant but irrelevant. In the interests of maintaining goodwill, however, he took down all the statements and thanked each witness. When there was a lull in activity, he was tempted to slip off to his room but another person came through the door, a basket-maker from Potter Street. He was an old man with watery eyes and a croaking voice but his memory seemed unimpaired. Having taken his dog out for a walk on the night in question, the basket-maker recalled seeing a man pushing a wheelbarrow towards the church. He was too far away to see what was in the barrow but said that it was moving slowly.
Leeming was so glad for the corroboration of Barnaby Truss’s evidence that he bought the man a drink. He then retired to his room to sift through the statements he’d taken in the course of the day and to have a quiet moment alone. His escape was short-lived. The landlord pounded on the door before flinging it open.
‘There’s someone to see you, sir,’ he grunted.
‘Tell him to wait.’
‘He said he’d come up here, if you prefer.’
‘This room is not big enough for two of us,’ complained Leeming. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll come down at once,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘But I can’t spend the whole evening down there. The world and his wife want to see me.’
When he clattered down the stairs, he was in a resigned mood but his face brightened when he saw who his visitor was. Colbeck was seated at a table in the corner with two tankards of beer on it.
‘This is good,’ he said, taking another sip. ‘What about the food?’
‘It’s wholesome, sir.’
‘How does it compare with the menu at the Royal Hotel?’
‘The pork pie is grand but the choice is a bit limited.’
After taking the seat opposite Colbeck, the sergeant downed the first couple of inches of his beer before using the back of his hand to wipe the froth from his mouth. He gave an abbreviated account of his day and was pleased with the way that Colbeck complimented him on his visit to the churchyard to search for marks of a barrow.
‘This could be an important sighting,’ said the inspector.
‘It was verified by a second man.’
‘Then you have to find out if someone else was abroad at that time of night. What’s the latest train to get into Spondon? Who was on it and which way did they walk home? I suppose it’s not unusual for someone to be pushing a wheelbarrow about in a village like this.’
‘It is if there’s a dead body in it, sir.’
‘We don’t know that for certain.’
‘What else could he have been taking up that hill?’
‘Did anyone actually see him enter the churchyard?’
‘No,’ conceded Leeming, ‘but I found those wheel marks there. They were quite deep and obviously caused by a heavy load. Anyway,’ he went on, taking another long drink, ‘what have you been up to, sir?’
‘Oh, it’s been a full day.’
Colbeck’s version of events was concise and lucid. He talked about his visit to Nottingham and what he’d learnt there about the Quayle family. He’d returned to Derby, called in at the hotel and found an important letter awaiting him.
‘What was it, sir?’
‘It was a copy of the post-mortem report, Victor. It appears that the victim was sedated before he was injected with a poison. Since he’s not an expert toxicologist, the man who conducted the post-mortem was not entirely sure of all the elements in that poison but his conclusion is that death would have been fairly swift. Whoever killed Mr Quayle knew exactly what he was doing.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lost in thought, Lydia Quayle walked along the Thames embankment in the fading light of a warm evening. She was torn between family loyal
ty and an abiding hatred, nudged by an impulse to return home for the funeral yet repelled by the memory of the man who would be lowered into his grave. Years of deep anger could not be so easily laid to rest. When she’d made the decision to leave Nottingham and all its associations behind her, she’d vowed never to return, trying to create a new life for herself elsewhere. Lydia had even persuaded herself that she was happy being independent and free from the dictates of others. But the move to London had not been without its disappointments and limitations. It had taken her time to adapt to them.
When she first saw the newspaper report about the murder of her father, she’d felt an instant elation and wanted to meet the killer in order to thank him for doing something that she had considered doing in her darkest moments. Shame had quickly set in, to be replaced by a distant pity but that, too, had soon evaporated. Recalling what her father had done and – above all – said to her, the bitterness had returned afresh. Devoid of love for him, she could not even find an ounce of regret, still less of forgiveness. If she went back home, it would be to rejoice in his death.
Lydia made an effort to put her father aside and to consider the other members of her family. Her mother might be glad to see her, though she’d offered her elder daughter little support when the turmoil had occurred. On the other hand, she was a sick woman and that had been taken into account. She’d had no strength to oppose the wishes of her husband or to protect Lydia in some way and had therefore appeared to condone what was going on. Stanley would certainly not welcome her and might even forbid her to enter the house. He was simply a younger version of their father with the same implacable resentment towards her. Nor would Stanley’s wife speak up for her. She was far too dutiful and submissive.
Agnes lacked the spirit or the desire to stand up against her elder brother. She and Lydia had never been close. They had played together as young children but any bond between them had soon been stretched to breaking point. Lydia had been the clear favourite of their parents and of the wider family. She was more attractive, appealing, intelligent and venturesome. Living in her sister’s shadow, Agnes had been almost invisible. Since Lydia had shown little care or sympathy for her, she could expect none in return. In the years since she’d been cut off from her family, Lucas was the only member of it that she really missed. Significantly, he was the one who had got in touch with her.
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