Timetable of Death

by Edward Marston

‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘And you know the geography of the village.’

  ‘I’ve probably forgotten most of it, Inspector. I haven’t been near Spondon for decades. My time is divided between making sure that my silk mills are operating at maximum efficiency and keeping the Midland Railway under surveillance.’

  ‘That’s a taxing demand on any man.’

  ‘I’ve learnt to bear responsibility lightly.’

  ‘Then you deserve congratulation, sir.’

  ‘It’s something that Vivian Quayle was unable to do,’ said Haygarth as the train got ever closer. ‘When he got involved with this company, he handed over the control of his coal mines to his elder son. I like to keep my hand on the tiller. I’ve given my sons managerial positions but retained overall control of the mills. Unlike Quayle, I’m able to wear more than one hat at a time.’

  Colbeck was about to ask him another question but the train surged past and made conversation impossible. Haygarth was lost in a fug of smoke and steam. When it began to clear, he had disappeared into a compartment.

  It took time to win Lydia Quayle’s confidence. When she realised why they’d called, Lydia was tempted to ask them to leave and Beatrice was patently anxious to get rid of them. But Madeleine was very persuasive and Leeming had the sense to let her do most of the talking. Alone, he knew, he would have been unable to draw anything out of Lydia. He could now understand why Colbeck had suggested that his wife should be involved in tracing the exiled member of the Quayle family. She had a lightness of touch that Leeming signally lacked.

  ‘Let me assure you,’ said Madeleine, ‘that we are not here to advise you to return to Nottingham. We’d have no right to do so. That’s a personal decision for you, Miss Quayle.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Beatrice. ‘And that decision has already been made.’

  ‘How did you find me?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘We went to Mudie’s Lending Library.’

  ‘But I’m not even a member.’

  ‘Miss Myler is.’

  When Madeleine explained that Lydia’s predilection for Italy had helped them to run her to earth, Lydia was impressed.

  ‘That was very enterprising of you, Mrs Colbeck.’

  ‘It was my husband’s suggestion. He’s had a lot of experience at finding missing persons.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be pedantic,’ said Beatrice, ‘but Miss Quayle does not qualify as a missing person. When she parted company with her family, she came to London because she preferred to live here. Nobody came in search of her because she was not really missing.’

  ‘What do you wish to know?’ asked Lydia.

  Madeleine was apologetic. ‘We’d have to intrude on your private life.’

  ‘That’s not permissible,’ Beatrice interjected. ‘Miss Quayle has put that whole world behind her. She has no wish to revive unpleasant memories.’

  ‘Everybody must want to have a murder solved,’ said Leeming, ‘especially if the victim happens to be their father.’

  ‘The sergeant is right,’ conceded Lydia.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ Beatrice argued.

  ‘I feel that I do.’

  ‘You’ve turned your back on Nottingham.’

  ‘The situation there has changed. If I can help the investigation in any way, then I ought to do it. There’s no danger. I’ve learnt to confront my past.’

  Madeleine was unable to read the glance that was exchanged between the two women but she could see that Beatrice Myler was very unhappy. Lydia, however, was offering to answer questions so Madeleine pressed on.

  ‘It’s only fair to tell you that my husband has already spoken to Mr Burns.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lydia.

  ‘He talked very candidly about the reason he left your father’s employ.’

  ‘Need we dredge all that up again?’ asked Beatrice, tetchily.

  ‘If it’s relevant,’ said Lydia, firmly, ‘then we must.’

  ‘It would be like opening a wound that’s starting to heal.’

  ‘My father was murdered, Beatrice. He was the person who inflicted the wound. It no longer smarts so much now that I know he’s dead.’

  It was Madeleine’s turn to communicate with a glance and Leeming read it correctly. It was the sort of look that his wife gave him when she wanted to have a private discussion with a female neighbour who’d just called in. He rose to his feet.

  ‘I feel I’m rather in the way,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  ‘Beatrice will take you into the other room,’ said Lydia, indicating that she’d rather be left alone with Madeleine. She smiled at her friend. ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Beatrice, her face impassive as she got up from the chair. ‘Follow me, Sergeant Leeming.’

  She led him out then closed the door harder than she needed to have done.

  ‘I may have to tell you something rather distasteful,’ warned Madeleine.

  ‘Don’t hold back on my behalf, Mrs Colbeck. I’ve received some terrible blows in my life and I managed to survive them all.’

  ‘It concerns your friendship with Mr Burns.’

  ‘Let’s call it by its proper name, shall we?’ said Lydia. ‘It was a romance, an ill-advised one, perhaps, but it meant everything to me at the time.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘I knew from the start that it was an impossible dream but that’s what drove me on, somehow. I wanted to shock and defy convention. Have you ever harboured impossible dreams, Mrs Colbeck?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Madeleine, thinking of her marriage to Colbeck and her career as an artist. ‘In my case, the dreams came true.’

  ‘Did you have no opposition from your father?’

  ‘None at all – he’s approved of what I’ve done.’

  ‘Then he must have been a lot more tolerant than mine.’

  ‘What about your mother? Did she take your side?’

  ‘She was never consulted properly. All that Mother was told was that I was in disgrace and had to be punished. As you doubtless know, I was taken abroad.’ Lydia pulled a face. ‘Going to Italy had always been my ambition but not under those circumstances. It was an ordeal – until I met Beatrice, that is.’

  ‘When you lived at home, did you see much of your father?’

  ‘I saw very little. He was not really interested in me any more than in Agnes, my younger sister. We were simply part of the furniture. Father only took proper notice of my brothers, Stanley and Lucas. They were raised in his image, though Lucas was something of a rebel.’ She smiled fondly. ‘That’s why I got on with him so well. At heart, we were two of a kind.’

  ‘You must have been to social gatherings of one kind or another.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we were all dragged off to those – Mother, Agnes and me. Father hardly noticed us. He was too busy shaking hands with people who might be useful to him one day.’

  ‘You strike me as an observant woman, Miss Quayle. Did you ever see any sign of … enmity towards your father? I don’t mean outright hostility. People are far too careful to show that. But I fancy that you’d have been able to sense if some of the so-called friends were not quite as friendly as they appeared.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lydia, ‘I was. When you’ve nothing to do but sit on the sidelines, you notice all manner of things that give people away.’

  ‘Did you pick out any false friends of your father’s?’

  ‘Two of them picked themselves out, Mrs Colbeck.’

  ‘One of them, I suspect, was Mr Haygarth,’ said Madeleine, recalling what she’d read in Colbeck’s letter. ‘He was your father’s rival, wasn’t he? Who was the other person you spotted?’

  ‘His name is Elijah Wigg. He’s a police superintendent.’

  Madeleine was caught off balance. There’d been no mention of Wigg in her husband’s long and detailed missive. She wondered what Vivian Quayle had done to make an enemy in the police force.

  ‘Why he and fat
her were at odds with each other,’ said Lydia, ‘I don’t know, but they were bound to meet at certain functions. There was a dinner when we found ourselves sitting at the same table as the Wigg family. Father didn’t exchange a single word with him.’

  ‘How strange! Let’s move on to Mr Burns,’ suggested Madeleine. ‘I do apologise if this is embarrassing for you.’

  ‘Years have passed since then. I’m a different person now.’

  ‘Your friend gave my husband a very clear account of … what had happened between you and him. There was even talk of an elopement, I believe.’

  ‘You snatch at anything to be with the person you love, Mrs Colbeck. We were talking about it the night we were seen together.’ Her face showed anger for the first time. ‘That put a stop to all our plans.’

  ‘Yet you tried to get in touch on your return from Italy.’

  ‘I tried and failed – so did Gerard.’

  ‘Do you know why, Miss Quayle?’

  ‘They kept him away from me.’

  ‘There was rather more to it than that,’ explained Madeleine. ‘This is what I meant when I said I might have to pass on something distasteful. Your father paid two ruffians to assault Mr Burns and they warned him that, if he dared to get anywhere near you again, he’d suffer even more injury.’

  ‘I can guess the nature of that injury,’ said Lydia, quietly, ‘because my father made the same threat to me. I was not as familiar with the ways of the world then so you can imagine the profound shock that it gave me. I was horrified.’

  ‘What did your father threaten to do?’

  ‘He said that if I made any attempt to get in touch with Gerard again …’ She broke off and wiped away a tear that had just trickled out of her eye. ‘It was the way that Father said it that turned my stomach. Keep well away from him, I was told, or the man I’d loved would be castrated.’

  Philip Conway had returned to the offices of the Derby Mercury to discover that the editor was not there. Expecting a reprimand for not bringing back from Spondon the latest news about the murder investigation, Conway was heartily relieved. He was able to write an article on an unrelated subject. Instead of vanishing altogether, however, the chastisement had only been postponed. When the editor finally turned up, he summoned the reporter to his office and asked for details of the latest developments. Unable to provide them, Conway was given a verbal roasting and sent off to the Royal Hotel to speak to the man in charge of the case.

  The Railway Detective was in the lounge, talking to Superintendent Wigg. From the gestures made by the latter, Conway deduced that an argument was taking place. He lurked nearby until Wigg’s temper had cooled then drifted across to them. The superintendent’s manner changed at once. He always made an effort to cultivate the press even if only dealing with a young reporter.

  ‘Ah, come on over,’ he invited, beckoning with a finger. ‘This is Philip Conway from the Mercury, Inspector, but I daresay that you’ve met.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, we haven’t,’ said Colbeck, ‘but Sergeant Leeming has mentioned him favourably to me. How do you do, Mr Conway?’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Inspector. The sergeant worships you.’

  ‘I certainly don’t,’ said Wigg under his breath. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way, Inspector, but do bear in mind what I said.’

  Colbeck rose from his chair in tandem with Wigg and they exchanged a farewell handshake. The superintendent beamed at the reporter.

  ‘Do give my regards to the editor,’ he said.

  Conway gave a dutiful nod and stood aside so that Wigg could leave. After sizing the newcomer up, Colbeck waved him to a chair, asked if he would like a drink then summoned a waiter to place an order for two glasses of whisky. The reporter was clearly delighted to be in his presence.

  ‘I didn’t realise that the sergeant had returned to London,’ he said.

  ‘It’s only a temporary return.’

  ‘Is he there in relation to the investigation?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colbeck in a tone that announced he would give no details. ‘I’ve read your articles in the Derby Mercury. They’ve been reassuringly accurate.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘The sergeant will have told you how often we get traduced or misrepresented in the London press. They always expect us to solve a crime instantly, whereas it may take weeks, if not months. Look at the other murder in Spondon.’

  ‘I meant to tell you about that, Inspector.’

  ‘They present a curious contrast, don’t they?’ observed Colbeck. ‘On the one side, we have Mr Quayle, a native of Nottingham without any discernible link to the village, being found dead in its church. On the other, we have a local man robbed and killed on a road leading out of it. Compare the nature of their deaths. The wealthy industrialist is dispatched with poison while the framework knitter was battered to the ground. Which of the crimes is easier to solve?’

  ‘Neither has been solved yet.’

  ‘The latest one will be.’

  ‘What about the earlier one?’

  ‘That should have been solved three years ago. The sheer brutality of the attack tells us something about the character of the attacker. The facts would suggest to me that he’s a local man, aware of the route home that Enoch Stone would take after a night drinking in a public house.’

  ‘Most people believe it may have been a traveller, seizing his opportunity.’

  ‘Were any strangers seen in the village that day?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, Inspector.’

  ‘Then I’d plump for someone in Spondon. I took the trouble to find out the wage earned by a framework knitter and it’s not a large one. The killer didn’t get away with a lot of money so perhaps robbery was not the motive, after all. It was made to look as if it was. What prompted the murder might have been something else entirely.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the reporter.

  ‘Now in the case of Mr Quayle,’ said Colbeck, ‘there was a sizeable amount of money in his wallet and he had an expensive pocket watch. Neither was stolen. How do you explain that?’

  ‘I don’t but, then, I’m not a detective.’

  ‘Don’t be modest. You ferret out stories so you’re in an allied trade.’

  The waiter arrived with the whisky on a tray. He set a glass down in front of each of them then withdrew. Colbeck sampled his drink before speaking.

  ‘You said earlier that you meant to talk to me about Enoch Stone.’

  ‘Sergeant Leeming may already have mentioned this.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t said anything to me about it.’

  Conway took a hasty sip of his whisky and had a minor coughing fit. When he’d recovered, he described his visit to Spondon that day and his encounter in the churchyard with Jed Hockaday. He quoted the vicar then recalled Leeming’s assessment of the cobbler. After listening carefully, Colbeck said that he would make a point of speaking to the man himself. Hockaday’s behaviour was too peculiar to be ignored and it called his status as a constable into doubt.

  ‘I’ll pass on your comments to Sergeant Leeming.’

  ‘Is he on his way back here this evening?’

  ‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘he’ll spend the night at home then catch an early train. Before then, he may find a surprise awaiting him at Scotland Yard.’

  After what he saw as his earlier triumph over the superintendent, Victor Leeming entered the office without the usual tremors. Indeed, there was a spring in his step and a radiant smile igniting his features. He and Madeleine had succeeded in their task. Lydia Quayle had been located and a fund of information about her family had been elicited from her. The person who’d drawn it out, of course, was Madeleine but there would be no mention of her part in the visit. Congratulations were in order and Leeming was ready to enjoy them.

  ‘Good evening, Superintendent,’ he said, airily.

  ‘What kept you?’ snarled the other.

  ‘I had to follow a twisting trail, sir.’

  ‘Y
ou’ve been away for hours.’

  ‘But I did what the inspector asked me to do,’ Leeming contended. ‘By dint of careful research, I found out the address where Miss Quayle is living.’

  ‘It’s number thirty-eight, Bloomfield Terrace, Pimlico.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Thirty-eight, Bloomfield Terrace …’ His smile froze and his confidence died instantly. ‘How on earth do you know?’

  ‘Colbeck sent me a telegraph with the details.’

  ‘But I had to spend ages finding the place.’

  ‘All you found was something we already know. Now, then,’ said Tallis, reaching for a cigar. ‘Since you were so certain that you’d collect vital evidence from the young lady, tell me what you actually discovered.’ He lit the cigar, had a few puffs to make sure that it was fully alight then issued a grim challenge. ‘Come on, man. Impress me.’

  Leeming could hear the firing squad shuffling into position.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Stanley Quayle was in a vile mood. The first person to feel the lash of his tongue was John Cleary, the coachman. They were outside the stables and Quayle’s voice echoed around the yard.

  ‘Whatever did you think you were doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mrs Quayle asked to be taken for a drive, sir.’

  ‘My mother is ill. She needs complete rest. The doctor advised that she remain in bed until further notice. The last thing she should be doing is leaving the house.’

  ‘I only did what I was told, sir,’ said the other, politely.

  ‘You should have talked to me first.’

  ‘You were not here, Mr Quayle.’

  ‘Then you should have sought my brother.’

  ‘Your mother was very insistent, sir. She’s always enjoyed being taken for a drive in the country, and the weather was warm.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with the weather,’ shouted Quayle. ‘It’s to do with my mother’s health. She’s very poorly and coping badly with her bereavement. If you’d had any sense, you’d have realised that. You should have refused to take her.’

  ‘That would only have upset Mrs Quayle.’

  ‘It’s what you should have done, Cleary.’