‘She was a gracious lady. I’ll miss her. As for what Mr Conway may have told you,’ said Hockaday with annoyance, ‘there’s no law that stops you from paying respects to the dead.’
‘You’re right – there isn’t.’
‘But it wasn’t only Mrs Peet who interested you,’ said Colbeck, ‘was it? I believe that you also looked into the grave where the body of Mr Quayle, the murder victim, was found. Then you discussed the Stone case at length.’
‘That makes three deaths,’ commented Leeming.
‘One was natural and the other two were not.’
Hockaday backed away and hunched up defensively. His eyes darted from one to the other and back again. He chewed his lip before speaking.
‘It was Mr Conway who brought up Enoch Stone. He knew I’d been looking for my friend’s killer for years. As for the empty grave,’ he added, ‘I was just wondering if anybody would want to use it after what happened. If it was left to me, I’d fill it in. Bad memories like that should be buried.’
‘That won’t make them go away.’
‘No, Inspector, but it will stop children sneaking into the churchyard to peer into that grave. I chased a couple of them away this morning. Bert Knowles needs to get busy with his spade.’
‘Then why doesn’t he?’
The smile was back. ‘Bert is a law unto himself.’
‘On the night of the murder,’ said Leeming, ‘you were in Duffield, or so you told me. Is that right?’
‘Yes, Sergeant, I stayed with friends.’
‘Can they vouch for you?’
‘Why should they need to?’
‘I just want to establish the facts, sir.’
‘I was there,’ insisted Hockaday.
‘Then why did the stationmaster here remember you getting off the last train that night? I asked him if he recognised anyone who got off at Spondon. Your name was the first one he mentioned.’
‘You can’t have been in two places at once,’ said Colbeck.
‘Which one was it, Mr Hockaday,’ asked Leeming. ‘Duffield or Spondon?’
The cobbler glowered at them.
As they sat around the bed, it was difficult to know if their mother was asleep or not. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow but she seemed to react to comments they made. Stanley and Lucas Quayle had been impressed by the way that their sister had handled the situation. Once their mother had been found, Agnes had brought her back to the house and taken her up to her room. The doctor eventually arrived to examine the old woman and decided that, though her early morning venture out of the house had caused no visible harm, she needed rest. Her sons joined her daughter at Harriet Quayle’s bedside. Without warning, she opened her eyes.
‘What are you all doing here?’ she asked.
‘We’re looking after you, Mother,’ replied Agnes.
‘I pay a doctor to do that.’
‘You need company,’ said Stanley.
‘Then where have you been for the last few days? I needed company then but you didn’t come anywhere near me.’
‘I did,’ said Lucas, softly. ‘I looked in whenever I could.’
‘But I was the one who actually stayed with Mother,’ said Agnes, virtuously.
Stanley was critical. ‘Then how did she manage to get out of the house?’
‘That’s unjust,’ said Lucas. ‘We owe Agnes a great deal. This little incident has shown that.’
‘Well, it mustn’t happen again.’
‘I went for a walk, Stanley,’ said his mother. ‘Surely I can do that.’
‘It might have harmed you, Mother.’
‘But it didn’t – the doctor agreed.’
‘You’ve got limited strength and you must conserve it.’
Harriet said nothing. She lay back and looked at each of her children in turn. Agnes was a picture of sympathy, Lucas was concerned and Stanley was anxious to leave. As she studied her elder son, Harriet felt that he looked more like his father than ever, impatient, animated and eager to get back to work. She gave an incongruous giggle.
‘You don’t need to sit around my deathbed yet,’ she said.
Stanley was shocked. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Mother.’
‘I don’t think it is,’ said Lucas, getting up to kiss her on the forehead. ‘I think it’s a good sign. Get some rest, Mother.’
‘I was resting quite happily in the summer house until I was disturbed,’ she pointed out. ‘Why didn’t you leave me there?’
‘You’re safer here.’
‘Agnes will look after you,’ said Stanley, rising to his feet.
‘Yes,’ murmured his sister, ‘Agnes will look after you.’
As all three of her children hovered over her, Harriet raised a skinny hand.
‘Away with you,’ she said, weakly. ‘I want to sleep.’
The meeting with Philip Conway was a happy accident. The detectives were approaching the Union Inn when he came into view. After an exchange of greetings, they stepped into the inn and found a table. Colbeck ordered drinks and they were able to talk at leisure. The reporter was interested to hear about their confrontation with Jed Hockaday.
‘What did he say when you caught him lying?’ he asked.
‘Oh, he came up with all sorts of excuses,’ replied Leeming. ‘The one he finally settled on was that he got so drunk in Duffield that he didn’t realise his friends had probably put him on the train that night to Spondon.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘And when we asked for the names of the friends with whom he spent that evening, he prevaricated for minutes. We had to chisel their names out of him. He was understandably resentful. As a constable, Hockaday is used to asking awkward questions instead of being forced to answer them.’
Leeming issued a warning. ‘You’d best keep out of his way, Mr Conway.’
‘Why is that?’ asked the reporter.
‘He’ll blame you for setting us on to him.’
‘All I did was to describe his behaviour in the churchyard.’
‘He lied about that as well,’ said Leeming. ‘I wouldn’t have a man like that under me. I think we should report him to Superintendent Wigg.’
‘No,’ decided Colbeck. ‘Let’s make sure that we have proper grounds for dismissal before we do that. We’ve frightened him and people don’t always act sensibly when they’re in that state. Keep an eye on him, Sergeant.’
‘What do you think he’ll do?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t rush off to Duffield at some stage to tell these friends of his what to say when questioned. We know they exist because Hockaday wouldn’t dare to give us false names.’
‘You can see why he’s not that popular in the village,’ said Conway.
‘Policemen never are,’ moaned Leeming. ‘When you put on a uniform, you lose a lot of friends. I discovered that. In Hockaday’s case, there’s another problem. He tries hard to be liked but he’s just not very likeable.’ He tasted his drink. ‘This is the best beer I’ve tasted in Spondon.’ He put the tankard down. ‘The inspector was telling me what you said about Mr Haygarth.’
‘What did I say?’
‘That your editor finds him a nuisance.’
‘Mr Haygarth is always complaining about something or other.’
‘What about the late Mr Quayle?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Did you have the same trouble from him?’
‘No, not at all – he was on amicable terms with the Mercury. He certainly didn’t charge into the office breathing fire the way that Haygarth does. My editor says that Haygarth is the opposite of the superintendent. Elijah Wigg does everything he can to butter us up but all that Haygarth does is to find fault. However,’ he went on, ‘they have one thing in common. They possess foul tempers.’
‘I know. I’ve had both of them shouting at me.’
‘They should be grateful that we came here,’ said Leeming.
‘We’ll never get gratitud
e out of the superintendent,’ warned Colbeck. ‘He sees us as trespassers. Mr Haygarth couldn’t have been happier to see us at first. But the moment I started to ask about his link with Spondon, he became angry.’
‘I thought he was born here.’
‘He was, Victor, but he doesn’t like to be reminded of the fact. He left the village as a boy and hasn’t been back here for decades.’
Conway was astonished. ‘Is that what he told you, Inspector?’
‘Yes, and he did so in no uncertain terms.’
‘Then he has a very poor memory. He attended Mrs Peet’s funeral.’
‘I didn’t see him there,’ said Leeming.
‘Then he must have made sure that you didn’t for some reason.’
‘It was easy to miss him in that sea of hats.’
‘Not really – his hat was somewhat taller than the others.’
Colbeck’s ears pricked up. ‘Are you certain that it was him?’
‘I daren’t make mistakes about things like that, Inspector. It’s an article of faith with me. If you look at the list of names we printed with the obituary, you’ll see that Donald Haygarth is among them.’
Anyone involved with the Midland Railway knew the difference between the two men. Vivian Quayle had had a genuine love of the railway system. He was fascinated by each new technical development in the production of steam locomotives and rolling stock and was a frequent visitor to the Derby Works. He would spend hours talking to the chief engineer about the manufacturing process. Those who toiled in the pattern shop, the foundry, the carriage shop, the machine shop and the boiler shop knew Quayle as a regular and respected visitor. They’d never set eyes on Donald Haygarth. His realm was the boardroom and the public platform. He was known to have a desire to stand for Parliament. His ambition for the company was clear. He wanted to maximise its profits and turn the Midland Railway into the best in the country. But he refused to get his shoes dirty as he did so.
He was studying the accounts when Maurice Cope knocked before entering the office. Haygarth was too involved in what he was doing to pay him any attention. Cope had to wait until the other man finally glanced up.
‘What do you want?’ asked Haygarth.
‘This just arrived for you, sir,’ said Cope, handing over a letter. ‘I think that it’s the information you’ve been waiting for.’
‘It’s about time, too.’
As the acting chairman opened and read the letter, Cope watched him like a cat hoping to be tossed a morsel. Haygarth smiled with satisfaction. He could have waited until the announcement was made in the Derby Mercury but he was too impatient for that. He always wanted advance notice.
‘Was I right, sir?’
‘Yes – it’s the details of the funeral.’
‘Is that an invitation?’
Haygarth smirked. ‘Oh, they won’t invite me.’
‘Then why were you so keen to learn when it’s taking place?’
‘I intend to go uninvited,’ said Haygarth. ‘It may cause something of a stir but I need to be seen there. Stanley and Lucas Quayle will probably ignore me. That’s to be expected. But everyone else will think it only proper that I pay my respects to the man I’ve replaced. And there’s something else.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘The press will be there in force. I’ll have publicity.’
They had settled into an uneasy and watchful truce. Though Lydia Quayle and Beatrice Myler were excessively polite to each other, there was no contact at a deep level. It remained to be seen if their former rapport had been lost or simply misplaced. The fact was that each had seen the other in an unflattering light. Lydia had been revolted by the discovery that her room had been searched and Beatrice had been wounded by the knowledge that someone from the family had got in touch with her yet she’d said nothing about it. While they took their meals together, they tiptoed around each other for most of the day. The servants too were all aware of the charged atmosphere.
In the end, it was Lydia who offered an olive branch.
‘We mustn’t let this come between us, Beatrice.’
‘Unfortunately, it already has.’
‘If we both make an effort, we can put it behind us in time.’
‘You shouldn’t have invited them into my house.’
Lydia was stung. ‘You used to call it our house.’
‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ said the other, wistfully.
‘I’ve been so contented here.’
‘So why did you wish to spoil it all?’
‘It wasn’t deliberate. You must see that.’
But her friend was in no mood to make concessions. Lydia was made to feel that she was there on sufferance. Something had snapped. Beatrice showed no interest in wanting to repair it. They were sitting opposite each other in the drawing room. Both held books but neither had actually been reading. They’d been simmering away quietly. Not wishing to risk rejection again, Lydia held her tongue and thought about her visitors instead. Their arrival had given her hope yet left her despondent. Madeleine Colbeck had convinced her that Lydia might know something that would help a terrible crime to be solved but, in coming through the front door with Victor Leeming, she’d brought the real world and all its hideous associations into the haven of peace and harmony that the two women had created. A cosy and uncomplicated life had suddenly been snatched away from Lydia and, by extension, from Beatrice. An estranged daughter had a new reason to hate her father. Vivian Quayle had destroyed her happiness from beyond the grave.
‘What are you reading, Beatrice?’ she asked, softly.
‘It’s that new book about Venice.’
‘Is it from the Lending Library?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘What are the illustrations like?’
‘They’re very good. They bring back pleasant memories.’
Lydia smiled. ‘I’m glad that something does.’
‘It’s made me want to go there again. Venice is so magical.’
‘When are you thinking of going?’
‘I’ll need to look in my diary.’
‘Are you intending to travel alone?’
It was a nervous question and it received no answer. Beatrice simply buried her head in the book and pretended to read. The old companionship had withered. Lydia prayed that it might not be beyond recall. But the other woman was ignoring her as if she was not even there. She was not only punishing her friend. Beatrice seemed to be taking pleasure from doing so.
Hockaday was worried. Determined to impress the detectives, he’d instead ended up being exposed as a liar. He feared that it could cost him his post as a constable and that would deprive him of a status he relished. After brooding at length on his ill-fated conversation with Colbeck and Leeming, he came to a decision. He abandoned his work, took off his apron and put on a coat in its place. Thrusting a hat on his head, he locked up the premises and walked to the station as quickly as he could. People he passed on the way got only a curt response to their greeting. The cobbler’s mind was elsewhere. When he arrived at the station, he bought a ticket and asked about the next available train that would take him to his destination. He then went out onto the platform and marched up and down.
Victor Leeming, meanwhile, entered the railway station cautiously. Sitting in the window of the Union Inn, he’d seen the cobbler go past in a hurry and followed him at a discreet distance. He already knew that a train to Duffield was imminent because Colbeck had consulted the copy of Bradshaw he usually had with him. Leeming bought a ticket then remained out of sight until the train arrived and the cobbler got into a compartment. Making sure he was not seen by the other man, the sergeant chose the last of the carriages.
During their brief acquaintance, Colbeck had grown to like Philip Conway. He had a mind like a sponge that soaked up information whenever and wherever he found it. Crucially, he was treating the pursuit of the killer as a mission in which he could both learn and be of practical assistance. At his first meet
ing with Superintendent Wigg, Colbeck had been unaware that the man would later be named by Lydia Quayle as one of her father’s enemies. The detective could not understand why until the reporter enlightened him. Armed with the information, he returned to Derby and made straight for the police station. He was shown into Wigg’s office immediately.
‘I’m glad you’ve come, Inspector,’ said the superintendent.
‘That’s a welcome change. When we first arrived here, you felt that we were intruders. Have we somehow won your approval?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
Colbeck smiled disarmingly. ‘I had a feeling you’d say that, Superintendent. Tell me,’ he went on. ‘I recall your saying at one point that you had reservations about Mr Quayle. May I know what they were?’
‘One should never speak ill of the dead.’
‘That’s a pious platitude, in my view, and should be disregarded by anyone in our profession. The dead person in this instance is a murder victim and we need to be able to probe his vices as well as his virtues. Mr Haygarth has no problem in listing his rival’s shortcomings. Your perception of Mr Quayle, I suspect, may be different.’
Wigg was suspicious. ‘What’s behind this question?’
‘The simple desire to get as much information about the deceased as possible,’ replied Colbeck. ‘You didn’t like the man, did you?’
‘We had our differences.’
‘I fancy that it went deeper than that,’ said Colbeck.
‘Don’t listen to tittle-tattle, Inspector.’
‘My informant was that young reporter from the Derby Mercury and he’s no purveyor of tittle-tattle. Indeed you went out of your way to congratulate him on his work when he joined us at the hotel last night.’
‘What has Conway been telling you?’
‘I’d rather hear it from you, Superintendent.’
Wigg folded his arms. ‘If you have an accusation, make it.’
‘Very well,’ said Colbeck, meeting his gaze. ‘Before you joined the Derby Constabulary, you were a superintendent in the railway police here. Somewhere along the line, you fell foul of Mr Quayle and he had you dismissed. Is it true or false?’
Timetable of Death Page 17
