Timetable of Death

by Edward Marston

  Yet the anticipated tirade never came. Tallis was calm and reasonable.

  ‘I have this feeling about Burns,’ he said.

  ‘Do you, sir?’

  ‘It’s a feeling I’ve had before when I’ve been questioning a suspect. All of a sudden, I know that he or she has committed the crime. That’s what happened at Melbourne Hall. A sense of certainty welled up inside me.’

  ‘What should we do about him?’

  ‘Gather more evidence then perform the arrest.’

  Tallis was no longer troubled so much by his injury. At Leeming’s suggestion, he was reclining lengthways on the seat so that his feet were off the floor. While the pain was dulled, his mind was stimulated.

  ‘Who did he see on the night of the murder?’ he asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t tell the inspector that.’

  ‘He refused to give me a name as well and I can guess why. He didn’t wish to disclose the identity of his accomplice.’

  ‘Would it have needed two of them?’ said Leeming. ‘Burns is powerful enough on his own, surely.’

  ‘He’s hiding someone, Sergeant. I want to know who he is.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a man?’

  ‘It would hardly be a woman, would it?’

  ‘If he wanted someone to assist in a murder, he’d probably choose a man. But perhaps he went to Derby that night for a different reason altogether. Suppose that he paid a visit to a woman?’

  ‘Adultery!’ exclaimed Tallis, making it sound a crime more heinous than any in the statute book. ‘No, I got no sense of that. He’s concealing an accessory.’

  ‘You could be mistaken, sir.’

  ‘The feeling I get rarely lets me down.’

  Leeming was less dogmatic. He’d had a similar conviction about suspects on many occasions and it had often been misplaced. As a result, he’d learnt to be more cautious before he actually arrested anyone.

  ‘I had that same feeling until today, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘I was almost ready to let Mr Hockaday feel my handcuffs click into place.’

  ‘Is he that cobbler?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What held you back?’

  Leeming told him about the visit to Duffield and the discovery of the father.

  ‘Why didn’t he give you that information at the start?’

  ‘It’s because he has another father,’ explained Leeming. ‘Seth Verney, a farm labourer, is his real father but the son was born out of wedlock. He was brought up by a Mr and Mrs Hockaday who live twenty miles beyond Duffield. That’s where he went first on the night of the murder and on the day that I followed him. When he realised that I’d spoken to Mr Verney, he begged me not to reveal his true parentage because it would destroy his reputation in the village.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I did, sir. For once, he was being honest with me.’

  ‘Why did he keep in touch with the father who abandoned him?’

  ‘That was a surprise to me,’ said Leeming. ‘Most sons would feel betrayed but Hockaday took the trouble to find out who his real parents were. The mother was a kitchen maid who died in childbirth but the father, Mr Verney, was still alive. When he discovered that his real father had fallen on hard times, Hockaday used to give small amounts of money to him and his wife.’

  ‘What did the wife think about that?’

  ‘Mrs Verney was told that he was her husband’s nephew. She didn’t know that her husband had a child before he married. That was the reason Mr Verney made sure he was not overheard when he confided to me that he was Hockaday’s father.’

  ‘Lust is a fearful thing,’ said Tallis. ‘You see the deception it causes?’

  ‘I was the person deceived, Superintendent. I had a feeling that Hockaday was the killer and I was hopelessly wrong about him. You might be wrong about Burns.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘You’ve made errors of judgement before.’

  ‘If you’re referring to the fact that I promoted you to the rank of sergeant,’ warned Tallis, ‘you may be right. I thought you would be reliable and respectful.’

  ‘I strive to be both, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s have no more questioning of my judgement.’

  ‘No,’ said Leeming. ‘Thanks to you, the killer has finally been named.’

  ‘Remind the inspector of that when you return to Derby.’

  ‘Is there no chance that I could go home to see my wife first?’

  ‘What!’ roared Tallis.

  Leeming went into retreat. ‘Forget that I said that, sir.’

  ‘You’re a detective, not a doting husband. Domestic concerns must be put aside when you’re on duty. It’s a strict edict of mine, Leeming, as you well know. There is no place whatsoever for a wife in a murder investigation.’

  After listening to his copious notes, Madeleine Colbeck felt that she was well versed in the intricacies of the case. Her husband had collected a mass of material during his time in the town and she was grateful to be there when an important new development had taken place. Colbeck was embarrassed that he knew so little about the family of Cicely Peet. He promised to repair his ignorance quickly. Meanwhile, he’d been liberated from any fear of bumping into Tallis at the hotel so he felt able to take his wife downstairs on his arm. They arrived in the foyer at the same time as Lydia Quayle and the two women embraced affectionately. Standing back, Madeleine introduced her husband.

  ‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Quayle,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘And I’m delighted to meet you, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘Madeleine has given me the most flattering biography of you.’

  ‘Pay no attention to her.’

  ‘Every word was true,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘Let Miss Quayle be the judge of that,’ said Colbeck, indicating the lounge. ‘Shall we go somewhere more comfortable?’

  When they were seated together in a corner of the room, they ordered drinks from the waiter. Colbeck was able to appraise the newcomer properly and had the same reaction as his wife and Victor Leeming. Lydia was a striking young woman. Her self-possession reminded him of Madeleine when they first met and it was not the only resemblance. When he asked why she’d chosen to stay at the hotel instead of at her home, Lydia was not afraid to tell him the truth. The drinks soon arrived and they engaged in casual conversation for a while. Colbeck then ventured on to a more serious subject.

  ‘Miss Quayle,’ he began, ‘I’m fully aware of the reservations you have about your father but I’d like, if I may, to ask some questions about him.’

  ‘You may ask whatever you wish, Inspector,’ she said, tensing slightly. ‘I want the killer caught.’

  ‘We all want that,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a Mrs Cicely Peet?’ asked Colbeck.

  Lydia shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t. Who is she?’

  ‘She was the lady buried in the churchyard where your father’s body was found. Inconveniently, he was occupying the grave dug for her.’

  ‘How eerie!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mrs Peet was not mentioned in the newspaper reports I saw. What do you know about her?’

  ‘I was hoping that you could tell me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’

  ‘What about the husband, Roderick Peet?’

  ‘That name is new to me as well, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Mr Peet is a well-respected member of the local gentry. You can imagine how he felt when he learnt that his wife’s grave contained the body of a murder victim. He insisted that another one should be dug for her.’

  ‘I don’t blame him,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘Neither do I,’ added Lydia. ‘Where is all this leading, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to establish,’ he said. ‘It’s my belief that the choice of Spondon was not accidental. Your father had some as yet unknown link with the village or with the Peet family. It may be, for instance, that Roderick Peet was a form
er business associate of his.’

  ‘You’d have to ask my brothers about that, Inspector. I know nothing about my father’s business affairs beyond the fact that they consumed every minute of his time. Our mother once told me she felt more like his widow than his wife.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that’s the role now assigned to her.’

  ‘I did get to meet some of Father’s business associates,’ said Lydia, searching her memory, ‘but I can’t recall a Mr Peet. It’s a name I’d remember. Father liked to use my sister and myself at social gatherings. We had to be nice to certain people.’

  ‘That must have been a trial,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘It was – we both hated it.’

  ‘Did your father ever talk about Spondon to you?’

  ‘No, he never did.’

  ‘So what was he doing there that night?’

  ‘More to the point,’ said Colbeck, ‘who was with him?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Lydia.

  ‘What sort of man was he?’

  ‘I’ve already told you how badly he treated me.’

  ‘But until that point, you and he must have got on reasonably well. If he was away a lot, the two of you would have met infrequently.’ Lydia nodded. ‘Yet he was always there for the cricket matches, I suppose.’

  ‘Father would never miss those.’

  ‘He loved the game, I’m told.’

  ‘No, Inspector,’ she corrected, ‘it went deeper than that. He loved to use the game as a way of showing off and humbling his rivals. And as long as he had the head gardener and the coachman in the team, he could rely on winning, especially as my brother, Lucas, was a talented cricketer as well.’

  ‘Cricket and railways – it’s an odd combination.’

  ‘Cricket was only seasonal and very few games were played. Railways, by contrast, absorbed him every day of the year. There’s a portrait of him in his study. That tells you a lot about my father.’

  ‘I saw it on my first visit,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m only sorry that Madeleine didn’t paint the locomotive in the background. It would have been more realistic.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Robert,’ said his wife, modestly.

  ‘Mr Quayle hired a portrait artist and the result must have been satisfactory or he wouldn’t have hung it on the wall. But the artist lacked your draughtsmanship.’

  ‘I’d like to see more of your paintings,’ said Lydia. ‘Puffing Billy was wonderful. How many other locomotives have you painted?’

  ‘Oh, they’re not the sort of thing that would interest you.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Your taste is very different,’ said Madeleine. ‘When I came to your house with Sergeant Leeming, I noticed that the house had a few paintings on the walls. Every one of them was a pretty landscape.’

  ‘They were not my choice.’

  Beatrice Myler popped up in her mind again and caused a jolt. Wherever there was a wall without space for a bookshelf, Beatrice had hung a picture. Lydia had had no part in its choice. She was reminded once more of the fact that she’d left no real imprint on the house. It belonged to her friend and mirrored her taste in every way. A feeling of sadness washed over her. Beatrice had gone and she had definitely lost Gerard Burns to another woman. Her future lay elsewhere. Lydia might be forced to move through a series of hotels again. Conscious that the others were waiting for her to speak, she apologised.

  ‘If you saw my father’s study,’ she said, ‘you’d have noticed his collection of fine porcelain.’

  ‘At first,’ recalled Colbeck, ‘I thought it might belong to your mother.’

  ‘She has no interest in it at all.’

  ‘How long has your father been a collector?’

  ‘Many years,’ said Lydia. ‘After making his fortune out of coal, he developed a fondness for something that was less filthy and more delicate. He spent a great deal of money on that collection.’

  ‘Where did he find the items?’

  ‘He went to auctions in London. If you’d met him,’ said Lydia with bitterness, ‘you’d have found my father essentially a man’s man. The last thing you’d expect is that he was a regular visitor to Christie’s to buy teacups and saucers.’

  The temptation was there but Leeming managed to resist it. After escorting Tallis to the apartments where he lived, the sergeant made sure that he was comfortable then he left. His wife and children were only fifteen minutes away by cab and he was desperate to see them again. What held him back from going home was the certainty that he’d spend much longer there than he intended and would be late setting off. Colbeck had been specific. Armed with his copy of Bradshaw, he’d told Leeming which return train to catch. If he arrived hours later, the sergeant would be in trouble. Besides, he told himself, the investigation took precedence. The sooner the case was solved, the sooner he could enjoy the fruits of family life. Leeming therefore turned his footsteps towards the railway station.

  ‘I’m glad to see you, Inspector,’ said Elijah Wigg. ‘I have a complaint to make.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your sergeant insulted me.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘He accused me of having a reporter moved from Spondon because he was collecting more evidence than the constables there.’

  ‘Why did you have him moved?’ asked Colbeck, mischievously.

  ‘I didn’t – that’s the point. It was the editor’s decision.’

  ‘I’ll explain that to Sergeant Leeming when he returns from London.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’

  ‘He’s probably in flight from your wrath, Superintendent.’

  Colbeck had walked to the police station in Derby in search of information but he first had to provide some. When he described Tallis’s accident, he drew a grim smile from Wigg and the observation that a visit to the Works had no bearing on the investigation and was therefore a needless diversion.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Colbeck, ‘it’s shown the whole case in a new light. That’s why I’m here, Superintendent. What do you know of the Peet family?’

  Wigg was incredulous. ‘You’re not going to arrest one of them, are you?’

  ‘Tell me about Roderick Peet.’

  ‘He’s wealthy and well connected. He owns one of the finest houses in Spondon, another in Devon and a third in France. As someone who can only afford to buy one house, I should be envious of Mr Peet but I’m not and I’m sure that nobody else is either.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘He’s a man of such decency and uprightness that you can’t begrudge him anything. Roderick Peet has given thousands of pounds to charity. He’s been particularly generous to the village itself.’

  ‘What about Mrs Peet?’

  ‘Some people say that it was she who encouraged him to open his wallet so wide. Cicely Peet is his second wife, by the way. His first died after a bad fall from her horse during the Boxing Day hunt. The second Mrs Peet was much younger than him,’ said Wigg, ‘and she got very involved in local activities. Since she had money of her own, she led the way in charitable donations.’

  ‘Were they happily married?’

  ‘They were devoted, Inspector.’

  ‘Did you meet them as a couple?’

  ‘I did so many times,’ said Wigg. ‘Roderick and Cicely Peet were kind enough to make a substantial donation to the Police Benevolent Fund.’

  Colbeck smiled. ‘They obviously recognise a good cause.’

  ‘As to their private life, I can’t speak with any authority. I was never invited to their home. I know someone who was, however. If you want to learn more about the Peets, you might speak to him.’

  ‘Whom do you mean, Superintendent?’

  Wigg scowled. ‘Donald Haygarth.’

  Haygarth slapped the desk so hard with the flat of his hand that the inkwell jumped an inch into the air and sheets of paper were sent flying. Too frightened to say anything, Maurice Cope sought to win favou
r by retrieving the papers that had floated to the floor. Haygarth was hoarse with fury.

  ‘Who’s behind this, Cope?’

  ‘I can’t be certain.’

  ‘You’re paid to be certain.’

  ‘It’s one of three people.’

  ‘Earlier today, you were assuring me that I’d be elected as the new chairman without opposition. Now you tell me that there’s to be a contest, after all.’

  ‘I’m as disappointed as you, Mr Haygarth.’

  ‘I want names.’

  ‘They’re not easy to find,’ admitted Cope. ‘People say one thing and do another. When I canvassed opinion, the majority of board members were firmly behind you. There was no whisper of a challenger.’

  ‘You failed me, Cope.’

  ‘All is not yet lost, sir.’

  ‘I should have been warned that they’re plotting against me.’

  ‘I was quite unaware of any plot. In any case,’ said Cope, ‘I don’t think that it will command enough votes against you. I still think you’re home and dry.’

  ‘That’s not enough,’ snarled Haygarth. ‘I want to be elected unanimously.’

  The late appearance of a rival for the post of chairman had mystified Cope and fuelled Haygarth’s rage. Both men had assumed that the latter’s election was a foregone conclusion. His supporters had all been impressed by the prompt way he’d stepped in when Vivian Quayle had been murdered and the speed with which he made executive decisions. Those same attributes were not viewed by everyone as assets. Behind the scenes, evidently, some people had changed their minds because they resented the way that Haygarth had appointed himself to the position of control without any prior discussion with board members.

  ‘Why are we losing support?’ he asked, rancorously.

  ‘I wish I knew, sir.’

  ‘You must have heard something.’

  ‘There have been whispers,’ said Cope. ‘Where they’ve come from, I don’t know, but they’ve damaged you.’

  ‘What sort of whispers are you talking about?’

  ‘Not everyone accepts that it was a coincidence, sir. They argue that you were poised to take advantage of Mr Quayle’s death. Indeed, you were so prepared to react to his murder that you must have been party to it.’