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Edward Marston

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Beschreibung

1859. St Mary's Church, Spondon. A little girl playing hide-and-seek jumps into a freshly-dug grave to find a dead man already occupying it. It is the body of Cedric Norton, a senior director of the Midland Railway. Inspector Colbeck and Sergeant Leeming travel to Derbyshire to investigate.

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Seitenzahl: 465

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

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TIMETABLE OF DEATH

EDWARD MARSTON

With love and thanks to Judith who helped me with my research in Derbyshire and who enjoyed watching the County Cricket team so much that she encouraged me to weave the game of cricket into the narrative

Contents

Title PageDedicationPREFACECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONEAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

PREFACE

This is a work of fiction and I have had to bend certain facts to make them fit into the narrative. I had to create a vacancy for the post of chairman of the Midland Railway and take a few liberties with the publication of the Derby Mercury and with the policing arrangements in Spondon in 1859. At the time, St Werburgh’s church was known as St Mary’s. It was rededicated to St Werburgh in the early 1890s. When I visited the church, a wedding was taking place. By contrast, the novel begins with a funeral. The murder of Enoch Stone in 1856 was an actual event. The case remains unsolved.

CHAPTER ONE

Spondon, 1859

Perched on the top of a hill, the parish church of St Mary looked down on the people of Spondon with the fond and caring eye of a doting parent. When it was built at the end of the fourteenth century it had been an imposing Gothic structure that seemed too large and grandiose for a small Derbyshire village and, even though it now served a parish of over fifteen hundred souls, its pre-eminence, architecturally and spiritually, remained. Among its multiple functions, it was the social centre of the village, the place where the faithful gathered every Sunday in their best attire to mingle with their friends and neighbours, to exchange news, to share confidences and to develop stronger bonds.

The main topic of conversation that Sunday morning had been the untimely death of Cicely Peet, a lady of some standing in the community, cut down cruelly by disease when still short of her fiftieth birthday. As the congregation listened to the handsome tribute paid to her by the vicar during his sermon, her grave had already been dug in the churchyard and the funeral was already assured of a sizeable number of mourners. There was a pervasive mood of sadness and regret and many a handkerchief was pressed into service. When it was finally over, people came slowly out of St Mary’s to shake the hand of the Reverend Michael Sadler and mumble a few departing words before glancing involuntarily in the direction of the fine house where Mrs Peet had lived for so many years. It was a long time before everyone had dispersed.

A blanket of sorrow lay over the whole village. Respect for the dead was not, however, a universal feeling. On the very next day, it was certainly not in evidence in the behaviour of two of the younger inhabitants.

‘Aouw!’

Lizzie Grindle had pushed her younger brother and made him yelp.

‘Chase me!’

‘Don’t mank abaht,’ he complained.

‘I’m farster than ter.’

‘Gerraht!’

‘Carn’t ketch me for a penny cup o’ tea!’

To provide more encouragement, she shoved him so hard this time that he stumbled and fell to the ground. He scrambled to his feet with the intention of striking back at her but she’d already taken to her heels. Sam Grindle gave chase even though he could never outrun his sister. While she was a tall, rangy, long-legged girl of twelve, he was a short, chubby ten-year-old with a freckled face and piggy eyes. Ordinarily, he couldn’t even begin to keep up with her, but the urge for revenge gave him both additional speed and a sense of purpose. Surprisingly, he began to gain on her. Lizzie was delighted that she’d provoked a response. Tormenting her younger brother was her chief pastime and she was particularly adept at causing trouble then blaming it on him. She was far more guileful and inventively dishonest than Sam. As a result, it was the boy who, more often than not, felt the anger of his father’s hand.

The children of Walter Grindle, the blacksmith, were familiar figures in the village, always arguing, always making a noise, always darting about, always up to some kind of mischief, or so it appeared to onlookers. What they saw early on that Monday morning was a girl shrieking madly as she was pursued by a podgy lad issuing all kinds of dire threats against her. On the day before a funeral, it was unseemly. Tongues were clicked and dark looks exchanged. But they had no effect on Lizzie Grindle. She was in her element, goading her brother and pretending to be frightened of him before turning to give him a contemptuous giggle. While she ran on with the ease of a natural athlete, his legs began to tire and his lungs to burn. Sam was soon reduced to a painful plod.

Lizzie immediately changed the rules of the game. Instead of being a race that only she could win, it became an exhilarating exercise in hide-and-seek. She concealed herself in doorways, ducked under carts and disappeared behind a horse for several minutes at one point. Each time, her brother eventually found her but, before he could grab her, she was off in a flash to her next fleeting refuge. When she reached Church Hill she still had enough strength to run up it and enough devilry to stand there and mock him with rude gestures. Panting audibly and hurting badly, Sam lumbered bravely on, determined to get even with her somehow.

The churchyard offered a whole range of hiding places and Lizzie went skipping between the headstones in search of the best one. She quickly found it. The open grave of Cicely Peet beckoned. It was perfect. Her brother would never dream of looking in there. Untroubled by any thoughts of the impropriety of using someone’s last resting place as a source of childish fun, she hared across the grass and jumped happily into the grave.

It was only then that she discovered it was already occupied.

Lizzie’s Grindle’s scream of terror could be heard half a mile away.

CHAPTER TWO

The invention of the electric telegraph had been a boon to Scotland Yard. Messages that might have taken several hours to deliver by other means could now be sent in a matter of minutes. A national network was slowly being set up along the routes taken by railways and canals. Communication had therefore quickened by leaps and bounds. There was, however, an element of frustration for the recipient because the information transmitted by telegraph was often terse.

Edward Tallis voiced his usual complaint.

‘Why can’t they give us more detail?’ he asked.

‘We must accept the limitations of the service, sir,’ said Robert Colbeck, tolerantly. ‘By its very nature, a telegraph encourages abbreviation. We should be grateful for what it can do and not criticise it for being unable to send an exhaustive report of a particular crime.’ He glanced at the missive in Tallis’s hand. ‘From where did this one come?’

‘Derby.’

‘What’s the name of the victim?’

‘Mr Vivian Quayle. He was a director of the Midland Railway, hence their call for immediate assistance.’

They were in the superintendent’s office. Wreathed in cigar smoke, Tallis was seated behind his desk with the telegraph in his hand. It would have been easier to give it to Colbeck so that he could read it for himself but a deep-seated envy made Tallis draw back from that. What the inspector was not told was that there was a specific request for him to be sent. Because his record of solving crimes on the railway network was unmatched, the press had dubbed him the Railway Detective and it was a badge of honour that Tallis resented bitterly. It grieved him that Colbeck invariably collected praise that the superintendent felt should instead go to him.

Tallis was a solid man in his fifties with short grey hair and a neat moustache. His spine had a military straightness, his eyes glinted dangerously and, when roused, his rasping delivery could penetrate the walls of his office with ease. Colbeck, by contrast, was tall, slim, handsome, lithe, soft-spoken and twenty years younger. He was also something of a dandy with an elegance that Tallis thought inappropriate in one of his detectives. Since the two men could never like each other, they settled for a mutual respect of each other’s considerable virtues.

‘May I see the telegraph, please?’ asked Colbeck.

Tallis put it in a drawer. ‘There’s no point.’

‘Who sent it?’

‘Mr Haygarth – he’s the chairman of the company.’

‘The headquarters are in Derby. Sergeant Leeming and I will go there at once.’ Colbeck gave a non-committal smile. ‘Do you have any instructions, sir?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Tallis, ominously. ‘First, I expect you and the sergeant to maintain the high standards that I set for all officers in the Detective Department. Second, I’m counting on you for a speedy solution to this crime. When there’s so much work for them here in London, I can’t have my men tied up in the provinces for any length of time. The capital takes priority. Third,’ he went on, rising to his feet and brushing cigar ash from his sleeve, ‘I insist that you send me a full report at the earliest opportunity and keep me informed at every stage of the investigation. Fourth and finally—’

‘I think I can guess what that is, sir,’ said Colbeck, interrupting him. ‘Fourth and finally, if we don’t make rapid progress, you’ll come to Derby in person to take charge of the case.’

‘I will, indeed.’

‘Yet a moment ago you said that the capital must take priority.’

‘And so it must.’

‘Then it will surely be foolish of you to desert London in order to devote your energies to a murder investigation in Derbyshire. You’re needed here, Superintendent. When you are at the helm, the underworld quivers.’

Tallis glared. ‘Do I detect a whiff of sarcasm?’

‘Your senses are far too well tuned to make such a mistake.’

‘Don’t you dare mock a superior, Colbeck.’

‘I’m simply acknowledging your superiority,’ said the other, seriously. ‘The commissioner, after all, is largely a figurehead. In reality, it’s you who bears most of the responsibility for policing the capital and – since you do it with such exemplary style and effectiveness – that’s why you should remain here.’

Edward Tallis was unsure whether to be flattered by the praise or irritated by the smoothness with which it was delivered. By the time the superintendent made up his mind, it was too late. Colbeck had left the room.

Panic had seized the village of Spondon. The shocking discovery of a murder victim in their churchyard had unsettled everyone and set off fevered speculation. Though he did his best to reassure his parishioners, the vicar was unable to quell the mounting alarm. Michael Sadler was a short, slight man in his fifties with the remains of his white hair scattered in tufts over his pate. What made him so popular with his congregation was his kindness, his lack of condescension and the merciful brevity of his sermons. More discerning worshippers also admired the soundness of his theology and the sheer breadth of his learning. Qualities seen at their best inside the church, however, did not fit him for heated confrontations. When he found himself caught up in one that morning, he was clearly out of his depth.

‘I insist!’ yelled Roderick Peet.

‘So what?’ retorted Bert Knowles.

‘Do as you’re told, man.’

‘I done it already.’

‘Don’t be so exasperating.’

‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ said the vicar, trying to intervene. ‘There’s no need for discord. I’m sure that this matter can be settled amicably.’

‘We’re talking about my wife’s funeral,’ said Peet, shaking with rage.

Knowles pointed a finger. ‘Then theer’s ’er grave.’

‘Damn your impudence!’

‘Please,’ chided the vicar, a hand on his arm. ‘Let’s moderate our language, shall we, Mr Peet? Never forget that we’re on consecrated ground.’

Peet bit his lip. ‘I do apologise, Vicar.’

‘You’d do well to remember that this is a churchyard, Bert.’

Knowles shrugged. ‘Aye, ’appen I should.’

But he was clearly unrepentant. Knowles was a sturdy man in his sixties with a gnarled face, a farm labourer who supplemented his low wages by digging graves and doing odd jobs in the village. He was not a churchgoer. Peet, on the other hand, was a pillar of St Mary’s and one of its most generous benefactors. He was a tall, lean man in his seventies with great poise and dignity. He was wearing funereal garb. As a member of the local gentry, he expected the common people to defer to him at all times and most of them did. Knowles was the exception. The gravedigger hated any sign of aloofness and called no man his master.

Sadler understood the positions of the two combatants all too well. Horrified that an interloper had appeared out of the blue in his wife’s grave, Peet wanted a new one to be dug instantly. The original, he felt, was contaminated beyond redemption. For his part, Knowles argued that he’d done exactly what he was told to do and that was the end of it. He saw no reason why his grave could not receive the body of Cicely Peet as planned.

‘There was a murdered man in there,’ howled Peet.

‘Well, ’e’s not theer now,’ countered Knowles.

‘It’s a bad omen.’

‘I don’t see as ’ow it is, Mr Peet. A grave’s a bleedin’ grave.’

‘Bert!’ shouted the vicar in dismay.

Knowles raised a grubby palm. ‘Sorry.’

‘So you should be.’ His voice softened. ‘Mr Peet’s request is very reasonable. He wants a fresh grave for his dear, departed wife.’

‘Dunna axe me to dig it.’

‘You’ll get paid. I’ll happily provide the money myself.’

‘There’s no need for you to do that, Vicar,’ said Peet. ‘I’ll meet the cost.’

Knowles folded his arms. ‘No.’

‘Then we’ll find someone else.’

‘No,’ repeated the other, gruffly. ‘Nobody steals my job.’

‘Bert is our official gravedigger,’ admitted the vicar. ‘We never had the slightest cause to complain about his work in the past. As you see,’ he added, indicating the open grave, ‘he does an excellent job.’

‘Then let him do it again,’ said Peet, struggling to hold in his temper. ‘Doesn’t this idiot understand an order when he’s given one? I’m not making a polite request. What I’m issuing is a demand. And it must be obeyed.’

‘Matter o’ principul,’ said Knowles, stubbornly. ‘If my grave en’t good enough for ter, bury the missus somewheer else.’ He pulled out a pipe and thrust it in his mouth. ‘Gorra bit of bacca abaht thee, Vicar?’

It was too much to expect Victor Leeming to enjoy a journey that took him away from his wife and family, but at least he didn’t launch into his standard litany of objections to steam locomotion. Settling back in a seat opposite Colbeck, he suffered in silence. The train to Derby had set out from King’s Cross station, the London terminus of the Great Northern Railway. Because it had no terminus in the capital, the Midland Railway had been forced to come to an agreement with one of its chief rivals, making use of the latter’s tracks between London and Hitchin. Beyond there, trains ran on lines owned by the Midland. As a company it had endured some very difficult times but, although he was well aware of them, Colbeck saw no point in trying to interest the sergeant in the vagaries of running a railway company. Instead, he pointed out the benefit of their present assignment.

‘Detective work is not merely fascinating in itself,’ he said. ‘It gives us a geography lesson each time.’

‘I’d prefer to stay in London, sir.’

‘I don’t believe it, Victor. Even you must have been uplifted by the wonders of Scotland, the scenic delight of Devon and the novelty of all the other places we’ve been taken to in the course of our work. And what you’ve seen and experienced you doubtless pass on to your children, so they are getting an education as well.’

‘I never thought of that,’ confessed Leeming. ‘And you’re right about the boys. Whenever I’ve been away, they always pester me for details of where I’ve been. So does Estelle, for that matter.’

‘Madeleine is the same. In her case, of course, she has been able to join us from time to time. My dear wife is still talking about our adventure in Ireland.’

‘Let’s hope that the superintendent never finds out about that. If he realised that we had the help of a woman during a murder investigation, he’d have a fit.’

Since they occupied an empty compartment they were able to talk freely. Leeming was a stocky individual of medium height with the kind of unsightly features more suited to a ruffian than to a detective sergeant. Indeed, though he wore a frock coat and well-cut trousers, he still contrived to look like a villain on the run from the law. Years of being teased about his ugliness as a boy had served to toughen him and he’d become so proficient at punching his detractors that they’d learnt to hold their tongues. Colbeck admired him for his strength, tenacity and unwavering loyalty.

‘Why can’t the police in Derby handle this case?’ asked Leeming.

‘Someone clearly thinks it’s beyond their competence.’

‘That means we’ll get a frosty welcome. Nobody likes to be told that detectives are being brought in over their head.’

‘We’ve coped with that situation before,’ said Colbeck with a sigh. ‘Some constabularies have been extremely helpful but we do tend to meet with jealousy and suspicion as a rule. It’s understandable.’

‘The railway police are the worse, sir.’

‘I agree, Victor. They never accept that they have no power to investigate major crimes on the network. Some of them always try to do our work for us. There’s no knowing what we’ll face when we get there but we’d better brace ourselves for resistance of some sort. One thing is certain,’ he said, philosophically. ‘There won’t be a brass band waiting to greet us at Derby station.’

Donald Haygarth walked so quickly up and down the platform that his companion had difficulty in keeping up with him. Haygarth was a big, barrel-chested man in his fifties with an expensive tailor, paid to conceal his customer’s spreading contours. For all his bulk, he moved at speed and exuded self-importance. Trotting beside him was Elijah Wigg, the cadaverous Superintendent of Derby Police, the brass buttons of his uniform gleaming like stars and his boots brushed to a high sheen. Wigg’s side whiskers were so long and luxuriant that they threatened to join forces under his chin and blossom into a full beard. Weary of trying to have a conversation on the hoof, he put a skeletal hand on Haygarth’s shoulder and pulled him to a halt.

‘There’s no need to wear out the soles of your shoes,’ he said, spikily. ‘It won’t make your famous Railway Detective come any sooner.’

‘He’ll be here any minute,’ said Haygarth, fussily. ‘I know the train that he caught because he had the forethought to inform me by telegraph. If it’s running on time, as it should be, I expect him to be only a mile or so away from us.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. The next train to London arrives here in twenty minutes. Inspector Colbeck can go straight back where he came from.’

‘And why on earth should he do that?’

‘We will be handling the investigation, Mr Haygarth.’

‘I’ve called in an acknowledged expert.’

‘An acknowledged expert on what?’ demanded Wigg. ‘He doesn’t know this part of the country, he doesn’t understand the people and he won’t be able to make head or tail of the Derbyshire dialect. Why have a complete stranger blundering around when we have a police force equipped with local insight?’

‘Be honest, Superintendent,’ said Haygarth. ‘This case is too big for you.’

‘I deny it.’

‘It’s a complex murder inquiry.’

‘We can handle it better than anyone.’

‘That’s patently untrue.’

Wigg bristled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that you already have one unsolved murder on your hands. Need I remind you that it’s three years since a man named Enoch Stone was killed in Spondon and that nobody has yet been brought to book for the crime?’

‘That investigation continues. We’ll find the culprit eventually.’

‘I want a quicker result in this case,’ said Haygarth, acidly. ‘That’s why I’ve turned to Scotland Yard. I don’t have three years to wait for the arrest and conviction of the man who murdered Mr Quayle. You keep chasing your tail over the Enoch Stone case, Superintendent. I need Inspector Colbeck to take charge of this one.’

Elijah Wigg spluttered. Before he could reply, however, he was diverted by the sound of a train’s approach and saw it powering towards them in the distance. When he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket, Haygarth was delighted to see that the train was punctual. He walked briskly back up the single platform with Wigg scampering at his heels.

When the train finally squealed to a halt, there was a tumult of hissing steam, acrid smoke and the systematic clamour of compartment doors being opened. While passengers were waiting to climb aboard, others were welcoming those who’d just alighted. Haygarth didn’t need to find the detectives. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, Colbeck had spotted the police uniform and made straight for it. Introductions were performed. Wigg glowered, Haygarth beamed, Colbeck tossed an approving glance at the station itself and Leeming stretched.

‘I’m so glad that you’ve come,’ said Haygarth, pumping the hands of the newcomers in turn. ‘I’ve reserved rooms for each of you at the Royal Hotel. You will, of course, be staying at the expense of the Midland Railway.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘But the sergeant and I are still very much in the dark. What we’d like to do in the first instance is to visit the scene of the crime and learn what steps have been taken by the police.’

‘We’ve done all that’s appropriate,’ said Wigg, officiously. ‘We are not bumpkins in some rural backwater, Inspector. You’re standing in one of the nation’s finest manufacturing towns and it has a police force worthy of its eminence. We follow the correct procedures here. My suggestion is that we have your luggage sent to the hotel so that you can accompany me to Spondon.’

‘We just stopped there,’ said Leeming. ‘Is that where the murder occurred?’

‘It is, Sergeant.’

‘Do you have a police station there?’

‘No, but we have six constables, all local men.’

‘They’re well-meaning fellows,’ observed Haygarth, ‘but they are not trained detectives. In fact, they’re still struggling to solve a murder that took place in the village three years ago.’

‘That’s irrelevant,’ snapped Wigg.

‘I beg leave to doubt that, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck. ‘The overwhelming majority of villages in this country, I’m pleased to say, have never had a single homicide yet Spondon, it appears, has had two in the space of three years. The place has already aroused my interest. Did Mr Quayle, the more recent victim, have any connection with the village?’

‘None whatsoever,’ replied Haygarth. ‘He lived in Nottingham.’

‘Then what was he doing there?’

‘I’ll be grateful if you could find out, Inspector.’

‘How was he killed?’

‘We’re not entirely sure. We await the results of a post-mortem.’

‘This case gets more intriguing by the second,’ said Colbeck, smiling. ‘It is positively swathed in mystery. Thank you for inviting us here, Mr Haygarth. I have a feeling that Derbyshire is going to yield a whole battery of surprises.’

Leeming turned to Wigg. ‘Do you have any suspects?’ he asked. ‘Are there any people who would profit directly from Mr Quayle’s death?’

‘Yes,’ said Wigg, seizing a chance to embarrass Haygarth. ‘One of them is standing right next to you, Sergeant.’

‘How dare you!’ exclaimed Haygarth.

‘Facts are facts, sir. There’s a vacancy for the chairmanship of the Midland Railway. Vivian Quayle was the obvious candidate but you also threw your hat into the ring. His death leaves the field clear for you,’ said Wigg, enjoying the other man’s obvious discomfort. ‘What’s more, you know Spondon intimately because you were born there.’ He stroked a side whisker as if it were a favourite cat. ‘I’m bound to find that a cause for suspicion.’

CHAPTER THREE

Peace had finally been restored at St Mary’s church and, although both disputants still nursed hurt feelings, a compromise had been reached. The Reverend Michael Sadler might know little about exerting control over a furious argument but he knew a great deal about grief and its corrosive effects. Having persuaded Roderick Peet to return home, the vicar had worked subtly on Bert Knowles, urging him to show compassion towards a bereaved husband and reminding the gravedigger of how he had felt in the wake of his own wife’s death some years earlier. Seeds of doubt were planted in the man’s mind. They were irrigated in the vicarage where Knowles was offered the rare treat of a glass of sherry and, when he’d downed that in an unmannerly gulp, a second glass. The memory of his loss was still a raw wound for Knowles. Tears welled up in his eyes as he recalled it and, while he still smarted at Peet’s display of arrogance, he came to see that they did have a kinship of sorts. Both had felt the pain of losing a beloved wife. When the vicar asked him how he would have reacted if a murder victim had suddenly appeared in the grave destined for Margery Knowles, the question was like a stab in the heart for Knowles and he at last capitulated, agreeing to dig a second grave for Cicely Peet.

When he left the vicarage, Knowles did so with a meditative trudge in place of his usual brisk stride. The vicar, meanwhile, offered up a prayer of thanks to God then poured himself another glass of sherry. He had managed a first, delicious sip before his wife came bustling into the room.

‘There are three strangers in the churchyard,’ she said, querulously.

‘Surely not, my dear – there’s a constable at the gate to keep everyone out.’

‘I could have sworn that I saw them.’

Enid Sadler was a pale, thin wraith of a woman with poor eyesight and a habit of nodding her head whenever she spoke. The discovery of the dead body in a grave dug for someone else had shredded her nerves and her hands still shook.

‘Leave it to me,’ said the vicar, solicitously, helping his wife to a chair then handing her the glass of sherry. ‘Drink this – I won’t be long.’

On the short train journey to Spondon the detectives had been given all the salient details. When the corpse had been found in the churchyard, it had been identified from the business card in the man’s wallet. There were no marks of violence on Vivian Quayle and, since he had a pocket watch and money on him, robbery could be ruled out as a motive for his murder. It was the local doctor who’d established that the man had been poisoned but he was unable to say which particular poison was used or how it had been administered. The body had been removed to the home of Dr Hadlow where it was awaiting a post-mortem.

Colbeck, Leeming and Wigg stared into the open grave. In the course of removing its uninvited guest, two of the local constables had inadvertently kicked some of the earth piled up beside it into the cavity and left their footprints along its edge. The neat handiwork of Bert Knowles had been badly disturbed.

‘I feel sorry for the girl,’ said Colbeck. ‘When she jumped in there, she must have been frightened to death.’

‘Who wouldn’t have been?’ asked Leeming, sympathetically.

‘In my view,’ said Wigg, bluntly, ‘she got what she deserved. Lizzie Grindle and her brother shouldn’t have been playing in the churchyard. If they were my children, I’d have given them a good hiding.’

‘Do you have children, Superintendent?’

‘No, Sergeant – as it happens, I don’t.’

‘I thought not,’ said Leeming. ‘Being a father makes you look at things very differently. I have two sons. If one of them had been through this experience, I’d have wanted to help them cope with it. The poor girl in this case is young and vulnerable. She may have nightmares for years to come.’

Wigg was brusque. ‘Serves her right.’

‘How was he found?’ asked Colbeck, staring at the grave. ‘I mean, in what exact position was he lying?’

‘He was stretched out on his back, Inspector.’

‘So he wasn’t just tossed in there?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Was his clothing torn in any way?’

‘No,’ replied Wigg. ‘It was sullied, of course, but that was inevitable. You’ll be able to judge for yourself when I take you to meet Dr Hadlow. The coroner has been informed and is sending someone out to conduct the post-mortem.’

‘How did Enoch Stone die?’

‘That’s immaterial.’

‘We’re always interested in unsolved murders.’

‘We’ll solve it one day,’ said Wigg, stoutly. ‘Have no fear.’

‘You haven’t answered the inspector’s question,’ said Leeming. ‘Who was Enoch Stone and how was he killed?’

‘I can tell you that,’ said the vicar as he walked towards them. ‘I’m relieved to see that you’re here, Superintendent. Unable to see you properly, my wife was afraid that you were grave robbers.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Technically, I suppose, it was Mr Quayle who deserves that appellation. It was he who robbed Cicely Peet of her grave. A new one is going to be dug.’ He looked at Colbeck and Leeming. ‘Welcome to St Mary’s, gentlemen. I’m Michael Sadler, the vicar.’

There was an exchange of handshakes as Colbeck introduced himself and the sergeant. When he told the vicar that they’d taken charge of the investigation, he saw the superintendent wince. Evidently, Wigg was going to be a problem for them. In his eyes, it was the Scotland Yard detectives who were the grave robbers. They’d stolen the case from right under his nose.

‘In answer to your questions,’ the vicar began, ‘Enoch Stone was a man of middle years who worked as a framework knitter.’ He saw the bewilderment on Leeming’s face. ‘Anyone in Spondon will tell you what that is, Sergeant. One night in June, 1856, Stone was found on the Nottingham road with severe head injuries. He’d been battered to the ground, then robbed.’

‘There’s no need to preach a sermon about it, Vicar,’ said Wigg, impatiently. ‘We’re here to investigate the murder of Mr Quayle.’

‘Let the vicar finish,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re learning something about this village and the information is invaluable.’

‘Thank you,’ resumed the vicar. ‘In brief, Stone was still alive after the assault and was carried to the home of Dr Hadlow. Though nursed throughout the night, he succumbed to his injuries and died. Everyone was shocked. Stone was a quiet and well-respected man who was universally popular, all the more so because he was also a musician. When a reward of a hundred pounds was offered, the people of Spondon were quick to add another twenty pounds to the amount. Sadly, it failed to bring forth information leading to the arrest of the malefactors.’

‘That’s enough of Enoch Stone,’ said Wigg, testily.

Colbeck raised an eyebrow. ‘Were you in charge of the investigation?’

‘I was, Inspector, and I still am. The search for the killer continues.’

‘I admire your dedication.’

‘We never give up.’

‘But this is a relatively small village,’ observed Leeming. ‘That should have made your task much simpler. We’ve had to solve murders in major cities where killers have to be winkled out of a large population.’

Wigg was nettled. ‘If you think it’s easy to solve a murder in Spondon,’ he said, rounding on the sergeant, ‘I’ll be interested to see how you fare with the present case, especially as you’re doing so with no knowledge whatsoever of this village and its inhabitants.’ He jabbed a finger at Leeming. ‘Show me how it’s done.’

‘We gladly accept your challenge, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck, suavely, ‘but don’t underestimate our capacity for learning and for doing so quickly. It seems that we’ve come too late to catch the person or persons responsible for the death of Enoch Stone but we can assure you that whoever murdered Mr Quayle will not remain at liberty for long.’

‘Derby?’

‘Yes, Father,’ she said. ‘There’s been a murder at a village nearby.’

‘Then I pity Robert.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He’ll have to travel on the Midland Railway,’ said Caleb Andrews. ‘It’s a dreadful company – even worse than the GWR.’

‘The victim was a director of the Midland Railway.’

‘That proves my point. The killer was probably a discontented customer and there are plenty of those, believe me.’

Madeleine Colbeck was so struck by the absurdity of her father’s claim that she burst out laughing. It only encouraged Andrews to repeat his claim. Having retired after a lifetime’s service on the railway, the former engine driver had contempt for all the companies except the one for whom he’d worked. In the past, he’d reserved his bitterest criticism for the Great Western Railway but, Madeleine now discovered, he was ready to pour even more scorn on the Midland.

‘It’s a complete hotchpotch, Maddy,’ he said. ‘It’s made up of three companies who should have been strangled at birth – North Midland, Midland Counties, Birmingham and Derby Junction. Not one of them could provide a decent service. When they joined together to form the Midland Railway, they fell into the hands of a money-grubbing monster named George Hudson.’

‘Yes, I know. Robert has told me all about the so-called Railway King. He was forced to resign in the end, wasn’t he?’

‘He should have been lashed to the buffers of one of his own engines.’

‘But he was hailed as a hero at one time.’

‘Not by me, he wasn’t. From the very start I thought he was a crook.’

Madeleine let him rant on. When her father was in such a mood, he was like a locomotive with a full head of steam and had to be allowed to let some of it off. They were in the house in John Islip Street that she shared with her husband and was always pleased when her father came to visit, especially as he’d finally become accustomed to the notion of her having servants at her beck and call. Andrews was a short, wiry man with a fringe beard now salted with white hairs. Rocked by the death of his wife years earlier, he’d been helped through the period of mourning by his daughter who’d had to accommodate her own anguish at the same time. It had drawn them closer, though there were moments when Madeleine reminded him so much of his beautiful wife that Andrews could only marvel at her.

She had undergone a remarkable transformation, moving from a small house in Camden Town to a much larger one in Westminster and leaving a crotchety father to live with an indulgent husband. What united all three of them was a mutual passion for railways. There was only one disadvantage to that. With a son-in-law dedicated to solving crimes connected with railways, Andrews kept trying to appoint himself as an unpaid assistant.

‘Robert should have come to me before he left,’ he asserted. ‘I’d have told him all that he needed to know about the Midland Railway.’

‘Valuable as it would have been,’ she said, tactfully, ‘he didn’t have time to listen to your advice. When the summons came, he dashed off to Derby without even coming home first. Robert sent word of where he’d gone.’

‘When you hear more about this murder, let me know.’

‘I will.’

‘I may be able to help in some way.’

‘You’re not a detective, Father.’

‘I’ve got a sixth sense where railways are concerned, Maddy. Look at that threat to the royal family. I was the first person to realise the danger.’

‘That’s true,’ she conceded.

‘I made a big difference in that case,’ he boasted, ‘and I may be able to do exactly the same again with this one. Be sure you tell me all the details. I could be useful.’

Madeleine wondered why it sounded more like a threat than a kind offer.

Augustus Hadlow was a sharp-featured, stooping man in his forties with a low voice and a pleasant manner. The son of a country doctor, he’d followed his father into the medical profession and had worked in Spondon for well over a decade. When they called at his house, a fine Georgian edifice with classical proportions, the detectives were given a cordial welcome before being conducted to the room in which the cadaver of Vivian Quayle was being kept. Herbs had been used to combat the smell of death. Quayle lay naked beneath a shroud and Colbeck noted how carefully his clothing had been folded before being draped over a chair. After checking the label, he examined the frock coat briefly. Though soiled by its contact with bare earth, it was not torn and the buttons were intact. Quayle’s shoes stood beside the garments but something was missing.

‘Where is his hat?’ asked Colbeck.

‘He didn’t have one, Inspector,’ replied the doctor.

‘A gentleman like Mr Quayle would never travel without a hat.’

‘Then it must have been stolen by the killer,’ surmised Leeming. ‘Why take a hat yet leave a wallet and a watch behind?’

‘That’s one more mystery for us to unravel, Sergeant. Tell me, Doctor,’ he went on, turning to Hadlow, ‘what made you decide that he’d been poisoned?’

‘I couldn’t think of any other possible explanation for his death,’ said Hadlow. ‘When I got him back here and was able to examine him properly, I saw puncture marks on his arm.’ He pulled back the shroud to reveal the corpse. Hadlow indicated a mark on one arm. ‘Something lethal was injected into the vein.’

‘Have you any idea what it could be?’

‘No, Inspector, I’m not an expert on poisons, I’m afraid.’

‘What struck you when you first saw the body?’

‘Well, I couldn’t believe that I was looking at a murder victim. It’s a strange thing to say about him but … it was almost as if he looked at peace.’

Wigg fell prey to light sarcasm. ‘Are you suggesting that he climbed into the grave of his own volition then met his Maker by injecting himself with poison?’

‘Of course not, Superintendent – there was no syringe.’

‘And there was no reason to take his own life,’ said Colbeck. ‘Didn’t you say that Mr Quayle was in line to be the next chairman of the Midland Railway?’

‘It was a foregone conclusion,’ said Wigg. ‘Mr Quayle was an ambitious man with a lot to live for. He’d never commit suicide. His death allows Mr Haygarth to collect the spoils. In the emergency, during the interregnum caused by the resignation of the previous chairman, he’d appointed himself as the acting chairman.’

Colbeck remembered that, in the telegraph sent to Scotland Yard, Haygarth was described as the chairman. Before the board approved of his appointment, he had already promoted himself. Both detectives had been studying the corpse and trying to work out what Quayle must have looked like when alive. Though he was reportedly in his late fifties, he seemed much younger and was passably handsome with dark, curly hair and a well-trimmed moustache. Even in that undignified position, he somehow looked a more imposing figure than Donald Haygarth.

Responding to a nod from Colbeck, the doctor covered the body up again.

‘Can I ask you a question, Dr Hadlow?’ said Leeming. ‘You were involved when Enoch Stone was killed, weren’t you?’

‘Do we have to drag that case up again?’ protested Wigg.

‘You told us that the investigation was ongoing, Superintendent.’

‘Yes, but you’re not here to meddle in it. One murder is enough to keep you occupied, I fancy. Please confine yourself to that.’

‘We’re bound to wonder if there’s any link between the two killings.’

‘None at all,’ said Wigg. ‘Don’t you agree, Doctor Hadlow?’

‘On the face of it,’ replied the other, ‘I’d have to endorse your opinion. Stone was the victim of a brutal assault while Mr Quayle seems to have escaped violence. Then, of course, their stations in life were far apart. One came from humble stock while the other was extremely wealthy, if his attire is anything to judge by. I see no connection between the two crimes, Sergeant.’

‘Except the obvious one,’ added Colbeck. ‘Both men were killed in Spondon. Was that a bizarre coincidence?’

‘I don’t know, Inspector.’

‘I do,’ said Wigg, firmly. ‘Yes, it was a coincidence, so can we please forget Enoch Stone and concentrate our efforts on finding out who killed Mr Quayle?’

After plying the doctor with some more questions, Colbeck signalled to Leeming that it was time to leave and the two of them stepped out into the street. Since the superintendent stayed in the house for a few minutes, they were able to have a private conversation at long last.

‘What’s your feeling, Inspector?’

‘Wigg is an encumbrance.’

‘It’s a pity that he wasn’t found in that grave.’

‘Now, now, Victor, let’s not be vindictive.’

‘That’s what he is, sir. He reminds me of Superintendent Tallis.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Colbeck with a laugh. ‘You’re comparing a molehill to a mountain. Wigg doesn’t have the intelligence or the ruthlessness to replace our beloved superintendent.’

‘What’s our next step, sir?’

‘I think that we should take a walk around Spondon and get to know the geography of the village. I noticed some public houses on our way here. Keep a sharp eye out for any others.’

‘Why is that?’

‘It’s because you will have to choose between them.’

‘I don’t follow, sir.’

‘This crime was committed in Spondon but I’ll wager anything that its roots are a long way from here. Finding those roots is my job. That’s why I’ll use the hotel in Derby as my base. You, meanwhile, will be staying here in a local hostelry while you search for any clues and talk to potential witnesses.’

Leeming’s face fell. ‘Are you leaving me alone in this godforsaken wilderness?’

‘It strikes me as a rather nice place to live.’

‘Then why don’t you stay here?’

‘I’ll be dealing with the family of the deceased and looking more closely into Mr Quayle’s relationship with the Midland Railway. Don’t worry, Victor. I’m not cutting you adrift. We’ll spend the first night at the Royal Hotel then you can come here tomorrow morning. Spondon is only a few miles away from Derby.’

‘What exactly must I do here?’

‘Your first task will be to attend the funeral of Mrs Peet. The vicar did tell us that a lot of people were expected. Study them carefully,’ advised Colbeck. ‘The killer might well be among them.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘This is the reward notice, Mr Haygarth,’ Cope said, handing it over. ‘I’ve arranged for copies to be put up in Spondon itself and all over Derby.’

‘We must go further afield than that.’

‘We will do.’

‘A supply must be sent to Nottingham.’

‘That’s already in hand.’

‘This is good,’ said Donald Haygarth, examining the notice. ‘It’s clear and precise. A reward of two hundred pounds should be enough to encourage anyone with relevant information to come forward.’

‘I hope so, sir.’

Maurice Cope was a short, stringy, thin-faced man in his late thirties with a self-effacing manner and an eagerness to please. He’d worked at the head office of the Midland Railway since its formation and watched the internal battles on its board of directors attentively so that he could align himself with the more influential members. Impressed by Haygarth’s character and determination, he’d campaigned in secret on his behalf and was gratified that he was now working for the future chairman. There were, however, clouds on the horizon.

‘I should warn you that there have been rumblings,’ he said.

‘About what, may I ask?’

‘They’re about the size of the reward for a start, sir. Some people have complained that it’s far too high and that there should have been a board meeting in order to authorise it.’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Haygarth with a dismissive gesture. ‘In a crisis such as we face, immediate action was called for. That’s why I took it upon myself to summon Inspector Colbeck and have these reward notices printed. If we’d had to wait days until members of the board could be brought together for discussion, we’d have lost all momentum.’

‘I agree, Mr Haygarth.’

‘Someone had to step into the breach.’

‘You were the ideal person,’ said Cope, ingratiatingly, ‘and we are fortunate to have you. Inevitably, however, there has been criticism of the way that you took control of the situation.’

‘Mr Quayle and I were the only candidates for the chairmanship. When he was murdered it was only natural that I should assume the office.’

‘Thank goodness you did, sir.’

‘I wish that all my colleagues saw it that way.’

‘I’m sure that they’ll come to do so in time.’

They were in the headquarters of the Midland Railway, the place from which its complex network of services was controlled. Years earlier, Haygarth, the owner of some lucrative silk mills, had been persuaded to invest some of his substantial wealth in the company. In return, he was given a seat on the board of directors and immediately began to gather like-minded people around him. Intelligent, ambitious and politically adroit, he’d waited until a vacancy had occurred for the chairmanship then put himself forward. He’d been needled when the general preference seemed to be for Vivian Quayle.

‘Mr Quayle had many virtues,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be the first to admit that. He was industrious, far-sighted and wholly committed to the expansion of the Midland Railway. As a man, I admired him. As a future chairman, on the other hand, I had the gravest of reservations about him. In the present circumstances, those reservations are now quite irrelevant. We must bring his killer to justice and we must console his family in every way possible. In posting a large reward and in bringing the Railway Detective here, we are sending out a message that any enemies of this company will be swiftly hunted down.’

‘Your prompt action is to be commended, Mr Haygarth.’

‘I’ve given statements to the press and much of what I said will be included in the obituaries of Mr Quayle. He will be deservedly mourned. As for my critics,’ he went on, waving the poster in the air, ‘you may tell them that the costs of printing and distribution will not fall on the company. Along with the reward money, I will gladly pay them out of my own pocket.’

‘That’s extraordinarily generous of you, sir.’

‘I want my colleagues to know the sort of man that I am.’

‘They’ll be impressed. But there’s just one question I’d like to ask.’

‘What’s that?’

‘If the crime is solved by Inspector Colbeck, will he get the full reward of two hundred pounds?’

Haygarth’s face darkened. ‘We’ll have to see about that.’

Big, solid and with a commanding presence in the town, the Royal Hotel offered good accommodation and an excellent menu in its dining room. As they enjoyed their meal there that evening, Robert Colbeck had no cause for complaint. Victor Leeming, however, kept glancing wistfully around. From the next day onwards, he knew he’d be eating plainer fare and sleeping in a far less comfortable bed above a noisy bar in a Spondon public house. Sensing the sergeant’s dismay, Colbeck tried to cheer him up.

‘You’ll like it there, Victor. It’s what you’ve yearned for, after all.’

Leeming was baffled. ‘Is it?’

‘Yes, I’ve lost count of the times you’ve moaned about bringing up your family in a big city with all the dangers that that implies. Whenever our work has taken us to smaller communities – Dawlish was a case in point – you said how nice it would be to live in such a place.’

‘That’s true,’ admitted the other. ‘The air would be a lot cleaner than it is in London and it would certainly be a lot safer and quieter.’

‘There you are, then. Spondon answers all your needs. It’s a pleasant village, just the kind of place for you, Estelle and the boys.’

‘No, it isn’t. I’d soon tire of it.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s so little to do in a small village. Nothing ever happens there.’

Colbeck grinned. ‘I wouldn’t describe two murders in three years as a case of nothing ever happening. There are six constables there, remember, so there must be a lot of petty crime to police.’

‘Throwing drunks out of a bar and keeping naughty children out of the churchyard is not my idea of work, Inspector. I thrive on action.’

‘Don’t treat naughty children with such contempt. It was two of them who first discovered that a murder had occurred. They set this investigation in motion. Bear that in mind. You should make a point of meeting the pair of them.’

‘I will, sir,’ said Leeming, ‘and I’m sorry to complain. It’s only right that one of us explores Spondon properly. If truth be told, I’ll feel more at home in a village pub. Luxury like this always makes me uneasy.’

‘It’s a strange paradox. Comfort makes you uncomfortable.’

‘I’m like a fish out of water here. It’s Spondon for me. That’s where the crime took place and where, in all probability, the killer lives.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He knew that there was an empty grave handy at St Mary’s.’

‘That could have been a case of serendipity.’

Leeming frowned. ‘You’ve used that word before but I forget what it means.’

‘It means that, if you stumble upon something that serves your purpose, you take full advantage of it. When the killer chose St Mary’s, he may have been unaware that there was an appropriate place for a dead body. He’s obviously somebody who knows the village,’ Colbeck agreed, ‘but that doesn’t mean he still lives there. What we do know about him is that he has a macabre sense of humour. Most killers try to conceal their victims in order to slow down the process of detection. This man did the opposite. He wanted that corpse to be found.’

‘I keep thinking about that missing top hat.’

‘If we find that, it will have the name of Mr Quayle inside it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I checked the label on his coat. His name was sewn into it. Among the many places I need to visit is the Nottingham tailor patronised by Mr Quayle. He was a man of exquisite taste.’

‘Where else will you go, sir?’

‘I’ll visit the home of the deceased and make discreet enquiries there and I’ll certainly need to look into the workings of the Midland Railway. Mr Quayle was intimately involved in them. He had power and that always creates enemies.’

‘Mr Haygarth was one of them,’ said Leeming, recalling their meeting with the acting chairman. ‘He made a song and dance about the importance of catching Mr Quayle’s killer but I didn’t get the impression that he was really sorry that the man had died. Secretly, he must be delighted. He’s just too cunning to show it.’

‘My feeling exactly, Victor.’

‘Do you think that someone from the Midland Railway is behind it all?’

‘It’s not impossible,’ said Colbeck, thanking the waiter with a smile as the man cleared away their plates. ‘It’s equally possible that someone employed by a rival company is implicated. One sure way to disable the Midland is to get rid of the man who is about to become its chairman. Think of the impact on the morale of all the employees of the company. This will have shaken them badly.’

‘It didn’t shake Mr Haygarth.’

‘I noticed that.’

‘I know that Superintendent Wigg only said it by way of a jest but should we put Haygarth on the list of suspects? I can’t see him killing another man but he looks capable of hiring someone to do his dirty work.’

‘We must keep an open mind, Victor.’

‘I like to have something to bite on in an investigation.’

‘The cheese will be served very soon. Bite into that.’ They both laughed. ‘I’ll warrant that you won’t find the same quality in the Malt Shovel or the Union Inn or wherever you choose to stay.’

‘I’ll be where I fit in better,’ said Leeming.

‘Exactly,’ said Colbeck. ‘You can blend into that village in a way that I can’t. There are times, I readily accept, when my educated vowels are a positive drawback. You’re more down to earth and you’re a good listener. It’s one of your strengths.’

Leeming pulled a face. ‘I didn’t know that I had any.’

Colbeck laughed and patted his companion’s shoulder. ‘You’re awash with them, Victor.’ He saw the waiter approaching. ‘It looks as if our cheese is on its way.’

But the waiter was bringing something more than just a selection of cheeses. After setting down the platter on the table, he put a hand inside his coat to extract a letter.

‘This is for you, Inspector,’ he said, giving it to him. ‘It was handed in by someone at reception and passed on to the head waiter.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, scrutinising it and noting the neatness with which his name had been written. The man nodded and walked away. ‘Let’s see what we have here, shall we?’ He opened the letter and took something out. ‘Well, well, well …’

‘What is it, sir?’

‘It’s a reward notice, Victor. A very tempting amount of money is being offered for information that leads to the arrest of the killer of Mr Quayle.’ He turned the paper over. ‘However, that’s not all we’ve been given.’ He passed it over to Leeming. ‘Do you see what someone has written on the back?’

After reading details of the reward, Leeming looked at the reverse side.

‘Gerard Burns – is he the person who sent this to you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then who is he?’

‘As of now,’ said Colbeck, ‘I fancy that he’s our prime suspect.’

The day began early at the vicarage. Funerals were always unsettling occasions for Michael Sadler but he was looking forward to the latest one with real trepidation. In view of what had happened to the grave originally dug, he was afraid that he’d lost the hitherto unquestioning support of Roderick Peet, the bereaved husband. Other members of the family might also look askance at him. The fact that he’d finally persuaded Bert Knowles to dig a fresh grave might not be enough to win back the Peet family. It was something he should have done instantly, before Peet was drawn into the blistering row with Knowles. Deeply troubled, the vicar hardly touched his breakfast and heard very little of his wife’s customary wittering.



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