Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

‘Two ’undred!’ he said, moving the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘I could sup a lot o’ beer wi’ a windfall like thar.’

‘Do you have any information that could lead to the killer?’ asked Leeming.

‘I might ’ve.’

‘What is it?’

‘Look arter Samson, will ter?’ said Knowles to the blacksmith, handing over the horse. ‘The sergeant’s gonna buy me a pint.’

Leeming was dubious. ‘Have you really got something useful to tell me?’

‘Yes,’ replied Knowles, indignantly. ‘I dug the bleedin’ grave where thar dead body turned up.’

As soon as he saw the window display at Brough and Hubbleday, Tailors Ltd, Colbeck’s heart lifted. Everything on show was of the highest quality. He entered the premises to be greeted by Simon Hubbleday, a round-shouldered little man in his sixties who had worked there since the day the shop had opened. Peering over the top of his spectacles, he took one look at Colbeck and clapped his hands in appreciation.

‘Nothing we could make for you would be an improvement on what you already wear, sir,’ he said, honestly. ‘The cut and cost of your attire tells me that you hail from London and keep a tailor in Bond Street or somewhere nearby.’

‘You have good eyesight.’

‘I only wish that Mr Brough was still alive to admire that cravat and that waistcoat. But my erstwhile partner — I am Simon Hubbleday, by the way — died a few years ago and left me alone with the task of making the gentry of Nottingham look both smart and respectable.’

‘Your window display does you credit, Mr Hubbleday.’

‘Praise from a man with your meticulous attention to detail is praise indeed.’ He beamed at Colbeck. ‘How can we be of service to you, sir?’

‘I’d like to say that you could make something for me Mr Hubbleday, but the truth is I come only in search of information. One of your customers, I believe, was Mr Vivian Quayle.’ The old man’s face clouded. ‘I see that you’ve heard the sad news about him.’

‘Mr Quayle has been a customer for many years and so, I may add, have both of his sons. What happened to him is quite appalling. A nicer gentleman does not exist in the whole of Nottingham. It was a privilege to serve him.’

Colbeck introduced himself and asked if they might have a word in private. After summoning an assistant from the inner reaches of the shop, Hubbleday took his visitor off to an office that was barely big enough to accommodate both of them.

‘Fortunately,’ said the old man, ‘Mr Brough was even smaller than me. The two of us could fit in here without any difficulty. Now, Inspector, what do you wish to know?’

‘Tell me about Mr Quayle’s top hat.’

‘It was something about which he was very particular.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t ask me why. We sell top hats by the dozen. Our highest price is five shillings and sixpence but most customers settle for something slightly cheaper. Mr Quayle, by contrast, paid even more for his because he wanted the very finest silk. It was, if I may say so, a top hat of top hats.’

‘In other words, it would be very distinctive.’

‘Any man of discernment would covet it, Inspector.’

‘That may explain why it disappeared.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Colbeck told him that the hat was missing from the open grave in which the dead man was found. Opening a drawer in his desk, Hubbleday took out a pile of drawings and began to leaf through them.

‘I’m inclined to agree with you that it was stolen rather than simply discarded,’ he said.

‘Did you sew Mr Quayle’s name inside it?’

‘Oh, yes, he insisted. Ah, here we are,’ he continued, plucking a drawing from the pile and passing it over. ‘That’s the hat we made for him.’

‘It’s highly individual,’ observed Colbeck, ‘and almost nine inches in height. That curly brim is a work of art.’

‘Mr Quayle wanted it to stand out in a crowd. Everyone wears top hats these days. You’ll see bargees on the river with them, and conductors on omnibuses. They used to be the sign of a gentleman,’ said Hubbleday, nostalgically, ‘but people of the lower sort get hold of them these days.’

‘This is very useful,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’d recognise that hat anywhere.’

‘Keep the drawing if it’s of any use, Inspector. I hate to say it but Mr Quayle will never be in need of a new hat.’

‘And you’ve never designed a similar one for anybody else?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘What about Mr Quayle’s sons?’

‘Oh, they have very different tastes,’ said Hubbleday with a smile. ‘Lucas, the younger of the two, is something of a peacock and always leans towards ostentation. Stanley, his elder brother, is more conservative.’

‘I met Stanley Quayle earlier,’ said Colbeck. ‘He seems to have taken charge at the house. I gather that his mother is not in the best of health.’

‘Mrs Quayle has been ailing for several years, Inspector. Her husband was devoted to her. When you came down the street, you’ll have passed the florist. He told me that, because his wife was so fond of flowers, Mr Quayle placed an order for a fresh supply of roses or lilies to be delivered every Monday morning.’

‘I should have thought there’d be plenty of flowers on the estate.’

‘Those were only for show,’ said Hubbleday, ‘or so I was told. Mrs Quayle liked to sit in the window of her room and look out on them. Mr Brough and I were invited to a function at the house once. You’ll have seen the flower beds at the front but perhaps you missed the formal garden at the rear of the property. It is truly a thing of beauty.’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Colbeck, ‘I wasn’t there to admire the garden. I simply wanted to make contact with the family.’

‘Did you meet Lucas Quayle? He’s a delightful fellow.’

‘No, I only spoke to his elder brother.’

There was a significant pause. ‘Stanley Quayle is very single-minded,’ said Hubbleday, measuring his words. ‘He always seems much older than he really is. By repute, he’s an astute businessman.’ His frown melted into a smile. ‘Nobody would ever say that about Lucas Quayle. He’s always striking out in new directions even if some of them are ill-advised. Their father used to tell me that he had one reliable son and one irresponsible one. Curiously, he seemed fonder of the madcap.’

‘There are two daughters as well, aren’t there?’

‘Don’t ask me about those, Inspector. I sell nothing that they might want.’

‘I understand that one of the daughters was estranged from the family.’

‘I’m in no position to comment on that.’

‘When I called at the house, Stanley Quayle informed me that the elder sister might not even attend the funeral.’

Hubbleday was scandalised. ‘That’s disgraceful!’

‘The rift with the family must indeed be serious.’

‘Death has a habit of uniting a family, Inspector. I pray that it might do so in this case.’

‘So do I,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’d be very interested to meet the lady.’

Lydia Quayle sat alone at a table in a London tea room and read the item in the newspaper for the third time. She was a smart, shapely woman in her late twenties with brown curly hair framing a face whose unforced beauty was marred by an expression that veered between sorrow and anger. Putting the newspaper aside, she sipped her tea then took a first nibble out of one of the cakes on the plate beside her. It was afternoon in London and, through the window, she could see heavy traffic in the road outside. Lydia was distracted by the sight of a tiny bird perched on a stationary cart and hopping from one place to another. When the bird landed on the rump of the horse between the shafts, the animal took no notice. It was only when the creature hopped along its back and onto its mane that the horse shook its head violently and sent the bird flying into the sky.