Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

Robert Colbeck had enjoyed his visit to the tailor’s shop in Nottingham. He felt wholly at ease in such an environment and was so struck by the quality of items on display he had purchased a new cravat there. But it was the missing top hat that had taken him to the establishment and he left with a drawing of it in his pocket. Much as he’d liked Simon Hubbleday and revelled in their conversation, he’d been unable to prise from him all the information about the Quayle family that the tailor clearly knew. Hubbleday had been both discreet and professional, yielding a few details about his customers while holding many others back. Colbeck was certain that the man could have said far more about Stanley Quayle, for instance, and about the reason that drove one of his sisters away from the house.

His next port of call was the police station where a pleasant surprise awaited him. Having met with muted hostility from the Derbyshire Constabulary, in the person of Superintendent Wigg, he was given an affable welcome by the duty sergeant, Thomas Lambert, who was quick to offer any help that he could. Lambert was a stolid man in his forties with a flat face enlivened by rosy cheeks and a pair of mischievous eyes. He seemed to radiate goodwill. Colbeck’s reputation ensured him a firm handshake.

‘Ask me anything you wish, Inspector,’ said Lambert, obviously thrilled to take part, albeit tangentially, in a murder investigation. ‘We knew Mr Quayle well. We want his killer brought to book.’

‘That’s a common objective for all of us, Sergeant.’

‘He was a kind and charitable man. At least, that was how we saw him. I don’t think there was much kindness and charity in his business life, mind. At meetings of the board of directors and such like, I daresay he’d have had to fight tooth and claw. Where big decisions need to be made, blood usually flows.’

‘What do you know of Donald Haygarth?’

Lambert sniffed. ‘I know little to his credit, Inspector.’

‘He was Mr Quayle’s rival.’

‘There were whispers he was hatching a plot to seize control of the company.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘You pick up things in this job,’ said Lambert, tapping the side of his nose.

‘How well do you know Mr Quayle’s family?’

Lambert grinned. ‘I’m not exactly on visiting terms at their house, but I’ve come across them all over the years. Mrs Quayle — God bless her — is a poor old dear who’s been dogged by all kinds of maladies. She’s a wealthy woman in her own right. Old money,’ he said, knowingly. ‘It’s the best kind, in some ways. Her husband made his fortune out of coal and, since he sold so much of it to various railway companies, it was only natural that he should join the board of the Midland Railway. He was very rich. The Quayle family lives in style.’

‘I know,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve been to the house. It wasn’t the best time to call but I’d have appreciated slightly more cooperation than I was offered.’

‘That means you met Stanley Quayle.’

‘It was not a meeting of true minds. He was quite rude to me.’

‘He’s like that with most people, Inspector. He’s taken over the running of the coal mines from his father and it’s gone to his head. Fair’s fair, he very efficient and conscientious but — well, if you want it in plain language — he can be a bastard.’

‘What about his brother?’

The duty sergeant chuckled. ‘Lucas Quayle is an altogether different person,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘He’s open, friendly and full of life. In his younger days, he had a few brushes with the law but they were minor incidents and settled out of court. Marriage quietened him down a bit — that and his big brother.’

‘Does he work alongside Stanley?’

‘He works beneath him, sir.’

Lambert talked at length about the relationship between the two brothers before being forced to break off when two constables brought in a prisoner they were having great difficulty in controlling. The duty sergeant came out from behind his desk, pinioned the man’s arm behind his back and marched him off to one of the cells at the rear of the building. Colbeck heard the iron door clang shut.

‘I’m sorry about that, sir,’ he said when he returned. ‘That was Jake Daggett, a regular customer of ours. He hit the landlord of The Red Lion over the head with a chair this time.’ When a yell of rage came from the cell, Lambert closed the door to muffle the sound. ‘Now, then, where was I?’

‘You were telling me about the two brothers,’ Colbeck reminded him, ‘but what I really want to hear is something about the two sisters.’

‘If the two men are like chalk and cheese, Inspector, the two ladies are as different as coal and chocolate. I don’t mean this unkindly because she’s a good woman, by all accounts, but Agnes Quayle is as plain as a pikestaff. They say that she gave up her chances of marriage to look after her mother. If you ever meet her, you’ll see that any chances were very thin on the ground.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I speak as the father of two daughters. You’re always worried that they may be unable to find husbands and hang around your neck forever.’

‘Tell me about the elder sister.’

‘Lydia is a real beauty, sir — a lot of young men took an interest.’

‘Did she marry one of them?’

‘No, Inspector — and I’m only passing on a rumour here — she believed that she was already spoken for. However …’

‘Her parents opposed her choice,’ guessed Colbeck.

‘They did more than that. They packed her off to Europe on a tour and they sacked the fellow straight away. He was their head gardener.’

One mystery was solved. ‘It was Gerard Burns, I’ll wager.’

‘It was, indeed.’

‘That explains why Stanley Quayle was so angry when I mentioned him.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Why?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Was Burns such an ogre or did the family think that his low status made him a highly unsuitable attachment?’

‘I reckon they turned their noses up at him. Money does that to people. Nice as pie as he could be on the surface, Mr Quayle stamped out his daughter’s romance.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘I don’t rightly know, Inspector. Talk was that she’s in London.’

‘Apparently, there’s a doubt over her return for the funeral.’

‘She must come back for that,’ said Lambert with passion. ‘Her father was murdered , for heaven’s sake!’

‘Quite so.’

‘It’s unnatural.’

‘Let’s go back to Gerard Burns.’

Lambert pursed his lips. ‘Shame to see him go, Inspector.’

‘Why — did you know him?’

‘Not personally, but I watched him many a time. Do you have any interest in cricket, Inspector?’

‘Yes, I do,’ replied Colbeck. ‘I loved playing it in my younger days.’

‘Burns was not only a canny gardener,’ said Lambert, ‘he was the best bowler in the county. Nottinghamshire’s loss is Derbyshire’s gain.’

‘Is that where he went — over the border?’

‘He couldn’t stay here. Mr Quayle made that very clear.’

‘So where exactly is he?’

‘Oh, he’s fallen on his feet in one way,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s a promotion of a kind. He looks after the gardens at Melbourne Hall.’

Gerard Burns was a tall, lean, sinewy man in his thirties with a mop of fair hair imprisoned under his battered hat. The gardens under his aegis were among the finest in the county, comprising broad tracts of lawn, avenues of trees, explosions of colour in the flower beds and tasteful statuary. As he walked around the edge of the Great Basin, he watched the insects buzzing merrily above the water. Burns took great pride in his work and made every effort to maintain the high quality of grounds constructed a hundred and fifty years earlier after consultation with no less than the royal gardeners. He turned along a path that led to the ponds and saw two men busy with their hoes. One of them suddenly bent down to retrieve an object from behind a shrub. He held it up for Burns to see.