Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

‘Iss thar ball the children lost,’ he called out. ‘You’d best ’ave this, Mr Burns. Catch it.’

He threw it high in the air but the head gardener caught it easily with one hand. Burns rolled the ball over in his palm. Aware of his skill on the cricket field, the undergardeners were both watching him expectantly. He obliged them with a demonstration. After walking away from it, he turned to face the Birdcage, the outstanding feature of the gardens, a large and elaborate wrought iron arbour created by a celebrated ironsmith at the start of the previous century and still retaining its full majesty. Burns, however, was not there to admire it. Having measured out his run-up, he set off, accelerated, then flung the ball with all his strength. Flashing through the air, it struck the arbour and bounced harmlessly off. The undergardeners gave him a round of applause.

‘I told ter,’ said one of them to the other. ‘He’s like a strick o’ lightnin’.’

Victor Leeming was gazing reflectively into the empty grave in the churchyard. He tried to envisage what Vivian Quayle had looked like when he lay there on his back. Fortunately, the dead man had fitted into the cavity without difficulty. A much taller or broader corpse would have been crumpled up.

‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ asked the vicar, coming up beside him.

‘I’m just thinking.’

‘This is a day for contemplation. I made that point in my address.’

‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ said Leeming. ‘It was … very moving.’

‘Thank you. I’ve just come from the family. They’re still bemused by the suddenness of it all. A month ago, Mrs Peet was a healthy, active lady with decades ahead of her — or so it seemed. Then the headaches began and she went downhill with indecent haste. The brain tumour was a silent enemy growing in stealth. It’s ironic.’

‘What is, Vicar?’

‘Well, my dear wife is plagued by all sorts of minor ailments and has never been very robust, yet she will probably go on forever. A fit and lively person dies without warning while a near invalid soldiers on from year to year.’

‘Death can be very cruel.’

‘Yet it’s always the working out of God’s purpose. There must have been a reason why he called Mrs Peet into his presence. What that reason was, I’ve yet to decide.’ He looked across at the other grave, now hidden under a mound of fresh earth. ‘You, too, are still looking for reasons, of course.’

‘Yes,’ said Leeming, ‘I’m wondering how and why Mr Quayle ended up in Spondon. It’s the first thing I’ll ask the killer when we catch him.’

‘I spotted a reward notice on my way back here. It should bring results.’

‘It’s already brought your gravedigger to me.’

‘What did Bert Knowles have to say?’

‘Oh, he made up a story about being in here on the night of the murder and feeling that he was being watched. When I told him his evidence was worthless, he admitted he’d made the whole thing up and had a good laugh.’

The vicar sighed. ‘That’s typical of Knowles. He’s incorrigible.’

‘Actually, he was very helpful. He told someone why I was here and the man, a Mr Truss, came running to see me. He really did have something useful to say.’

‘Yes, I know Truss. He’s a sound, God-fearing fellow.’

‘Is he a married man?’

‘No,’ said the vicar, ‘he can be a little alarming until you get used to those eyes. I think he’s accepted that he holds no attraction for the gentler sex.’

Leeming didn’t disillusion him by telling him about Truss’s night-time activity. After taking the funeral then trying to comfort the family, Sadler was already in a delicate state. The loss of faith in one of his parishioners would be painful to him and, in any case, Leeming would not break his promise to the glove-maker.

‘I really came to look for the marks of a wheelbarrow,’ he explained.

‘You won’t find many of those, I’m afraid. A lot of feet have trampled across the churchyard today.’

‘Some marks are still visible.’

‘Then they were put there by Bert’s wheelbarrow. It’s monstrously heavy but he shoves it around as if it’s as light as a feather.’ He turned to point. ‘He keeps it out of the way behind the tool shed.’

‘I know, Vicar. I made a point of finding it.’

‘Why do you have such a fascination with a rusting old wheelbarrow?’

‘I wanted to eliminate it,’ explained Leeming. ‘There are traces of it all over the place. But there’s also the marks of another wheelbarrow and they end right here beside the grave. Do you see, Vicar?’ He bent down to pat the earth. ‘This wasn’t made by the wheel on Knowles’s barrow. So I’m bound to ask where it did come from. Mrs Peet arrived for the funeral in a glass-panelled hearse,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if Mr Quayle got here in a meaner form of transport.’

When Lucas Quayle went in search of his brother, he found him seated at the desk in the study and flicking through the pile of papers he’d taken from a drawer.

‘What are you doing in here, Stanley?’ he asked.

‘I’m searching for Father’s will.’

‘Mother would tell you where that’s kept.’

‘She’s far too unwell to be bothered,’ said Stanley. ‘Besides, according to Agnes, the doctor has given her something to make her sleep. Mother needs rest.’

‘Are you certain that the will is actually here?’

‘I’m convinced of it.’

‘Father must have lodged it with his solicitor, surely.’

‘He’ll have kept his own copy. He did everything in duplicate.’

‘That’s true.’

Annoyed at the intrusion, he put the papers aside and rose to his feet.

‘Why do you need to bother me, Luke?’

‘There’s something we must discuss.’

‘If it’s what I think, you’re wasting your breath. That matter is long over and done with. Forget all about it.’

‘Lydia is our sister . We can’t just ignore that fact.’

‘She left this family of her own accord and she is not coming back to it.’

‘I disagree.’

Lucas Quayle usually lost any arguments with his brother because the latter had established his dominance over a long period. This time, however, the younger man would not give way. Tall and well built, he had something of his father’s good looks and had cultivated a similar moustache. The resemblance ended there. While Vivian Quayle had been wholly committed to his responsibilities as the owner of some profitable coal mines, his second son had been more wayward, embarking on two or three different careers before abandoning each in turn, and feeling the lash of his father’s tongue and that of his elder brother’s. It was only when he’d married after a succession of dalliances that he’d introduced any stability into his life. It irked him that his brother still treated him like the aimless drifter he’d once been.

‘I think that we should get in touch with Lydia,’ he declared.

‘I won’t hear of it.’

‘She has a right to be here, Stanley.’

‘Lydia spurned this family and lost all claim on it as a result. When I finally find the will, I’ll guarantee that her name is never mentioned in it.’

‘Our sister is not expecting it to be. She and Father … broke apart decisively. I accept that. But the nature of his death will surely wipe away the old bitterness. Lydia needs to be told that she’s welcome in this house again.’

Stanley stamped a foot. ‘It will never happen while I’m here.’

‘Think of Mother. She’d want to see her daughter.’

‘Don’t drag Mother into this. I’m the head of the household now and my writ runs here. No more argument, Luke,’ he affirmed. ‘Lydia is persona non grata here.’