Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

The load was heavy and even someone of Leeming’s considerable strength was feeling the strain. Before he reached the gate to the churchyard, he was confronted by a big, broad, rugged man in his thirties with a swagger. The newcomer was carrying a pair of riding boots.

‘You must be Sergeant Leeming,’ he said with a lazy grin.

‘That’s right. Who might you be?’

‘Oh, I’m Jed Hockaday, sir. I’m a cobbler by trade but I was also sworn in as a special constable, so you might say we’re in the same business. What are you doing?’

‘Were you anywhere near here on the night of the murder?’

‘No, sir, I was visiting friends in Duffield.’

‘Then you’re of no use to me.’

Hockaday was wounded. ‘Don’t say that, Sergeant. I was hoping you’d call on me. I’ve been involved in a murder case before, you see.’

‘Was that the one involving Enoch Stone?’

‘Yes — he was a good friend of mine.’

‘I was told he was killed by a traveller.’

‘No, no,’ argued the other man. ‘The murderer lives here in Spondon. I’d swear to that. Most folk in this village are good, kind, honest people. They’d do anything to help someone in a spot of bother. Then there are the others,’ he went on, glancing around, ‘those who keep themselves to themselves. You never know who’s hiding behind a closed door, do you, or what they might be planning? I hate to say it because I’ve probably mended his shoes at some point, but Enoch’s killer is one of us.’

Leeming had seen enough of Hockaday to realise that he was a man of limited intelligence. His sheer bulk and his willingness had recommended him for police work and he would be very effective at dealing with anyone in a brawl. As an assistant in a murder investigation, however, he would be a handicap.

‘I’ll be standing by all the time, Sergeant,’ said the cobbler. ‘You’re staying at the Malt Shovel, aren’t you? My shop is farther along Potter Street.’

‘Thank you. I’ll remember that.’

‘A man dressed like you shouldn’t be pushing a wheelbarrow. Would you like me to take over from you?’

Leeming was affronted. ‘No, I wouldn’t. I can manage on my own.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to it and deliver these boots. Remember my name.’

‘I will, Mr Hockaday.’

‘Everyone here calls me Jed.’

He treated Leeming to another lazy grin then swaggered off. Though there was a link between them, Hockaday was no Philip Conway. Both men were excited to make the acquaintance of a Scotland Yard detective. While the young reporter was a reliable source of information, however, the cobbler was better left to his trade. In the hands of such amateur constables, Leeming believed, the murder of Enoch Stone would remain unsolved until Doomsday. Grasping the handles of the barrow again, he gave it a shove and it creaked into action but he did not get as far as the church. A horse and cart came into view with a pungent load of manure piled high on it. The driver was enraged by what he saw.

‘Leave my barrer alone!’ yelled Bert Knowles. ‘Thass stealin’, thar is.’

Since the railway had yet to reach Melbourne, Colbeck was obliged to take the train to the nearest station then hire a cab. It took him through rolling countryside with pleasing vistas wherever he looked. Derby might be a railway town, with its works contributing liberally to the regular din, smoke and grime, but whole areas of the county were still untouched by industry. Colbeck found the leisurely journey both restorative and inspiring. Melbourne was a small village in the Trent valley that still retained its rustic charm. Standing at the south-east end, the Hall was by far the largest and most striking house in the area, a fitting place of residence for a prime minister. The cab went down the hill towards it, giving Colbeck the opportunity to see the smaller houses and cottages of ordinary mortals.

When he reached the house, his attention instead went straight to the church of St Michael with St Mary, standing close to the stables and the servants’ quarters of the Hall. One of the finest Norman churches in the kingdom, it was a truly magnificent structure with a size and quality worthy of a cathedral. Colbeck promised himself that he would take a closer look at the place before he left Melbourne. The Hall itself was an arresting edifice in an idyllic setting. Its origins were medieval but it had fallen into such a state of disrepair during the later years of Elizabeth’s reign that its new owner had pulled down and rebuilt large parts of it. Substantial alterations were also made in the next century and, over the years, each new owner felt the urge to stamp his mark upon the house.

Colbeck was unable to take in all the architectural felicities. He was there simply to speak to the head gardener. The garrulous housekeeper insisted on telling Colbeck that Melbourne Hall actually belonged to the former Emily Lamb who’d inherited it from her brother, Frederic, who had himself acquired the place at the death of his elder brother, William Lamb, erstwhile Lord Melbourne, another prime minister. Colbeck didn’t wish to alarm her by saying that he was treating the head gardener as a murder suspect so he merely said that he hoped Gerard Burns would be able to help him with enquiries relating to an estate in Nottinghamshire on which he once worked.

When he met the gardener himself, he was able to be more forthright. After introducing himself, he explained exactly why he had come to Melbourne. Gerard Burns stared at him with what seemed like genuine surprise.

‘Mr Quayle is dead ?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘Have you not heard the news?’

‘How could I? We are very cut off here.’

‘Reports of the murder have been in all the newspapers, Mr Burns.’

‘I’ve no time to read newspapers, Inspector. Looking after these gardens takes up all of my time.’ With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the grounds. ‘It’s hard work to keep them in this condition all the time.’

‘You’re obviously very proficient at your trade, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Though I suspect it’s rather like the one in which I’m engaged. It’s never possible to master it because one always has to learn new things.’

‘That’s very true of horticulture,’ said Burns, ‘because new plants and shrubs arrive from abroad all the time. You have to learn how to nurture them. Then there are the new ways they keep inventing to kill weeds.’

Burns spoke openly but there was an underlying surliness in his voice and manner. He clearly wanted to be left alone to get on with his job. What he least wanted to do was to talk about his time with the Quayle family but Colbeck needed answers and pressed on.

‘Where were you three nights ago, sir?’ he asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Were you here in Melbourne?’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ admitted the other. ‘I went over to Ilkeston to play cricket.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about your prowess as a bowler. I believe that you played for the county when you lived in Nottinghamshire.’

Burns smiled. ‘We beat the All-England team once. I took seven wickets.’

‘And you also played for a team organised by Mr Quayle, I’m told.’ The glowing pride vanished instantly from the gardener’s face. ‘Thanks to you, victory was assured every time. What sort of a captain was Stanley Quayle?’

‘That world is long behind me, Inspector.’

‘I should imagine that he liked to throw his weight around.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Burns, sharply, ‘I’d rather not talk about all that.’

‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to, sir. Otherwise, I may have to invite you to accompany me to the nearest police station where we can have a more formal interview. A pleasant chat out here in these wonderful gardens is surely preferable to that, is it not?’ Burns gave a reluctant nod. ‘Why did you leave Mr Quayle’s employ?’