Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

‘I think you already know that.’

‘All I have is one side of the story. I’d like to hear yours.’

‘It was a mistake,’ said Burns, vehemently. ‘I broke their rules and I was dismissed. When you work for people like that, there are lines you’re never allowed to cross. I strayed over them and paid the penalty. Mr Quayle not only had me thrown off the estate, he made sure that I’d never get another job in the county again.’

‘So how did you end up here?’

‘One of the gentlemen who ran the county cricket team had some influence here. He gave me a letter of introduction and I was taken on. When the head gardener retired, I’d done enough to show that I could replace him.’

‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ observed Colbeck, looking around. ‘But you must have had regrets when you left your former post.’

Burns shifted his feet. ‘I had no regrets on my own account.’

‘Yet I daresay you felt sorry for the lady herself.’

‘That’s as maybe, Inspector.’

‘Have you seen Miss Lydia Quayle since?’

There was a studied pause. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Did you want to see her?’

‘As I told you,’ snapped Burns, ‘that world is behind me. I’ve put down roots here. I’m married now. I’ve got all I want.’

Colbeck took a long, hard look at him. Burns met his gaze with a mingled bitterness and defiance. Someone had identified him as a killer and there were aspects of his character that easily qualified him for the role. Yet he’d taken pains to distance himself from the Quayle family and had started afresh in a quiet, rural refuge. Colbeck wondered just how deep his acrimony still was.

‘That’s a beautiful church you have on your doorstep, Mr Burns.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Do you worship there?’

‘My wife and I go most Sundays.’

‘Then you’re obviously acquainted with Christian virtues,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m going to take a look inside the church. It will give you time to think over what you’ve told me. Some of it is very plausible yet I have a nagging sensation of being deceived. When I come back, I hope that you’ll realise the importance of being completely honest with me. See it as an opportunity of getting something off your chest.’

‘I’ve nothing new to add, Inspector,’ insisted Burns.

‘In that case, you might wish to subtract from your statements.’

‘You’ll be wasting your time if you come bothering me again.’

‘We can talk about cricket,’ said Colbeck, airily. ‘That’s never a waste of time, is it? If you played against the All-England XI, you’ll no doubt have encountered the redoubtable Mr Stephenson.’

Burns straightened his shoulders. ‘I bowled him out.’

‘Why did H. H. Stephenson play for that team when Gerard Burns did not?’

‘Gardening’s what I love. Cricket’s just for fun.’

Colbeck appraised him again. Lydia Quayle’s romance with him was understandable. Apart from his physical attractions, Burns was well spoken, self-possessed and highly skilled. The inspector was bound to wonder which of them had made the first move. Had he set his cap at one of the daughters of the house or had she been the one to initiate things? Colbeck would be interested to find out.

‘When I told you about Mr Quayle’s death,’ he recalled, ‘you were surprised but there was no other reaction from you.’

‘Why should there be?’

‘Don’t you feel even the slightest regret at his murder?’

‘No,’ said Burns, stoutly. ‘To be honest, I am delighted.’

When the family gathered in the drawing room, there was a surprise in store for them. Harriet Quayle, widow of the murdered man, insisted on being present. Though she had to be helped to her seat by her daughter, Agnes, a spindly young woman with an anxious face, she was determined to be involved in what would be an important discussion. Stanley Quayle was irritated by her arrival, not least because it would inhibit him slightly. He tried to get rid of her.

‘Are you sure that you feel well enough to be here, Mother?’ he asked.

‘I do feel poorly,’ she confessed, ‘but I’m staying.’

‘It may be a long debate.’

‘I’ll manage to remain awake somehow.’

‘We can tell you afterwards what’s been decided.’

‘You won’t have to, Stanley. I can help to make any decisions.’

‘Very well,’ he said, resignedly.

‘Mother is entitled to be here,’ said Lucas Quayle. ‘I agree that both my dear wife and Stanley’s wife are best excluded. They’re only members of the family by marriage and, in any case, neither of them felt that it would be right to join us.’

‘All needed are now here,’ said Stanley.

‘All except Lydia, that is,’ said his brother, waspishly.

‘Let’s keep her name out of this, please. This doesn’t concern her.’

They all looked towards Harriet for a word or sign of confirmation but she said nothing. Sitting deep in an armchair, she seemed frailer than ever. Stanley was the only person still on his feet. He struck a pose.

‘Father’s body has been returned to us,’ he began, ‘so we can make all the necessary funeral arrangements. Lucas and I have already had a preliminary talk on that subject but now is the time for anyone else to offer their opinion as to how the event should be planned. Under other circumstances, we would invite mourners back here after the event but — given Mother’s weakened condition — that would put far too big a strain on her.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Stanley,’ she said.

‘Stanley is right,’ argued his brother. ‘Your health comes first, Mother.’

‘That’s nonsense, Lucas. The person you should first consider is your poor father. This is his funeral not mine. We must ask ourselves what he would have wanted and I think that we all know the answer. He would like a dignified ceremony followed by a gathering of family and friends under this roof.’

‘I agree,’ Agnes piped up.

‘So do I,’ said her younger brother.

‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ said Stanley Quayle, irked that they were all of one mind. ‘There are other factors to consider. Father, alas, did not die a natural death. He was the victim of a cruel murder.’

Harriet clutched at her throat. Agnes quickly put a comforting hand on her shoulder and shot a look of reproof at Stanley for being so carelessly explicit. Her elder brother surged on regardless.

‘In the first instance,’ he declared, ‘it might be better to have a small, private service for the immediate family. After a decent interval to allow for the investigation to continue, and for an arrest to be made, we can hold a memorial service for all and sundry. By that time, Mother may be fully recovered and more able to cope.’

‘By that time,’ said Harriet, wryly, ‘I may well be dead myself.’

‘Mother!’ exclaimed her daughter.

‘I don’t have unlimited time, Agnes.’

‘You shouldn’t even think such things.’

‘I agree,’ said Stanley Quayle. ‘It’s morbid.’

‘My view is this,’ said his brother, sitting up. ‘Please listen carefully.’

The argument had started and it went on for a long time, rising in volume and growing in intensity. Agnes was the surprise. Normally so subdued, she spoke up for once and did so to some effect. Lucas Quayle seemed more intent on opposing his brother’s views than on putting forward an alternative plan and it caused a deal of friction between them. It was the elder brother who first started shouting. Harriet took a full part in the quarrel and it was only when she lost her voice that it came to an abrupt end. They sat there in silence, looking around at each other and feeling embarrassed that they’d descended into an unseemly squabble at a time when they should have been mourning the death of Vivian Quayle.