Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

Several minutes went by before Stanley Quayle finally spoke. His voice was low and almost sepulchral. He looked from one to the other.

‘I’ve not had an opportunity to tell you all that a detective from London called here yesterday,’ he said. ‘An Inspector Colbeck has been put in charge of the case.’

‘What kind of man was he?’ asked his brother.

‘He seemed competent but I was too distracted to spend much time with him.’

‘You should have let me talk to him, Stanley.’

‘That’s precisely what I didn’t want to do. We must be discreet and restrained, Lucas. I didn’t want you blurting out family secrets to him.’

‘If he’s any kind of detective, he’s bound to find out the full facts about Lydia’s departure from here.’

‘Don’t bring her name up again,’ pleaded Agnes.

‘We can’t just pretend that she never existed.’

‘That’s exactly what we must do.’

‘Be reasonable, Agnes.’

‘Remember what Father told us. She must be banned from coming here.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said Harriet, regaining her voice. ‘What’s this about a detective from London?’

‘He’s from Scotland Yard,’ explained her elder son. ‘He’s far more likely to solve the crime than the police in Derbyshire.’

‘Who sent for him? Was it you, Stanley?’

‘No, Mother, I should imagine that it was Mr Haygarth.’

‘Keep that dreadful man away from me,’ wailed Harriet in distress. ‘I won’t have him in this house. He’s been plotting against your father for years. If that inspector is hunting the killer, he should look no further than Donald Haygarth.’

‘Mr Haygarth tried to poach me away from the estate,’ said Burns.

‘But he told me that he only knew you as a cricketer.’

‘Then he was lying.’

‘He said that he’d simply heard about your feats as a demon bowler.’

‘It was my gardening expertise that he prized, Inspector. He didn’t approach me in person, mark you, but he sent a man to sound me out. Somehow, he knew exactly how much I was paid and was told to offer me more.’

‘But you declined the offer.’

‘Yes, I did, and for two good reasons.’

‘I think we both know the first one,’ said Colbeck, tactfully. ‘You had emotional commitments to a member of the family. What was the other reason?’

‘Mr Haygarth didn’t really want me for what I could do to his garden. He just wanted to spite Mr Quayle. When I realised that I sent the go-between away.’

‘Who was the man? Did he give you a name?’

‘Yes — it was Maurice Cope.’

Colbeck was not surprised. When he’d seen them together that morning, he’d worked out the relationship between the two of them without difficulty. Cope was Haygarth’s henchman, a company employee who was in a good position to know everything that went on at the headquarters of the Midland Railway and who reported it immediately to his master. Haygarth’s crude attempt to lure away the head gardener was yet one more instance of the bad blood between him and Vivian Quayle. Colbeck was ready to wager that it would have been only one of many such attempts to annoy or wound his rival.

The second visit to Melbourne Hall was more productive. After a long and fascinating exploration of the church, Colbeck had returned to find that Gerard Burns was less defensive. He talked a little more about his romance with Lydia Quayle and admitted that it had reached the point where they’d considered marriage, even if it involved an elopement. Evidently, it was no passing attachment. The pair had been betrayed by one of the servants who’d seen them together in the woods. Dismissal was instant. Lydia was locked in her room and Burns was hustled off the property and forbidden to return.

‘I misled you earlier,’ said Burns, contritely. ‘I did make an effort to see Lydia afterwards. She’d never have forgiven me if I hadn’t at least tried.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was seen and chased away again.’

‘Did you make a second attempt?’

Burns hung his head. ‘I intended to,’ he said, ‘but he changed my mind.’

‘Who did?’

‘Lydia’s father.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Mr Quayle sent two men to the house where I was staying. They were paid ruffians, Inspector. There’s no other word for them. I put up a good fight and bloodied their noses but they were too strong for me. When they made their threat, I knew that they were deadly serious.’

‘What threat was that?’

‘I still shudder when I remember it.’

‘Tell me what they said,’ urged Colbeck.

Burns needed a full minute to compose himself before he did so. Long-suppressed memories streamed through his brain and the agony showed in his face. Eventually, he licked his lips before speaking.

‘They said that, if I tried to get anywhere near Lydia again, they’d cut off my right hand. They meant it, Inspector. They’d take away my livelihood without a second thought. One of them sneered at me and said I wouldn’t be able to bowl a cricket ball again.’

‘Are you certain that Mr Quayle put them up to it?’

‘They never mentioned his name but who else could it have been?’

‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ asked Colbeck.

Burns gave a hollow laugh. ‘What use would that have been?’ he said, sourly. ‘They’ve no power over a man like Mr Quayle. It would have been my word against his. Besides, I’d already been frightened off by those two men. They said that, if I dared to go to the police, they’d cut off both my hands and that they wouldn’t stop there. From that day on, I’ve always had this with me,’ he went on, pushing back his coat so that he could take a long knife from its sheath. ‘It’s my protection.’

‘Mr Quayle can’t hurt you now.’

‘I’d like to spit on the bastard’s coffin!’

Colbeck understood the sentiment. What he wanted to know was whether or not Burns would do anything to put the man into the coffin. In view of the treatment meted out to the gardener, he felt sorry for him but he also realised that what he was hearing was a powerful motive for murder. With a knife in his hand, Burns looked more than capable of using it. Had he waited for a few years before wreaking his revenge? The bond between him and Lydia Quayle had been broken asunder and his subsequent marriage to someone else had proved that. But the urge for revenge could lie dormant for a long time before bubbling back to the surface again. Had that happened in the case of Gerard Burns? He’d freely confessed that he’d been playing cricket in Ilkeston on the day of the murder. Colbeck knew enough of Derbyshire geography to realise how easy it would have been to get to Spondon the same night. The revelation about the wheelbarrow could also be pertinent. As they were talking, a barrow was standing no more than a few yards away. It was part of a gardener’s stock-in-trade.

Burns sheathed his knife. ‘Will that be all, Inspector?’

‘Yes, Mr Burns — for the time being, anyway.’

‘There’s no need for you to come back, is there?’

‘One never knows.’

‘I did not kill Mr Quayle.’

Colbeck looked him in the eye. ‘I’d like to believe that.’

He took his leave and strolled away, taking a few moments to admire the landscaping. Melbourne Hall clearly had its own Garden of Eden. Colbeck walked on past an avenue of cedars. Tucked away behind them was a garden shed and he took the trouble to stroll across to it. Since the door was unlocked, he eased it open and glanced inside. A copy of the Derby Mercury lay among the implements on the table. It appeared that Gerard Burns did find time to read newspapers, after all.