Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

‘How can you invite her when you don’t know where she is?’

‘I hired someone to find her, Inspector. I love my sister. I wanted her to know that there was at least one member of the family who cared about her.’ He saw the smile on Colbeck’s face. ‘Have I said something amusing?’

‘Not at all, Mr Quayle — I’m smiling at this unexpected good fortune. As we speak, someone is scouring London for her at my behest. His job would have been made far easier if you’d just given him the address.’

Mudie’s Lending Library occupied several rooms at the address in New Oxford Street. Victor Leeming was once again dazzled by the sheer number of books under one roof. They were helped this time by a tall, bespectacled woman of middle years. She took them into an office and produced a list of members in alphabetical order. It ran to several thousand. After going through it with meticulous care, she looked up with a sweet smile of apology.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but we have nobody of that name.’

Madeleine was disappointed. ‘I could have sworn we’d find her here.’

‘You can see the list yourself, if you wish.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘We might as well go,’ said Leeming. ‘She’s obviously not here.’

‘Wait a moment — I’ve had a thought.’ Madeleine turned to the woman. ‘Do you keep a record of borrowings, by any chance?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the woman. ‘We have to, Mrs Colbeck. We need to know exactly where our books are at any given time. Reading habits are fairly constant. Almost half of the books borrowed are novels but that’s hardly surprising, I suppose. History and biography account for over half of what remains.’

‘What about travel?’

‘Yes, that is very popular with some members. Over ten per cent of our borrowings relate to travel and you can subdivide that in different groups. People tend to have a particular interest in one country or in one part of the world.’

‘The person we’re after is fond of Italy.’

‘We have a large collection of books on Italy and its culture.’

‘This lady, it appears, is a fervent admirer of the country.’

‘She’s not here, Mrs Colbeck,’ said Leeming. ‘We must accept that.’

‘She may not be here as Lydia Quayle,’ said Madeleine, ‘but she might have become a member under another name. You suggested that possibility.’

‘It’s true — I did.’

‘Then let’s see if we can find her by her reading habits rather than by name.’

The librarian was already ahead of Madeleine, flicking her way through a ledger that contained borrowings over recent months. Every so often, she would stop to jab at something with a finger before moving on.

‘We do have someone who is clearly devoted to Italian culture,’ she told them. ‘As soon as a new book on the subject comes out, she is the first to borrow it. But her name is not Lydia Quayle, I’m afraid.’

‘What is it?’ asked Madeleine.

‘It’s Miss Beatrice Myler.’

Philip Conway was disappointed to learn that Leeming had gone back to London without any explanation. The reporter had been hoping to hear about the progress of the investigation. Instead, he was forced to gather what evidence he could on his own, talking to local people of all kinds and seeing if the newspaper appeal regarding the wheelbarrow had borne fruit. Distressingly, most people had not even been aware of the appeal because they didn’t read the newspaper. None of those who did actually buy the Derby Mercury could recall having seen a wheelbarrow on the night of the murder. Conway baulked at the prospect of returning to his editor with nothing new to say about the case so he made continuous sweeps of the village, asking questions of everyone he met. His rewards were scant. It was when he walked past the church that he had his most interesting encounter. Spotting a familiar figure in the churchyard, he went over to him.

Jed Hockaday was staring intently at the grave of Cicely Peet.

‘What are you doing here, Mr Hockaday?’ asked Conway, joining him.

‘Oh.’ The cobbler looked up. ‘I’m just paying my respects.’

‘Did you know Mrs Peet well?’

‘She was a customer of mine and kind enough to praise my work. When she needed something repaired, of course, a servant always brought it to me but, if ever I did bump into Mrs Peet at the annual fair or such like, she always had a good word for me.’

‘Most people do — you’re proficient at your trade.’

‘Kind of you to say so, Mr Conway,’ said the other with a lazy grin. ‘Though, between you and me, I’d rather be thought of as a constable than as a cobbler at the moment.’ He nudged the reporter. ‘What’s the latest news?’

‘Why ask me?’

‘I’ve seen you nestling up to the sergeant.’

‘I’m paid to get the facts, Mr Hockaday.’

‘Then what are they?’

‘Read the Mercury and you’ll know all that I do.’

‘Don’t be like that, Mr Conway,’ said the cobbler. ‘I got your measure. I spoke to the landlord at the Malt Shovel. Sergeant Leeming stayed there and I’m told the pair of you was chirping away together like two birds in a nest.’

‘The sergeant wanted to know about the Enoch Stone case.’

Hockaday squinted at him. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him the truth. It’ll never be solved.’

‘It will one day. We owe it to Enoch.’

‘I thought that you and he fell out over something.’

‘Oh, that was forgot as soon as it happened,’ said Hockaday, dismissively. ‘Me and Enoch were friends, really. We went to school together. I always liked him.’ His voice hardened. ‘That’s why I want to catch the villain who battered him to death.’

‘The killer is long gone.’

‘No, Mr Conway — he’s right here. I’ll dig him out eventually.’

‘You’ve had three years to do that.’

‘That means he thinks he safe — but he’s not. If I catch up with the rogue, I’ll strangle him to death with my bare hands.’ His anger subsided and he grinned again. ‘That’s a silly thing for a constable to say, isn’t it? I’ve been sworn in to follow the due processes of law. I’ll have to hand him over to the court.’

‘Did you ever mend Enoch Stone’s boots?’

‘That’s a strange question to ask!’

‘What’s the answer, Mr Hockaday?’

The cobbler shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. Enoch mended his own boots.’

‘I thought you were friends.’

‘We were — but we didn’t live in each other’s pockets.’ He slapped the reporter on the arm. ‘Good to see you, Mr Conway. Be sure to let me know what’s afoot if the sergeant turns up again.’

‘You can ask him yourself.’

‘He’s taken to you. You’re the only one he’ll give the real titbits.’

After a final glance at the grave, Hockaday ambled off, leaving the younger man to wonder why the cobbler had been there in the first place. The chances of his having ever spoken more than a few words to Cicely Peet were remote. If he was likely to visit any grave to pay his respects, it would have been that of Enoch Stone, his alleged friend. Conway was baffled. As he was turning away, he saw the vicar trotting towards him. There was an exchange of greetings.

‘What did Jed Hockaday have to say to you?’ asked Sadler.

‘It was rather odd, Vicar. Is he a religious man?’

‘He doesn’t come to church very often, if that’s what you mean. You can always tell when he does. Walk past him and you catch a strong whiff of leather.’

‘He was standing beside Mrs Peet’s grave.’

‘That’s the second time today, Mr Conway.’