Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

‘Mr Quayle is dead,’ said Haygarth. ‘His scheme died with him.’

Cope accepted the rebuke with a penitential nod. ‘Yes, sir, it did.’

‘Let’s hear no more of it.’

‘No, sir.’ He brightened. ‘I did what you asked, Mr Haygarth.’

‘What did you find out?’

‘Inspector Colbeck has talked to a number of people on the board,’ said Cope, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Their names are listed there. The ones with a cross against them went voluntarily to see him.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Haygarth, scanning the list. ‘Knowing one’s enemies is always an asset. What else has he been doing?’

‘The inspector has continued to gather evidence patiently.’

‘Has he been bothering you in any way?’

‘No, sir, he hasn’t been looking too closely at the operation of the Midland.’

‘That’s reassuring to hear.’

‘He’s diverted by other things.’

‘Let’s hope it stays that way. Keep an eye on him, Cope.’

‘I have my spies.’

‘Did they tell you what Sergeant Leeming was doing in London?’

‘No, Mr Haygarth,’ replied the other, ‘but I’m told he’s just come back. The inspector met him at the station.’

‘What else do you have to report?’

‘Superintendent Wigg had an argument with him at the hotel yesterday. I can’t tell you what it was about but the inspector clearly won the dispute. He remained calm while the superintendent ranted and raved.’

‘I’ve seen Elijah Wigg when he’s roused. His wrath gets the better of him.’

‘After he left,’ explained Cope, ‘the inspector had a drink with someone else. He’s a young man named Philip Conway.’

‘That name rings a bell. He’s a reporter, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, sir, he’s been digging around in Spondon on his own account.’

‘Has he now?’ said Haygarth, rubbing his chin. ‘I’d be very interested to know what the young man found out.’

When the detectives reached Spondon, the first thing they did was to visit the churchyard. A mound of earth stood over the grave of Cicely Peet. In time it would settle down of its own accord into a level patch covered in well-tended turf. A marble headstone, engraved with a moving tribute, would eventually stand there. Wreaths of all sizes and colours adorned the plot. The detectives each said a silent prayer for the soul of the deceased. They then went across to the open grave.

‘I wonder why they haven’t filled it in,’ said Leeming.

‘The gravedigger must have a reason.’

‘Bert Knowles would leave it like that just to be awkward, sir. You should have heard his language when he saw me with his wheelbarrow. I had to put him in his place good and proper.’

‘Perhaps he’s expecting another funeral in the near future.’

‘That might be the explanation. He’s a lazy devil. Why dig a new grave when there’s already one there? That’s what he’ll say.’

‘He has a point, Victor.’ Colbeck glanced round. ‘Philip Conway said that he might be in the village today. You’ve obviously impressed him.’

‘That was because I bought him a drink or two.’

‘Don’t be modest. He said you were a good detective — and you are. He also told me something about Mr Haygarth. It turns out that he has a nasty habit of descending on the editor if there’s the slightest criticism of the Midland Railway in the local newspaper.’

‘I had a feeling that he was a bully.’

‘Picking a fight with the press is never a sensible thing to do. But he’s a combative individual. When I last spoke to him, I was met with a flash of defiance.’

‘Why should he defy you ?’

‘You may well ask, Victor.’

Leeming shrugged. ‘I thought he was keen to help us.’

‘When we take an interest in other people, he’ll give us all the help that he can. What he doesn’t like is any scrutiny of him .’

‘Is there something he doesn’t want us to know?’

‘That’s the logical supposition.’

‘Superintendent Wigg is convinced that he was behind the murder.’

‘If what you gathered from Lydia Quayle is true,’ said Colbeck, pensively, ‘the superintendent himself ought to merit our attention. He had good cause to loathe her father, it seems, and we’ve both seen enough of him to know that he’s a man who bears grudges.’

Leeming rolled his eyes. ‘ We have a superintendent like that.’

‘Fair’s fair, Victor. Edward Tallis is good at his job. I discovered that when he was absent from work for a while and I became acting superintendent in his place. I struggled badly,’ confessed Colbeck, ‘and was very grateful when he came back. He’s far better in the role than I could be. Wigg is nowhere near as efficient as him.’

‘I couldn’t take my eyes off those side whiskers of his. I keep thinking they’re going to grow into each other one day and spread down his chest like so much ivy.’ He chuckled. ‘But I agree, sir. He can’t hold a candle to Mr Tallis.’

‘What separates the two men is this. Our superintendent usually gets results while Wigg walks about with an unsolved murder hanging around his neck like the albatross in The Ancient Mariner .’

Leeming goggled. ‘Can you say that again, sir?’

‘It’s a poem by Coleridge.’

They left the churchyard and made their way to Potter Street. As they passed the Malt Shovel, Leeming glanced in through the window and gave the landlord a friendly wave. They carried on until they came to Jed Hockaday’s shop. Bent over a last, he was hammering nails into the sole of a shoe. When he looked up and saw who they were, he abandoned his work at once. Hockaday wiped his hands on a rag before extending a palm to Colbeck.

‘You must be the Railway Detective,’ he said, almost agog.

Colbeck shook his hand. ‘There’s no need to guess who you might be,’ he said. ‘As soon as we got within yards of here, we could smell the tang of leather. You’re Mr Hockaday, the cobbler.’

‘I’m cobbler and constable, actually. When I finish here at the end of the working day, I go on patrol.’

‘That’s very public-spirited of you, Mr Hockaday.’

Leeming was uneasy. ‘How can you work with this smell of leather?’

‘You get used to it, Sergeant,’ said the cobbler, smiling. ‘Is there anything I can do for you? I’m only too glad to help.’

‘That’s a kind offer,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’ll bear it in mind. I really wanted to ask you why you were staring at the graves in the churchyard yesterday.’

Hockaday’s smile faded. ‘Who’s been telling tales?’

‘You spoke with Mr Conway, I believe.’

‘I may have done.’

‘You told him that Mrs Peet was a customer of yours.’

‘That’s right.’

‘A lady like her would never have deigned to come in the shop, surely,’ said Leeming. ‘Mrs Peet would have sent a servant.’

‘She was a gracious lady. I’ll miss her. As for what Mr Conway may have told you,’ said Hockaday with annoyance, ‘there’s no law that stops you from paying respects to the dead.’

‘You’re right — there isn’t.’

‘But it wasn’t only Mrs Peet who interested you,’ said Colbeck, ‘was it? I believe that you also looked into the grave where the body of Mr Quayle, the murder victim, was found. Then you discussed the Stone case at length.’

‘That makes three deaths,’ commented Leeming.

‘One was natural and the other two were not.’

Hockaday backed away and hunched up defensively. His eyes darted from one to the other and back again. He chewed his lip before speaking.

‘It was Mr Conway who brought up Enoch Stone. He knew I’d been looking for my friend’s killer for years. As for the empty grave,’ he added, ‘I was just wondering if anybody would want to use it after what happened. If it was left to me, I’d fill it in. Bad memories like that should be buried.’