Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

‘Are you ashamed of your old father?’

‘No,’ she replied, squeezing his arm, ‘I’m proud of what you did as an engine driver. But when you’re an artist, you have to do what you do best and keep away from things you’re not good at. I’m not a figurative artist.’

‘You’re the best artist I’ve ever seen, Maddy.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen some of the figures I’ve tried to paint. I’m much safer with locomotives and rolling stock. Somehow I just can’t make people look real on canvas.’

‘You could make me look real.’

‘I’ve tried to put you in a painting many times, Father, but it never works.’

‘Is that my fault or yours?’

‘It’s mine,’ she confessed. ‘That’s why I stick to what I can do.’

‘But you can do anything if you really try,’ he argued. ‘You’re like me, Maddy. I worked on the railway but I also found that I had a gift for solving crimes so I developed that gift.’

Madeleine had to suppress a smile. She heard the doorbell ring and, since she was not expecting a visitor, wondered whom it could be. Moments later, a servant came into the room to say that a lady had asked to see her but would not give her name. Madeleine excused herself and went into the hall. When she saw who her visitor was, she was grateful that her name had not been divulged in her father’s hearing.

Lydia Quayle was standing there.

Victor Leeming was delighted to see him again. Apart from the landlord at the Malt Shovel, the reporter was the only person he’d befriended in Spondon. The vicar had been helpful to him but it was Philip Conway with whom the sergeant had formed any sort of bond. Since he was staying at the hotel at the Midland Railway’s expense, Leeming had no compunction about putting the cost of two more drinks on the bill. He and Conway found seats in the lounge. After giving the sergeant an attenuated account of his day, the reporter told him about the friction he’d experienced with Jed Hockaday.

‘Yes,’ said Leeming, ‘it was the cobbler who caused me a headache as well.’

‘I thought he was going to assault me.’

‘Did he actually hit you?’

‘No, but he certainly wanted to. Hockaday was angry because I told you things about him. He warned me to keep my mouth shut. But what happened to you?’ asked Conway. ‘When we saw him walk past the Malt Shovel, you went after him.’

‘I tried to, anyway.’

Leeming repeated the story he’d told Colbeck but it had a deliberate omission. There was no reference to the fact that Seth Verney claimed to be the cobbler’s father. While he was a friend, Conway was not a detective who could be trusted with every item of interest that was unearthed. In the light of Hockaday’s threat to the reporter, Leeming didn’t want him to confront the cobbler about his parentage. It was a treat that the sergeant was reserving for himself.

‘If he didn’t go to Duffield,’ said Conway, ‘where did he go?’

‘It must have been somewhere farther up the line. On the other hand,’ said Leeming, ‘he might simply have got off at the next station and caught the first train back to Spondon. I still think he must’ve spotted me. Hockaday is cunning.’

‘He’s cunning and dangerous, Sergeant.’

‘I just wish I knew where he went earlier on. Anyway, I came back here and was amazed to find Stanley Quayle keen to help us.’

‘And so he should. His father was the murder victim, after all.’

‘He was dressed from head to foot in black but he didn’t really seem to be in mourning. Most people who are bereaved are quiet and withdrawn. He talked down to me as if I was one of his miners.’

‘I’ve heard that he likes to crack the whip.’

‘This is only my opinion, mind you,’ said Leeming, thoughtfully, ‘but he was less interested in his father’s actual death than he was in the fact that it’s made him head of the family. Stanley Quayle loves power.’

‘Like father, like son.’

‘He thinks the killer is a choice between Mr Haygarth and Gerard Burns. At least, that was until I put another name into his head.’

‘And who was that?’

‘Superintendent Wigg.’

‘Oh, yes,’ recalled Conway, ‘the inspector asked me about him. I explained why he was no friend of Vivian Quayle. You must know the story.’

‘I do. What else can you tell me about the superintendent?’

‘He keeps the streets of Derby fairly safe. I have to admit that.’

‘What about his private life?’

Conway became defensive. ‘I don’t know much about that,’ he said. ‘He’s a married man but I’ve no idea what his interests are or, indeed, if he has any. Running the police force is a full-time job. He doesn’t have time for anything else.’

‘I can sympathise with him there,’ said Leeming, soulfully. ‘You’re never really off duty in the police.’

There was a long pause. He couldn’t understand why the reporter was being so reticent. On any other subject, Conway was a mine of information. Reading the question in Leeming’s eyes, the other man explained.

‘The superintendent is very close to my editor,’ he said. ‘They dine together sometimes. It means that the Mercury gets the first whiff of any crime but it also means that none of us is allowed to look too closely at Elijah Wigg. In a town like this, he’s untouchable.’

‘If he’s involved in the murder,’ said Leeming, ‘we’ll certainly touch him.’

‘But you’ll have a job finding any evidence.’

‘We like a challenge.’

‘Wigg is a freak,’ said Conway. ‘He loves to be seen abroad in Derby but he remains invisible somehow. Nobody has really got the measure of him, not even my editor. Isn’t that strange?’

‘There must be something you can tell me.’

Conway needed a meditative sip of his drink before he recalled something.

‘Superintendent Wigg has a brother in Belper.’

‘So?’

‘He’s a pharmacist.’

Madeleine Colbeck hated having to lie to her father but there was no alternative. Having ushered her visitor to another room, she returned to Andrews and told him that the caller had come to the wrong address. She then made a supreme effort to look relaxed and to signal that he could stay as long as he wished. In the event, her father soon began to yawn and decided that it was time to wend his way home. Madeleine saw him off at the door with a kiss then went straight to Colbeck’s study. Standing in front of the fireplace, Lydia Quayle was admiring the painting of Puffing Billy .

‘This has your name on it,’ she said in wonderment.

‘I always sign my work.’

‘So you really did paint this?’

‘Yes,’ said Madeleine. ‘My husband was kind enough to take me all the way up to Wylam Colliery in Northumberland so that I could make sketches of it.’ She indicated the painting. ‘This is the result.’

‘It’s magnificent,’ said Lydia. ‘I had no idea you were so talented. But why paint a funny old steam engine. It’s so …’

‘It’s so unwomanly?’ suggested Madeleine.

‘Well, yes, I suppose that’s what I mean.’

‘Let me take you somewhere more comfortable and I’ll explain why I’d rather paint a locomotive than anything else in the world.’

Madeleine conducted her into the drawing room and told her how her passion for the railways made her want to paint and how Colbeck had encouraged her to develop her talent. Lydia was duly impressed. Madeleine’s long recitation had the advantage of taking some of the stress out of her visitor.

It was Lydia’s turn to speak now and she did so haltingly.

‘You told me that I could come here, if I felt the need to,’ she began.