Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

‘I was pleased to see you, Miss Quayle. I’m just sorry that you called when my father happened to be here. I hope you didn’t mind being locked in my husband’s study for so long.’

‘No, I loved it. There were even more books than we have. It’s a wonderful place to sit and read.’

‘Unfortunately, he has very little time to do that.’

‘Beatrice and I read all the time.’

Her face clouded as she realised that she should have spoken in the past tense. The long hours of reading were behind her and the library she’d shared so pleasurably was now out of her reach. Lydia manufactured a smile of apology.

‘I’m so sorry for troubling you like this, Mrs Colbeck.’

‘You’re most welcome, I do assure you.’

‘I wish I could say that I’ve remembered something that might be of help to your husband, but it’s not so. I came here for another reason.’

‘Whatever it was,’ said Madeleine, ‘you are still welcome.’

She could see the change in Lydia Quayle. When they’d met before, it had been in a house where Lydia had seemed to belong and to enjoy a cosy, cultured, leisurely way of life with a close friend. That sense of a settled existence had now faded. Lydia had somehow been cut adrift. It was not Madeleine’s place to ask why. She simply wished to offer what help she could to her visitor.

‘You’ve awakened something in me, Mrs Colbeck,’ said Lydia. ‘It’s a feeling of guilt, I suppose. You reminded me that I had a family.’

‘Did you need reminding? News of your father’s murder was in all the newspapers. You were well aware of it when we called on you.’

‘I was aware of it but determined not to respond to it. You’ll probably find that rather heartless of me.’

‘I make no judgement, Miss Quayle. I fully understand why there was a rift between you and your father. My situation is different,’ said Madeleine. ‘If I learnt that my father had cut himself shaving, I’d rush off to be with him.’

‘What if he’d stopped you marrying the man you loved?’ asked Lydia. ‘My guess is that you’d never forgive him.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘It’s my mother who worries me, you see. You stirred up my guilt about her. This will probably kill Mother. Before that happens, I’d like to make my peace with her.’ There was a pleading note. ‘Do you think I should?’

‘I can’t make that decision for you, Miss Quayle.’

‘What would you do?’

‘If it was at all possible,’ said Madeleine, ‘I’d try to heal any wounds.’

‘That’s what I needed you to say.’

‘Why come to me? Miss Myler would have given the same advice, surely.’ Lydia’s head drooped. ‘Oh, I see. We obviously caused problems, coming to your house as we did.’

‘It’s not my house, Mrs Colbeck.’

‘But you were so at home there.’

‘Yes,’ said Lydia with a pale smile. ‘I was, wasn’t I?’ She looked around the room. ‘Do you have children, Mrs Colbeck?’

‘No, we don’t — not as yet.’

‘This would be a nice house in which to raise a family and that’s what will probably happen one day. I made the decision not to have children and, in many ways, it was a momentous one.’

‘I agree.’

‘If they couldn’t be fathered by Gerard … by the man I told you about, then I had no interest in motherhood. That may sound odd to you. Being a spinster must seem a dull, arid, unfilled sort of life but it’s not. There are rewards that I never dreamt of and I’ve never regretted my decision to remain single.’

‘Each of us finds happiness in a different way, Miss Quayle.’

‘ You still have it — I don’t.’ Lydia reached out to grasp her by the wrist. ‘I can’t face going back there alone, Mrs Colbeck,’ she admitted. ‘I need to ask a big favour of you. Will you come with me?’

Concern over Harriet Quayle’s health had steadily increased. The doctor was honest. He was unable to guarantee that she would survive for long. Agnes sat beside the bed and, during her mother’s more alert moments, read to her from a poetry anthology. Her brothers paid regular visits to the bedroom, as did their respective wives, but the constant coming and going put even more strain on the patient. The whole family came to accept that one funeral might soon be followed by another.

To give his sister some respite, Lucas Quayle offered to take over the vigil on his own. His mother seemed to be asleep so all that he had to do was to sit there and leaf through the poems, pausing at one that he’d been taught to memorise as a child.

‘Is that you, Lucas?’ murmured Harriet, eyelids fluttering weakly.

‘Yes, Mother,’ he said, closing the book.

‘Where is everybody?’

‘Do you want me to call them?’

‘No, no, it’s peaceful in here. Too many people fluster me.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m still here,’ she said with a quiet defiance. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We’re carrying on as best we can.’

‘I’m not talking about you. What’s happening with … the investigation?’

‘Inspector Colbeck is still making enquiries, Mother.’

‘Has he asked to see me?’

‘No, no,’ said her son, ‘he understands that you are … not in the best of health. I’ve spoken at length to him and Stanley went to Derby to see him. The inspector was not there so Stanley talked to Sergeant Leeming instead.’

‘What have these detectives found out?’

‘All that they’ve managed to do so far is to identify some suspects. But I have faith in the inspector. He’s a very experienced man.’

‘Does he think he’ll ever find out the truth?’

‘Yes, he does, Mother. But you shouldn’t be worrying about that. Remember the doctor’s advice. Try to get as much sleep as possible and keep your mind off any unpleasantness. That’s difficult in a house of mourning, I grant you, but it’s best if you don’t concern yourself with the murder inquiry.’ He saw his mother gasp as if she’d felt a stab of pain. ‘Are you all right?’

‘It was that word, Lucas — murder. It’s so sudden and final. If someone is ailing, you have time to prepare for the worst. The blow is not so painful. When someone is killed abruptly, however … well, you know what I’m trying to say.’

‘I do, Mother.’

She put a hand into his palm. ‘Will you do something for me, please?’

‘You only have to ask.’

‘I know that you’ve been in touch with Lydia. Write to her again,’ said Harriet softly. ‘I’d like to see her before I die.’

It was a balmy evening as they walked along St Peter’s Street in Derby and glanced in the windows of the shops. They passed an ironmonger, a glove-maker, a family draper, a baker, a grocer and many other tradesmen. Victor Leeming was reminded of a street near his own house in London.

‘The only difference is that it’s much noisier there,’ he said, ‘and there’s far more traffic. Then, of course, there’s the stink.’

‘Every major city has its individual flavour,’ said Colbeck, drily. ‘London’s happens to be the worst.’

‘I’d still rather be there than here, sir.’

‘Our return is easily achieved, Victor. We simply have to solve a murder.’

‘This one may take ages. I don’t know where to look next.’

‘Well, my suggestion is that you might start in Belper. Your chat with Philip Conway may have given us a useful clue. If Superintendent Wigg’s brother is a pharmacist there, he might be the source of some of the poison that killed Mr Quayle.’

‘But he’d never admit it, surely,’ said Leeming.

‘Why not?’

‘He’d want to protect his brother.’