Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

‘He went there deliberately because he was drawn to do so.’

‘Was he set on in Spondon?’

‘It’s beginning to look that way.’

‘So who was the killer, Robert?’

He leant forward to kiss her gently on the lips.

‘That’s the one thing the turntable was unable to tell me.’

As soon as she’d entered the house, Lydia Quayle had felt its suffocating effect. Any pleasant memories it might have held had been smothered beneath a pillow of pain and recrimination. Though he was no longer there, the place was still dominated by her father. She could hear his voice ringing in her ears. The reconciliation with her mother had brought Lydia a satisfaction fringed with despair at the old woman’s poor state of health. Except for Lucas, her relations with her siblings were uneasy. Agnes came close to resenting her return and Stanley had signalled his profound disapproval of what he saw as her air of independence. There was another blow to absorb. Vague hopes of hearing that Gerard Burns had been pining for her had been shattered by what the coachman had told her. The gardener was married and forever beyond her reach. Lydia was therefore in a house stalked by the ghost of her father and surrounded by an estate redolent of happier times with the man she’d loved and lost.

‘I’m sorry,’ she announced, ‘but I can’t spend the night here.’

‘But your old room has been prepared,’ said Agnes, crossly. ‘When you turned up unannounced, I gave order for it.’

‘You must stay, Lydia,’ said Lucas.

‘Yes,’ added Stanley, peremptorily. ‘The funeral is the day after tomorrow. We need you on the premises.’

‘I’ll be here for the funeral,’ promised Lydia, ‘but I won’t spend a night under this roof.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous — you must .’

‘No, Stanley. I will not.’

Lydia’s robust response led to an uncomfortable silence. The four of them were seated in the drawing room. Stanley had been reminding them about the arrangements for the funeral and assuming that Lydia would fall into line with the rest of them. Her minor act of rebellion angered him.

‘All that we’re asking is that you behave in a civilised manner.’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do,’ she said.

‘Life in London has obviously coarsened your manners.’

‘That’s unfair,’ insisted Lucas. ‘Lydia didn’t deserve such a comment.’

‘I agree with it,’ said Agnes.

‘Then you should have more sense.’

‘There’s no point in Lydia’s coming back unless she becomes one of the family again and she can’t do that if she refuses to spend a night here.’

‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ said Lydia.

‘What use is that?’

‘You should be here, mourning with us,’ said Stanley.

‘All that we’re doing at the moment is arguing,’ said Lucas. ‘Lydia has her reasons for not wishing to remain here tonight and we should respect them.’

‘Thank you, Lucas,’ said Lydia.

‘Your return has made a world of difference to Mother.’

‘I haven’t noticed it,’ said Agnes, waspishly. ‘If anything, Mother is even worse since Lydia came back. I’ve had to give her some of her tablets.’

‘Well, I think that Lydia rallied her.’

‘That’s what you want to think, Lucas, because you were the one who got in touch with her again. Stanley and I would never have done such a thing.’

‘It’s true,’ confirmed Stanley.

‘Thank you for the warmth of your welcome,’ said Lydia with light sarcasm.

‘You see what I mean about her coarseness?’

‘Oh, don’t be so pompous, Stanley. You’re too young for pomposity.’

‘I disagree,’ said Lucas with a grin. ‘He’s been pompous since the age of five.’

‘And you’ve been frivolous since the day you were born,’ his brother retaliated with a sneer. He turned to Lydia. ‘Where will you stay?’

She did not wish to admit that she was going to the Royal Hotel in Derby to see her friend, Madeleine Colbeck, because they would wonder what the inspector’s wife was doing there and how she’d befriended their sister. That might cause problems for Colbeck and his wife, so Lydia feigned uncertainty.

‘I’ll find somewhere,’ she said.

‘You could always go to Aunt Dorothea,’ Stanley pointed out.

‘I could but I certainly won’t.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It’s because it would defeat the object of my leaving here. Aunt Dorothea is family. She lives less than five miles away. I’d still be trapped overnight in a part of the county with unfortunate associations for me,’ said Lydia. ‘I’d rather get well away from here.’

‘We should accept that,’ suggested Lucas.

‘I don’t accept it,’ said Stanley. ‘It smacks of desertion.’

‘Lydia always had to be different to the rest of us,’ said Agnes. ‘Let her go.’

‘I’d prefer her to stay.’

‘You’ve no call to stop me from leaving,’ said Lydia, looking from one to the other. ‘I’ve already sent word to the coachman to harness the phaeton. Cleary will take me to the railway station and I’ll make my decision there.’

During his many appearances in court, Victor Leeming had watched the reaction of criminals as they were sentenced. Some were impassive and others attempted boldness but the majority were plainly terrified. When he was told to accompany Tallis back to London, he’d belonged to the third category, responding to his dire sentence with a quivering fear. The superintendent was in a vengeful mood. Suffering pain and deprived of the pleasure of leading a murder investigation, he’d be a scary companion on the train journey. Leeming prayed that they’d occupy a compartment with other passengers so that Tallis’s fire would be banked down somewhat. In fact, the superintendent chose an empty compartment in which he could, if he so wished, rant and rave at will.

Yet the anticipated tirade never came. Tallis was calm and reasonable.

‘I have this feeling about Burns,’ he said.

‘Do you, sir?’

‘It’s a feeling I’ve had before when I’ve been questioning a suspect. All of a sudden, I know that he or she has committed the crime. That’s what happened at Melbourne Hall. A sense of certainty welled up inside me.’

‘What should we do about him?’

‘Gather more evidence then perform the arrest.’

Tallis was no longer troubled so much by his injury. At Leeming’s suggestion, he was reclining lengthways on the seat so that his feet were off the floor. While the pain was dulled, his mind was stimulated.

‘Who did he see on the night of the murder?’ he asked.

‘He wouldn’t tell the inspector that.’

‘He refused to give me a name as well and I can guess why. He didn’t wish to disclose the identity of his accomplice.’

‘Would it have needed two of them?’ said Leeming. ‘Burns is powerful enough on his own, surely.’

‘He’s hiding someone, Sergeant. I want to know who he is.’

‘How do you know it’s a man?’

‘It would hardly be a woman, would it?’

‘If he wanted someone to assist in a murder, he’d probably choose a man. But perhaps he went to Derby that night for a different reason altogether. Suppose that he paid a visit to a woman?’

‘Adultery!’ exclaimed Tallis, making it sound a crime more heinous than any in the statute book. ‘No, I got no sense of that. He’s concealing an accessory.’

‘You could be mistaken, sir.’

‘The feeling I get rarely lets me down.’

Leeming was less dogmatic. He’d had a similar conviction about suspects on many occasions and it had often been misplaced. As a result, he’d learnt to be more cautious before he actually arrested anyone.