Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

The situation had to be resolved. It would involve the breaking of a solemn promise to a friend but Burns had to put himself first. His whole career might be in jeopardy. If he was dismissed from Melbourne Hall, he would never find a position remotely as prestigious and remunerative. Lord Palmerston and his wife would be returning soon and they would expect to be shown the improvements in the garden. If Burns was not there to act as their guide, it would be frowned upon. If they learnt that he was being held in custody, and was being interrogated about a murder, they’d have second thoughts about the wisdom of employing him. With a wife to support, and with a child on the way, Burns had to secure his future. Someone might suffer as a result but it could not be helped.

The first thing he did that morning was to saddle his horse. Instead of riding to work at the Hall, however, he cantered off in the opposite direction.

Lydia Quayle had also opted for an early start. Spurning Madeleine’s offer to go with her to Nottingham, she’d had breakfast alone and taken a cab to the station. On the fretful journey back home, she determined that she would make more effort to conform to the family’s expectations. On the eve of her father’s funeral, she didn’t wish to introduce discordant elements. On the previous day, she’d been the only one who was not dressed appropriately in black. Lydia made more effort this time. The first thing she did when she eventually got there was to go up to her room and take mourning wear out of her wardrobe. Though she still had misgivings, she changed into the dress.

Lydia joined her brothers in the drawing room. Lucas was glancing at the morning newspaper while Stanley was marching up and down with his hands behind his back. Both of them took notice when she entered the room. Even her elder brother had a kind word.

‘Thank you for coming back,’ he said. ‘We appreciate that, Lydia.’ He ran his eye up and down her. ‘I’m glad to see that you’ve started to take this event with the requisite seriousness.’

‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ said Lucas, putting his newspaper aside and getting up to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I knew that you wouldn’t let us down.’

‘I always keep a promise,’ she said. ‘The only exception to that rule is the promise I made to myself never to enter this house again.’

‘Where did you spend the night?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Lucas.’

‘Was it in a hotel?’

‘I’m here again, aren’t I? Be satisfied with that.’ She glanced upwards. ‘How is Mother?’

‘She’s not at all well,’ said Stanley. ‘The doctor has promised to call later this morning. We’re hoping that he can give her something to help her through the welter of emotions she’s bound to feel tomorrow.’

‘Agnes is sitting with her at the moment,’ said Lucas.

‘I’ll go up in due course.’

‘Mother will be pleased to see you.’

She looked around the room before taking a seat on the sofa with a rustle of black silk. Her brothers also lowered themselves into chairs. Lucas was smiling and Stanley dispensed with the accusatory stare he’d used the previous day.

‘When is the inquest?’ she asked.

‘The date has not yet been set,’ replied Lucas. ‘Let’s get the funeral out of the way before we worry about any inquest. Tomorrow will be the real ordeal.’

‘Will you be sleeping elsewhere tonight?’ asked Stanley.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I take that as a hopeful sign.’

‘I want to sit with Mother and Agnes when you all go off to church.’

‘That’s as it should be, Lydia.’

There was a tap on the door then the butler entered with a silver salver.

‘Oh, I quite forgot,’ said Lucas. ‘There’s a letter for you.’

Lydia was surprised. ‘Really? From whom, I wonder?’

‘Why not read it and find out?’

She took the letter from the salver and thanked the butler with a smile. He glided out of the room. Lydia recognised the handwriting at once. It had been sent by Beatrice Myler and her immediate thought was that it contained a demand for her to remove all her things from the house. She felt a sharp pang of regret.

‘Well,’ said Stanley, ‘aren’t you going to open it?’

‘I’ll do that later on,’ she decided. ‘It’s nothing important.’

Colbeck was shocked when he saw the bandaging around Philip Conway’s head. When the reporter had failed to turn up the previous evening, Colbeck had assumed that he’d simply forgotten the arrangement he’d made with Leeming. Clearly, he’d been prevented from getting there.

‘What happened, Mr Conway?’

‘I don’t rightly know. I was attacked from behind last night. All I can remember is that I felt this fearsome blow to my head.’

‘Where were you at the time?’

‘I was in the churchyard in Spondon.’

‘That’s getting to be a very hazardous place.’

When they adjourned to the lounge, Conway described how he’d been interested to see that the earlier grave had now been filled in. His curiosity had been his downfall. He was knocked out cold and, when he finally recovered consciousness, he’d crawled to the vicarage and asked for help.

‘The vicar sent for Dr Hadlow and he dressed the wound.’

‘How do you feel now?’

‘I’ve still got this pounding headache, Inspector.’

‘Have you any idea who might have assaulted you?’

‘Yes,’ said Conway, teeth clenched. ‘I have a very good idea.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Jed Hockaday.’

‘Why are you so sure about it?’

‘We’ve had verbal tussles with each other almost every time I’ve been to Spondon. On the last occasion, I thought he was going to strike me.’

‘Did you provoke him in any way?’

‘I annoyed him once too much, Inspector.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going straight back to the village so that I can confront him. My editor has shown compassion for once. He wants to know who the culprit is. He’s not having his reporters set upon at will.’

‘Yet it was only one blow, by the sound of it.’

‘One was more than enough, I can tell you.’

‘Then it was delivered by a strong man who knew how to wield whatever it was that hit you.’

‘I think it was a truncheon,’ said Conway. ‘Dr Hadlow picked a few splinters of wood out of the wound. Like other constables, Hockaday carries a truncheon.’

‘Don’t be misled by that,’ warned Colbeck. ‘I carried a truncheon when I was in uniform. They were always made of male bamboo or lancewood. In both cases, it’s a hard, shiny wood that doesn’t splinter easily. Mine never did and I had some use out of it. The standard length in the Metropolitan Police is seventeen inches. I should imagine that they have something of similar length here.’

‘It was Hockaday,’ asserted the reporter. ‘I’m certain of it.’

‘Then you must take care what you say to him or he may turn violent. If he really was your attacker, I’ll make sure that charges are brought against him.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Conway rose to his feet. ‘Will you give my apologies to Sergeant Leeming, please? I was supposed to meet him here last night but I was far too groggy.’

‘As it happens, you couldn’t have met him here.’

‘Oh — why was that?’

‘The sergeant was sent back to London,’ said Colbeck. ‘I wanted him to wake up there in his own bed so that he’d be refreshed and ready to carry out some important research.’

Victor Leeming had only ever been to an auction once. When he and his wife bought their little house, it needed furniture so they went to a saleroom that specialised in cheap, second-hand items. He’d proved an impulsive bidder and ended up paying far more for a rickety table and four chairs than he need have done. Leeming remembered the smell of damp and the careless way that the sticks of furniture had been piled up on each other. Christie’s auction house presented a stunning contrast. Located in King Street, it was surrounded by impressive buildings and exclusive dwellings in the wealthy district of St James’s. One look at the premises was enough to give Leeming a spasm of social inferiority. He envied Colbeck’s ability to feel at ease in any company, however exalted it might be.