Edward Marston - Timetable of Death

Geoffrey Sheldon blocked his way as soon as the sergeant entered.

‘There’s no auction today, sir,’ he said.

‘I know that.’

‘But I can show you a catalogue of the next auction, if you wish.’

‘No, thank you. I’m only interested in events held here in the past.’

When Leeming gave his name and explained the reason for his visit, Sheldon was both shocked and intrigued. He’d never been involved in a murder investigation before. It excited him.

‘Mr Quayle was one of our best customers,’ he said. ‘I was horrified when I read of his death in the newspaper. He was an expert on fine china and we were privileged to add to his collection.’

Sheldon introduced himself. He was the auctioneer, a tall, slim, elegant man in his forties with a flowing mane of curly brown hair and a voice like dripping honey. He took the opportunity to give his visitor a history lesson.

‘Christie’s is celebrating its centenary this year,’ he said, waving a hand in the direction of the opulent saleroom. ‘It’s just been renamed Christie, Manson and Woods, actually, but to serious collectors, it will always be known as Christie’s. In the last forty or fifty years, this city has become a centre of the international art trade and we have been its leading auction house. Sotheby’s cannot compete with us.’

After letting him praise the company for a few minutes, Leeming asked for a favour. It was refused point-blank at first but, when the possibility of a search warrant was raised, Sheldon slowly changed his mind. Reluctantly, he conducted his visitor into his plush office. Pictures of various kinds adorned every wall. One gilt-framed painting was of a picnic beside a river and Leeming was startled by the fact that the three women reclining on the grass were completely naked. His cheeks burnt with embarrassment. He couldn’t understand how Sheldon could work in a room that had such a worrying distraction in it.

‘You must understand that this is very irregular, Sergeant,’ said the auctioneer. ‘We pride ourselves on offering a confidential service. What is recorded in our ledger is sacrosanct. No unauthorised eyes are permitted to view it.’

‘But you’ve just authorised my eyes, sir.’

‘That was under compulsion.’

‘You may be helping to solve a murder case, Mr Sheldon.’

‘The only thing I feel is that I’m betraying our clients.’ He opened the thick ledger on his desk. ‘Art is our primary concern, of course. China only appears in our catalogue every six weeks or so.’

‘That should make my job a little easier,’ said Leeming.

‘How far back do you wish to go?’

‘Two years should be enough for me to confirm our suspicions.’

‘You’re not suspicious about the activities of Christie’s, I hope.’

‘No, sir — all I’m looking for is a chain of coincidences.’

At Sheldon’s invitation, he sat behind the desk and began to work his way through the list of auctions that Vivian Quayle might have attended. He spotted the man’s name at once. It was not long before he found the other name he was hoping to find. Leeming looked up. ‘What are these initials after some of the purchases?’

‘They’re code for the addresses to which certain items are to be sent. When a client buys a large painting or a collection of oriental porcelain, he or she can’t just tuck it under the arm and walk out. Every item has to be carefully packed. It can either be picked up from here later or we deliver to the address we’ve been given.’

‘What does this stand for?’ asked Leeming, pointing to some initials.

Sheldon looked over his shoulder. ‘That would be Brown’s Hotel.’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

‘It’s in Albemarle Street.’

Leeming closed the ledger and got up. ‘I know where it is, sir.’

‘Did you find what you were after, Sergeant?’

‘No, Mr Sheldon,’ said the other, grinning, ‘I found a lot more.’

Jed Hockaday had just finished putting new soles on a pair of boots and applying cobbler’s wax around their edges. He stood the boots side by side on the counter to admire his handiwork. The customer would be pleased. A sizeable tip could be expected. If he served their needs, people usually paid more than he asked. They also passed on any gossip they’d picked up and he seized on any small detail. Being a constable meant that he had to know the minutiae of village life. He’d learnt the names of every inhabitant and he, in turn, was known to them. He was Mr Hockaday, the cobbler, a man who’d served his apprenticeship in Spondon after attending school there. Everyone knew the biography he’d carefully crafted for himself. If they discovered that he was, in fact, the bastard son of a Duffield labourer, they’d regard him as a fraud and a liar. His trade would suffer badly as a result.

He had to rely on the discretion of a Scotland Yard detective and that unnerved him slightly. His worst fear was that his personal history would be exposed and that there’d be adverse publicity in the newspaper. When he saw Philip Conway come into the shop, therefore, he went numb. Conway was a friend of Sergeant Leeming. The cobbler was worried that he’d been betrayed by the detective. Then he noticed the bandaging under his visitor’s hat.

‘What happened to your head?’

‘You, of all people, should know that,’ said Conway, angrily.

‘Why?’

‘You knocked me out with your truncheon.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘First of all, you threatened me, then — when I took no notice — you waited for your moment and attacked me in the churchyard.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Don’t lie, Hockaday. You know what you did. Dr Hadlow found some splinters from your truncheon in the wound. How do you explain that?’

‘I don’t need to explain it,’ said the other, trenchantly. ‘Wait here a moment.’

Hockaday went into the back room and could be heard rummaging around. When he returned, he was carrying a bunch of keys and a truncheon. He handed the latter to Conway.

‘Show me where the splinters could have come off,’ he challenged.

The reporter inspected the truncheon. It was exactly as Colbeck had described, hard, shiny and of the stipulated length. The wood had not splintered anywhere. It was certainly not the blunt object that had smashed into Conway’s skull. Doubts began to ripple in his mind. His assumption had been too hasty. With a murmured apology, he handed the truncheon back. Hockaday bent down behind the counter to retrieve something. When he stood up again, he was holding a stout length of timber with a jagged end.

‘This is what might have hit you, Mr Conway.’

‘Where did you get that?’

‘I took it off a man I arrested last night. He was rolling drunk and waving this around in the air.’ He put the weapon down. ‘Come with me.’

He took the reporter out of the shop and along the road to the local lock-up. Finding the right key, he inserted it in the lock then opened the heavy metal door. Half-asleep and smelling of beer, Bert Knowles peered at them through one eye.

‘This place stinks,’ he complained.

‘You brought the stink with you, Bert. Why did you hit Mr Conway?’

‘Who?’

‘He was attacked in the churchyard last night.’

‘Yes,’ said Knowles, grappling with a vague memory. ‘I filled in thar grave yest’day and I finds some bugger playin’ with the earth. Nobody was goin’ to ruin another grave o’ mine so I bashed ’im good and proper.’

‘This is the gentleman you bashed,’ said Hockaday, indicating Conway. ‘You’ll be had up for assault, Bert.’

‘T’were only a tap.’

‘Oh, no it wasn’t,’ said Conway, removing his hat to reveal the bandaging. ‘You cracked my head open, Mr Knowles.’