‘My father enjoys their company.’
‘They can be difficult to control sometimes.’
‘He manages somehow.’
‘When they’re not at school, finding something to do with them is always a problem. Separately, David and Albert would be no trouble but, as soon as they get together, the sparks begin to fly.’ More yells were heard from the garden. ‘I hope they don’t tire your father out.’
‘Don’t worry about him, Estelle. He’s much tougher than he looks.’
‘The boys can wear you down, Maddy.’
Estelle Leeming was a pretty woman in her thirties with a slim body and auburn hair that she’d passed on to both of her sons. Living in a small house, she was always rather intimidated by the Colbeck residence. After all the years as the wife of a policeman, she still worried about her husband whenever he went to work.
‘It was worse in the old days,’ she confided, ‘when Victor was still in uniform. I knew that he’d always come home with bruises or scratches on his face yet it always took me by surprise somehow. When he turned up with a terrible black eye one night, I had a job recognising him. He got it when he arrested a burglar he caught climbing out of a house.’
‘Robert always says that he’s bound to be injured from time to time. He never complains about pain. If he gets his coat torn in a fight, however, or if someone damages his hat, then he’s livid.’ They both laughed. ‘He cares far more about his appearance than he does about his safety.’
‘That’s certainly not true of Victor.’
‘What did he tell you, Estelle?’
‘All he sent me from Scotland Yard was a short letter saying that he was off to Derby for some reason. He gave no details.’
‘Then I can at least provide you with some information because Robert’s letter was more explicit. A director of the Midland Railway has been murdered. They were summoned by telegraph.’
‘I suppose that we ought to feel proud that they’re always in demand,’ said Estelle with a sigh, ‘but I do miss Victor. Apart from anything else, the boys are much more of a handful when he’s away. Still, you’ll find out the problems of being a mother when you have children of your own.’
‘I already have a child.’
Estelle sat up. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes,’ said Madeleine, pointing to the window. ‘He’s out there in the garden with the boys. Since he retired, my father’s entered his second childhood.’
‘I daresay that he’d like grandchildren of his own.’
‘That’s in the lap of the gods, Estelle.’
‘It’s certainly not something you can control,’ admitted the other. ‘We had to wait. When it happened, we were so grateful to have two healthy boys. It completed the family somehow.’
‘I’m sure that it did,’ said Madeleine, keen to get off the subject. ‘It’s time for tea, I think.’ She rang the bell for a servant. ‘They’ll have worked up an appetite by charging around the lawn.’
Victor Leeming was quietly elated. When he mistook Philip Conway for a potential suspect, he made a new friend and learnt a great deal about Spondon. The reporter had not only talked to several people in the village, he recalled details of recent crimes there, recorded in editions of his newspaper. Leeming was surprised to hear how much of it there had been. Apart from thefts from various premises, there had been a spate of vandalism, a drunken brawl that led to three arrests and a case of sexual assault. Beneath the even tenor of the village, there was clearly a worrying undercurrent. As he talked to the young reporter, Leeming came to understand the full meaning of serendipity. Chancing upon Conway had been a stroke of good fortune.
‘What about the murder of Enoch Stone?’ he asked.
‘That will never be solved.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Too much time has gone by and any clues have long since disappeared. I don’t think the killer was a local man. Stone was well liked here. My guess is that he was set on by a traveller of some sorts who battered him to the ground, stole his money then fled. They’ll never find him, Sergeant.’
‘Yet they’re still looking.’
‘They might as well chase moonbeams.’
‘I’ve arrested quite a few moonbeams in my time,’ said Leeming with a chuckle. ‘Just when you’re ready to abandon a particular case, something always turns up out of the blue to help you solve it.’
‘I’m glad you mentioned turning up,’ said Conway, glancing at the clock on the wall, ‘because that’s what my editor is expecting me to do. We’ve been here almost two hours. I’ll have to go, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s a pity.’
Conway got up. ‘I’ll probably be in Spondon again tomorrow.’
Leeming shook his hand warmly. ‘You know where to find me.’
‘Goodbye, Sergeant.’
When the reporter went out, Leeming followed to wave him off. He then turned in the opposite direction and went in search of Walter Grindle. The moment he got within earshot of the forge, he could hear a hammer striking the anvil with rhythmical power. He arrived in time to see the blacksmith fitting a shoe to a shire horse. Bert Knowles was holding the animal’s bridle and smoking his pipe. Unable to understand more than a few words of what they were saying to each other, Leeming had to wait until the work was finished. As soon as he introduced himself, both men took an interest. Grindle demanded that the crime be solved quickly so that his children would stop fearing that a killer was stalking the streets of the village. He explained how distressed they both still were. For his part, Knowles had seen someone putting up a reward notice and, since he was barely literate, had got the man to read it out to him.
‘Two ’undred!’ he said, moving the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘I could sup a lot o’ beer wi’ a windfall like thar.’
‘Do you have any information that could lead to the killer?’ asked Leeming.
‘I might ’ve.’
‘What is it?’
‘Look arter Samson, will ter?’ said Knowles to the blacksmith, handing over the horse. ‘The sergeant’s gonna buy me a pint.’
Leeming was dubious. ‘Have you really got something useful to tell me?’
‘Yes,’ replied Knowles, indignantly. ‘I dug the bleedin’ grave where thar dead body turned up.’
As soon as he saw the window display at Brough and Hubbleday, Tailors Ltd, Colbeck’s heart lifted. Everything on show was of the highest quality. He entered the premises to be greeted by Simon Hubbleday, a round-shouldered little man in his sixties who had worked there since the day the shop had opened. Peering over the top of his spectacles, he took one look at Colbeck and clapped his hands in appreciation.
‘Nothing we could make for you would be an improvement on what you already wear, sir,’ he said, honestly. ‘The cut and cost of your attire tells me that you hail from London and keep a tailor in Bond Street or somewhere nearby.’
‘You have good eyesight.’
‘I only wish that Mr Brough was still alive to admire that cravat and that waistcoat. But my erstwhile partner — I am Simon Hubbleday, by the way — died a few years ago and left me alone with the task of making the gentry of Nottingham look both smart and respectable.’
‘Your window display does you credit, Mr Hubbleday.’
‘Praise from a man with your meticulous attention to detail is praise indeed.’ He beamed at Colbeck. ‘How can we be of service to you, sir?’
‘I’d like to say that you could make something for me Mr Hubbleday, but the truth is I come only in search of information. One of your customers, I believe, was Mr Vivian Quayle.’ The old man’s face clouded. ‘I see that you’ve heard the sad news about him.’
‘Mr Quayle has been a customer for many years and so, I may add, have both of his sons. What happened to him is quite appalling. A nicer gentleman does not exist in the whole of Nottingham. It was a privilege to serve him.’
Colbeck introduced himself and asked if they might have a word in private. After summoning an assistant from the inner reaches of the shop, Hubbleday took his visitor off to an office that was barely big enough to accommodate both of them.