‘Yes, sir — who are you?’
‘My name is Barnaby Truss,’ said the other, breathlessly, ‘and I just had a word with Bert Knowles when he went past my shop. He’s an old friend and always stops if he sees me. I’m a glove-maker, sir, like many people in this village.’
‘What kind of gloves?’
‘Silk ones — the best you can buy.’
Leeming saw a chance to educate himself about local industry.
‘Someone mentioned a stocking frame. What exactly is that?’
‘Oh,’ said Truss, ‘you won’t find many of them in Spondon because this is a place for gloves. Happen you’ve heard the sound of our frames as you’ve walked along the street. They’re worked by hands and feet and make a lot of noise.’
Leeming was gratified to talk to someone who didn’t lapse into the dialect that he found incomprehensible. In every sense, Truss was a cut above Bert Knowles. The glove-maker read his mind.
‘Oh, I can talk the language as well as any of them, if I’ve a mind to,’ he explained, ‘but I’ve got ambitions, Sergeant. I want to go into local politics in Derby one day. That means a lot of public speaking so I’ve took lessons. You can probably tell.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Leeming without conviction.
The only thing he could tell was that Truss’s ambitions were doomed. Of the man’s sincerity he had no doubt, but Truss was altogether too tentative and subdued for the cut-and-thrust of political debate. Besides, the staring eyes would frighten away any potential voters. However, the man’s commitment had to be applauded so the sergeant passed a few encouraging comments.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Truss?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got something to report.’
‘I can see that Mr Knowles has told you about the reward.’
‘Oh, I’m not looking for any money,’ said Truss as if hurt by the suggestion. ‘I’d just feel guilty if I didn’t report something I saw. Of course, it may be nothing to do with the murder but, then again, it just might.’
‘Go on, sir.’
‘Well, Sergeant, what I witnessed was this …’
As he launched into his story, Truss began to wave his hands about in the air as if showing off a pair of his silk gloves. The gestures were so inappropriate as to be another deadly strike against his hopes of ever making his mark in local government and Leeming felt that whoever had been giving the man instruction in public speaking had no right to take a fee for his service. The glove-maker’s evidence was markedly more interesting than the cock-and-bull story invented by Knowles. On the night when the murder occurred, Truss had been returning home when he saw something that he first dismissed from his mind as being unimportant. In view of what had happened, he wondered if he’d instead accidentally bumped into the killer.
‘What time was this?’ asked Leeming.
‘Oh, it was well after midnight, Sergeant.’
‘That was rather late to be out, wasn’t it?’
The hands fluttered wildly like a pair of doves suddenly released from a cage.
‘I was … on my way home f-from a f-friend,’ said the other, introducing a stutter that had never been there before. ‘I was coming down Church Hill when I saw him.’
‘How far away was he, Mr Truss?’
‘It must have been twenty or thirty yards.’
‘Could you see him at all clearly in the dark?’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ replied the other, ‘but I saw enough to know that a man was pushing a wheelbarrow and that there was something in it covered with a cloth. I took no notice, to be honest, because it’s not an unusual sight in Spondon. We’ve had to wheel Bert Knowles home in a barrow more than once when he’s been drunk. But this barrow was heading for the church and the person pushing it was struggling as if he wasn’t used to doing anything like that. A dead body can be heavy. Suppose that’s what was under the cloth? I’ve been asking myself that ever since.’ His arms fell to his sides and he grinned inanely. ‘Was I right to tell you, Sergeant Leeming?’
‘You were indeed, Mr Truss, and I’m very grateful.’
‘Please don’t mention to anyone else that I told you. It could be … awkward for me, you see.’
Leeming suspected that the real awkwardness would be felt by the friend whom Truss had called on that evening. From the man’s behaviour, he guessed that the glove-maker had had a rendezvous with a woman and that he was anxious to protect her from any gossip and embarrassment. After reassuring him, Leeming sent him on his way and reviewed what he’d just learnt. As he did so, he recalled the old adage that bad news always came in threes. Could it be equally true that good news also came in triplicate? That’s what had happened to the sergeant. Since he’d arrived in Spondon, he’d met Philip Conway, recruited Bert Knowles to his cause and heard about the nocturnal adventures of a glove-maker. He’d had three pieces of good news to pass on to Colbeck.
Something told him that the last of them was by far the best.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Robert Colbeck had enjoyed his visit to the tailor’s shop in Nottingham. He felt wholly at ease in such an environment and was so struck by the quality of items on display he had purchased a new cravat there. But it was the missing top hat that had taken him to the establishment and he left with a drawing of it in his pocket. Much as he’d liked Simon Hubbleday and revelled in their conversation, he’d been unable to prise from him all the information about the Quayle family that the tailor clearly knew. Hubbleday had been both discreet and professional, yielding a few details about his customers while holding many others back. Colbeck was certain that the man could have said far more about Stanley Quayle, for instance, and about the reason that drove one of his sisters away from the house.
His next port of call was the police station where a pleasant surprise awaited him. Having met with muted hostility from the Derbyshire Constabulary, in the person of Superintendent Wigg, he was given an affable welcome by the duty sergeant, Thomas Lambert, who was quick to offer any help that he could. Lambert was a stolid man in his forties with a flat face enlivened by rosy cheeks and a pair of mischievous eyes. He seemed to radiate goodwill. Colbeck’s reputation ensured him a firm handshake.
‘Ask me anything you wish, Inspector,’ said Lambert, obviously thrilled to take part, albeit tangentially, in a murder investigation. ‘We knew Mr Quayle well. We want his killer brought to book.’
‘That’s a common objective for all of us, Sergeant.’
‘He was a kind and charitable man. At least, that was how we saw him. I don’t think there was much kindness and charity in his business life, mind. At meetings of the board of directors and such like, I daresay he’d have had to fight tooth and claw. Where big decisions need to be made, blood usually flows.’
‘What do you know of Donald Haygarth?’
Lambert sniffed. ‘I know little to his credit, Inspector.’
‘He was Mr Quayle’s rival.’
‘There were whispers he was hatching a plot to seize control of the company.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘You pick up things in this job,’ said Lambert, tapping the side of his nose.
‘How well do you know Mr Quayle’s family?’
Lambert grinned. ‘I’m not exactly on visiting terms at their house, but I’ve come across them all over the years. Mrs Quayle — God bless her — is a poor old dear who’s been dogged by all kinds of maladies. She’s a wealthy woman in her own right. Old money,’ he said, knowingly. ‘It’s the best kind, in some ways. Her husband made his fortune out of coal and, since he sold so much of it to various railway companies, it was only natural that he should join the board of the Midland Railway. He was very rich. The Quayle family lives in style.’
‘I know,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve been to the house. It wasn’t the best time to call but I’d have appreciated slightly more cooperation than I was offered.’
‘That means you met Stanley Quayle.’
‘It was not a meeting of true minds. He was quite rude to me.’