‘He’s like that with most people, Inspector. He’s taken over the running of the coal mines from his father and it’s gone to his head. Fair’s fair, he very efficient and conscientious but — well, if you want it in plain language — he can be a bastard.’
‘What about his brother?’
The duty sergeant chuckled. ‘Lucas Quayle is an altogether different person,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘He’s open, friendly and full of life. In his younger days, he had a few brushes with the law but they were minor incidents and settled out of court. Marriage quietened him down a bit — that and his big brother.’
‘Does he work alongside Stanley?’
‘He works beneath him, sir.’
Lambert talked at length about the relationship between the two brothers before being forced to break off when two constables brought in a prisoner they were having great difficulty in controlling. The duty sergeant came out from behind his desk, pinioned the man’s arm behind his back and marched him off to one of the cells at the rear of the building. Colbeck heard the iron door clang shut.
‘I’m sorry about that, sir,’ he said when he returned. ‘That was Jake Daggett, a regular customer of ours. He hit the landlord of The Red Lion over the head with a chair this time.’ When a yell of rage came from the cell, Lambert closed the door to muffle the sound. ‘Now, then, where was I?’
‘You were telling me about the two brothers,’ Colbeck reminded him, ‘but what I really want to hear is something about the two sisters.’
‘If the two men are like chalk and cheese, Inspector, the two ladies are as different as coal and chocolate. I don’t mean this unkindly because she’s a good woman, by all accounts, but Agnes Quayle is as plain as a pikestaff. They say that she gave up her chances of marriage to look after her mother. If you ever meet her, you’ll see that any chances were very thin on the ground.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I speak as the father of two daughters. You’re always worried that they may be unable to find husbands and hang around your neck forever.’
‘Tell me about the elder sister.’
‘Lydia is a real beauty, sir — a lot of young men took an interest.’
‘Did she marry one of them?’
‘No, Inspector — and I’m only passing on a rumour here — she believed that she was already spoken for. However …’
‘Her parents opposed her choice,’ guessed Colbeck.
‘They did more than that. They packed her off to Europe on a tour and they sacked the fellow straight away. He was their head gardener.’
One mystery was solved. ‘It was Gerard Burns, I’ll wager.’
‘It was, indeed.’
‘That explains why Stanley Quayle was so angry when I mentioned him.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Why?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Was Burns such an ogre or did the family think that his low status made him a highly unsuitable attachment?’
‘I reckon they turned their noses up at him. Money does that to people. Nice as pie as he could be on the surface, Mr Quayle stamped out his daughter’s romance.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I don’t rightly know, Inspector. Talk was that she’s in London.’
‘Apparently, there’s a doubt over her return for the funeral.’
‘She must come back for that,’ said Lambert with passion. ‘Her father was murdered, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Quite so.’
‘It’s unnatural.’
‘Let’s go back to Gerard Burns.’
Lambert pursed his lips. ‘Shame to see him go, Inspector.’
‘Why — did you know him?’
‘Not personally, but I watched him many a time. Do you have any interest in cricket, Inspector?’
‘Yes, I do,’ replied Colbeck. ‘I loved playing it in my younger days.’
‘Burns was not only a canny gardener,’ said Lambert, ‘he was the best bowler in the county. Nottinghamshire’s loss is Derbyshire’s gain.’
‘Is that where he went — over the border?’
‘He couldn’t stay here. Mr Quayle made that very clear.’
‘So where exactly is he?’
‘Oh, he’s fallen on his feet in one way,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s a promotion of a kind. He looks after the gardens at Melbourne Hall.’
Gerard Burns was a tall, lean, sinewy man in his thirties with a mop of fair hair imprisoned under his battered hat. The gardens under his aegis were among the finest in the county, comprising broad tracts of lawn, avenues of trees, explosions of colour in the flower beds and tasteful statuary. As he walked around the edge of the Great Basin, he watched the insects buzzing merrily above the water. Burns took great pride in his work and made every effort to maintain the high quality of grounds constructed a hundred and fifty years earlier after consultation with no less than the royal gardeners. He turned along a path that led to the ponds and saw two men busy with their hoes. One of them suddenly bent down to retrieve an object from behind a shrub. He held it up for Burns to see.
‘Iss thar ball the children lost,’ he called out. ‘You’d best ’ave this, Mr Burns. Catch it.’
He threw it high in the air but the head gardener caught it easily with one hand. Burns rolled the ball over in his palm. Aware of his skill on the cricket field, the undergardeners were both watching him expectantly. He obliged them with a demonstration. After walking away from it, he turned to face the Birdcage, the outstanding feature of the gardens, a large and elaborate wrought iron arbour created by a celebrated ironsmith at the start of the previous century and still retaining its full majesty. Burns, however, was not there to admire it. Having measured out his run-up, he set off, accelerated, then flung the ball with all his strength. Flashing through the air, it struck the arbour and bounced harmlessly off. The undergardeners gave him a round of applause.
‘I told ter,’ said one of them to the other. ‘He’s like a strick o’ lightnin’.’
Victor Leeming was gazing reflectively into the empty grave in the churchyard. He tried to envisage what Vivian Quayle had looked like when he lay there on his back. Fortunately, the dead man had fitted into the cavity without difficulty. A much taller or broader corpse would have been crumpled up.
‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ asked the vicar, coming up beside him.
‘I’m just thinking.’
‘This is a day for contemplation. I made that point in my address.’
‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ said Leeming. ‘It was … very moving.’
‘Thank you. I’ve just come from the family. They’re still bemused by the suddenness of it all. A month ago, Mrs Peet was a healthy, active lady with decades ahead of her — or so it seemed. Then the headaches began and she went downhill with indecent haste. The brain tumour was a silent enemy growing in stealth. It’s ironic.’
‘What is, Vicar?’
‘Well, my dear wife is plagued by all sorts of minor ailments and has never been very robust, yet she will probably go on forever. A fit and lively person dies without warning while a near invalid soldiers on from year to year.’
‘Death can be very cruel.’
‘Yet it’s always the working out of God’s purpose. There must have been a reason why he called Mrs Peet into his presence. What that reason was, I’ve yet to decide.’ He looked across at the other grave, now hidden under a mound of fresh earth. ‘You, too, are still looking for reasons, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Leeming, ‘I’m wondering how and why Mr Quayle ended up in Spondon. It’s the first thing I’ll ask the killer when we catch him.’
‘I spotted a reward notice on my way back here. It should bring results.’
‘It’s already brought your gravedigger to me.’
‘What did Bert Knowles have to say?’
‘Oh, he made up a story about being in here on the night of the murder and feeling that he was being watched. When I told him his evidence was worthless, he admitted he’d made the whole thing up and had a good laugh.’
The vicar sighed. ‘That’s typical of Knowles. He’s incorrigible.’
‘Actually, he was very helpful. He told someone why I was here and the man, a Mr Truss, came running to see me. He really did have something useful to say.’