Since they occupied an empty compartment they were able to talk freely. Leeming was a stocky individual of medium height with the kind of unsightly features more suited to a ruffian than to a detective sergeant. Indeed, though he wore a frock coat and well-cut trousers, he still contrived to look like a villain on the run from the law. Years of being teased about his ugliness as a boy had served to toughen him and he’d become so proficient at punching his detractors that they’d learnt to hold their tongues. Colbeck admired him for his strength, tenacity and unwavering loyalty.
‘Why can’t the police in Derby handle this case?’ asked Leeming.
‘Someone clearly thinks it’s beyond their competence.’
‘That means we’ll get a frosty welcome. Nobody likes to be told that detectives are being brought in over their head.’
‘We’ve coped with that situation before,’ said Colbeck with a sigh. ‘Some constabularies have been extremely helpful but we do tend to meet with jealousy and suspicion as a rule. It’s understandable.’
‘The railway police are the worse, sir.’
‘I agree, Victor. They never accept that they have no power to investigate major crimes on the network. Some of them always try to do our work for us. There’s no knowing what we’ll face when we get there but we’d better brace ourselves for resistance of some sort. One thing is certain,’ he said, philosophically. ‘There won’t be a brass band waiting to greet us at Derby station.’
Donald Haygarth walked so quickly up and down the platform that his companion had difficulty in keeping up with him. Haygarth was a big, barrel-chested man in his fifties with an expensive tailor, paid to conceal his customer’s spreading contours. For all his bulk, he moved at speed and exuded self-importance. Trotting beside him was Elijah Wigg, the cadaverous Superintendent of Derby Police, the brass buttons of his uniform gleaming like stars and his boots brushed to a high sheen. Wigg’s side whiskers were so long and luxuriant that they threatened to join forces under his chin and blossom into a full beard. Weary of trying to have a conversation on the hoof, he put a skeletal hand on Haygarth’s shoulder and pulled him to a halt.
‘There’s no need to wear out the soles of your shoes,’ he said, spikily. ‘It won’t make your famous Railway Detective come any sooner.’
‘He’ll be here any minute,’ said Haygarth, fussily. ‘I know the train that he caught because he had the forethought to inform me by telegraph. If it’s running on time, as it should be, I expect him to be only a mile or so away from us.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. The next train to London arrives here in twenty minutes. Inspector Colbeck can go straight back where he came from.’
‘And why on earth should he do that?’
‘We will be handling the investigation, Mr Haygarth.’
‘I’ve called in an acknowledged expert.’
‘An acknowledged expert on what?’ demanded Wigg. ‘He doesn’t know this part of the country, he doesn’t understand the people and he won’t be able to make head or tail of the Derbyshire dialect. Why have a complete stranger blundering around when we have a police force equipped with local insight?’
‘Be honest, Superintendent,’ said Haygarth. ‘This case is too big for you.’
‘I deny it.’
‘It’s a complex murder inquiry.’
‘We can handle it better than anyone.’
‘That’s patently untrue.’
Wigg bristled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that you already have one unsolved murder on your hands. Need I remind you that it’s three years since a man named Enoch Stone was killed in Spondon and that nobody has yet been brought to book for the crime?’
‘That investigation continues. We’ll find the culprit eventually.’
‘I want a quicker result in this case,’ said Haygarth, acidly. ‘That’s why I’ve turned to Scotland Yard. I don’t have three years to wait for the arrest and conviction of the man who murdered Mr Quayle. You keep chasing your tail over the Enoch Stone case, Superintendent. I need Inspector Colbeck to take charge of this one.’
Elijah Wigg spluttered. Before he could reply, however, he was diverted by the sound of a train’s approach and saw it powering towards them in the distance. When he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket, Haygarth was delighted to see that the train was punctual. He walked briskly back up the single platform with Wigg scampering at his heels.
When the train finally squealed to a halt, there was a tumult of hissing steam, acrid smoke and the systematic clamour of compartment doors being opened. While passengers were waiting to climb aboard, others were welcoming those who’d just alighted. Haygarth didn’t need to find the detectives. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, Colbeck had spotted the police uniform and made straight for it. Introductions were performed. Wigg glowered, Haygarth beamed, Colbeck tossed an approving glance at the station itself and Leeming stretched.
‘I’m so glad that you’ve come,’ said Haygarth, pumping the hands of the newcomers in turn. ‘I’ve reserved rooms for each of you at the Royal Hotel. You will, of course, be staying at the expense of the Midland Railway.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘But the sergeant and I are still very much in the dark. What we’d like to do in the first instance is to visit the scene of the crime and learn what steps have been taken by the police.’
‘We’ve done all that’s appropriate,’ said Wigg, officiously. ‘We are not bumpkins in some rural backwater, Inspector. You’re standing in one of the nation’s finest manufacturing towns and it has a police force worthy of its eminence. We follow the correct procedures here. My suggestion is that we have your luggage sent to the hotel so that you can accompany me to Spondon.’
‘We just stopped there,’ said Leeming. ‘Is that where the murder occurred?’
‘It is, Sergeant.’
‘Do you have a police station there?’
‘No, but we have six constables, all local men.’
‘They’re well-meaning fellows,’ observed Haygarth, ‘but they are not trained detectives. In fact, they’re still struggling to solve a murder that took place in the village three years ago.’
‘That’s irrelevant,’ snapped Wigg.
‘I beg leave to doubt that, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck. ‘The overwhelming majority of villages in this country, I’m pleased to say, have never had a single homicide yet Spondon, it appears, has had two in the space of three years. The place has already aroused my interest. Did Mr Quayle, the more recent victim, have any connection with the village?’
‘None whatsoever,’ replied Haygarth. ‘He lived in Nottingham.’
‘Then what was he doing there?’
‘I’ll be grateful if you could find out, Inspector.’
‘How was he killed?’
‘We’re not entirely sure. We await the results of a post-mortem.’
‘This case gets more intriguing by the second,’ said Colbeck, smiling. ‘It is positively swathed in mystery. Thank you for inviting us here, Mr Haygarth. I have a feeling that Derbyshire is going to yield a whole battery of surprises.’
Leeming turned to Wigg. ‘Do you have any suspects?’ he asked. ‘Are there any people who would profit directly from Mr Quayle’s death?’
‘Yes,’ said Wigg, seizing a chance to embarrass Haygarth. ‘One of them is standing right next to you, Sergeant.’
‘How dare you!’ exclaimed Haygarth.
‘Facts are facts, sir. There’s a vacancy for the chairmanship of the Midland Railway. Vivian Quayle was the obvious candidate but you also threw your hat into the ring. His death leaves the field clear for you,’ said Wigg, enjoying the other man’s obvious discomfort. ‘What’s more, you know Spondon intimately because you were born there.’ He stroked a side whisker as if it were a favourite cat. ‘I’m bound to find that a cause for suspicion.’
CHAPTER THREE
Peace had finally been restored at St Mary’s church and, although both disputants still nursed hurt feelings, a compromise had been reached. The Reverend Michael Sadler might know little about exerting control over a furious argument but he knew a great deal about grief and its corrosive effects. Having persuaded Roderick Peet to return home, the vicar had worked subtly on Bert Knowles, urging him to show compassion towards a bereaved husband and reminding the gravedigger of how he had felt in the wake of his own wife’s death some years earlier. Seeds of doubt were planted in the man’s mind. They were irrigated in the vicarage where Knowles was offered the rare treat of a glass of sherry and, when he’d downed that in an unmannerly gulp, a second glass. The memory of his loss was still a raw wound for Knowles. Tears welled up in his eyes as he recalled it and, while he still smarted at Peet’s display of arrogance, he came to see that they did have a kinship of sorts. Both had felt the pain of losing a beloved wife. When the vicar asked him how he would have reacted if a murder victim had suddenly appeared in the grave destined for Margery Knowles, the question was like a stab in the heart for Knowles and he at last capitulated, agreeing to dig a second grave for Cicely Peet.