‘Throwing drunks out of a bar and keeping naughty children out of the churchyard is not my idea of work, Inspector. I thrive on action.’
‘Don’t treat naughty children with such contempt. It was two of them who first discovered that a murder had occurred. They set this investigation in motion. Bear that in mind. You should make a point of meeting the pair of them.’
‘I will, sir,’ said Leeming, ‘and I’m sorry to complain. It’s only right that one of us explores Spondon properly. If truth be told, I’ll feel more at home in a village pub. Luxury like this always makes me uneasy.’
‘It’s a strange paradox. Comfort makes you uncomfortable.’
‘I’m like a fish out of water here. It’s Spondon for me. That’s where the crime took place and where, in all probability, the killer lives.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He knew that there was an empty grave handy at St Mary’s.’
‘That could have been a case of serendipity.’
Leeming frowned. ‘You’ve used that word before but I forget what it means.’
‘It means that, if you stumble upon something that serves your purpose, you take full advantage of it. When the killer chose St Mary’s, he may have been unaware that there was an appropriate place for a dead body. He’s obviously somebody who knows the village,’ Colbeck agreed, ‘but that doesn’t mean he still lives there. What we do know about him is that he has a macabre sense of humour. Most killers try to conceal their victims in order to slow down the process of detection. This man did the opposite. He wanted that corpse to be found.’
‘I keep thinking about that missing top hat.’
‘If we find that, it will have the name of Mr Quayle inside it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I checked the label on his coat. His name was sewn into it. Among the many places I need to visit is the Nottingham tailor patronised by Mr Quayle. He was a man of exquisite taste.’
‘Where else will you go, sir?’
‘I’ll visit the home of the deceased and make discreet enquiries there and I’ll certainly need to look into the workings of the Midland Railway. Mr Quayle was intimately involved in them. He had power and that always creates enemies.’
‘Mr Haygarth was one of them,’ said Leeming, recalling their meeting with the acting chairman. ‘He made a song and dance about the importance of catching Mr Quayle’s killer but I didn’t get the impression that he was really sorry that the man had died. Secretly, he must be delighted. He’s just too cunning to show it.’
‘My feeling exactly, Victor.’
‘Do you think that someone from the Midland Railway is behind it all?’
‘It’s not impossible,’ said Colbeck, thanking the waiter with a smile as the man cleared away their plates. ‘It’s equally possible that someone employed by a rival company is implicated. One sure way to disable the Midland is to get rid of the man who is about to become its chairman. Think of the impact on the morale of all the employees of the company. This will have shaken them badly.’
‘It didn’t shake Mr Haygarth.’
‘I noticed that.’
‘I know that Superintendent Wigg only said it by way of a jest but should we put Haygarth on the list of suspects? I can’t see him killing another man but he looks capable of hiring someone to do his dirty work.’
‘We must keep an open mind, Victor.’
‘I like to have something to bite on in an investigation.’
‘The cheese will be served very soon. Bite into that.’ They both laughed. ‘I’ll warrant that you won’t find the same quality in the Malt Shovel or the Union Inn or wherever you choose to stay.’
‘I’ll be where I fit in better,’ said Leeming.
‘Exactly,’ said Colbeck. ‘You can blend into that village in a way that I can’t. There are times, I readily accept, when my educated vowels are a positive drawback. You’re more down to earth and you’re a good listener. It’s one of your strengths.’
Leeming pulled a face. ‘I didn’t know that I had any.’
Colbeck laughed and patted his companion’s shoulder. ‘You’re awash with them, Victor.’ He saw the waiter approaching. ‘It looks as if our cheese is on its way.’
But the waiter was bringing something more than just a selection of cheeses. After setting down the platter on the table, he put a hand inside his coat to extract a letter.
‘This is for you, Inspector,’ he said, giving it to him. ‘It was handed in by someone at reception and passed on to the head waiter.’
‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, scrutinising it and noting the neatness with which his name had been written. The man nodded and walked away. ‘Let’s see what we have here, shall we?’ He opened the letter and took something out. ‘Well, well, well …’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘It’s a reward notice, Victor. A very tempting amount of money is being offered for information that leads to the arrest of the killer of Mr Quayle.’ He turned the paper over. ‘However, that’s not all we’ve been given.’ He passed it over to Leeming. ‘Do you see what someone has written on the back?’
After reading details of the reward, Leeming looked at the reverse side.
‘Gerard Burns — is he the person who sent this to you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then who is he?’
‘As of now,’ said Colbeck, ‘I fancy that he’s our prime suspect.’
The day began early at the vicarage. Funerals were always unsettling occasions for Michael Sadler but he was looking forward to the latest one with real trepidation. In view of what had happened to the grave originally dug, he was afraid that he’d lost the hitherto unquestioning support of Roderick Peet, the bereaved husband. Other members of the family might also look askance at him. The fact that he’d finally persuaded Bert Knowles to dig a fresh grave might not be enough to win back the Peet family. It was something he should have done instantly, before Peet was drawn into the blistering row with Knowles. Deeply troubled, the vicar hardly touched his breakfast and heard very little of his wife’s customary wittering.
The fact that it was a dull day with a promise of rain only added to his feeling of dread. He’d known and been very fond of Cicely Peet but it was not her tragic death that filled his mind. What preoccupied him was the image of a murder victim in the grave prepared for her. Fearful that something untoward might have occurred in her new resting place, he bestowed a token kiss on his wife’s forehead then let himself out of the vicarage. When he walked around the church to the site of the fresh plot, he saw movement behind a neighbouring headstone and his heart constricted. The figure of a man rose up as if part of some weird ritual of resurrection. The vicar was now trembling all over. It was only when the initial shock wore off that he realised he was looking at Bert Knowles.
‘I slept the night ’ere,’ explained the gravedigger, stretching himself. ‘Nobody was goin’ to jump into this ’ole I dug. I made sure o’ that, Vicar.’ He bared his teeth in a hopeful grin. ‘Is there any charnce o’ some o’ that theer sherry o’ yours to wake me up proper?’
Victor Leeming was no stranger to funerals. There’d been a worrying sequence of them in his own family and he’d watched his grandparents, parents, two brothers and a sister laid to rest over the years, increasing his sense of being a lone survivor. In the course of his work, too, he’d been obliged to attend a number of funerals. Some were of police colleagues, killed in the execution of their duties, and others — as in the latest case — were of murder victims.
When he walked towards St Mary’s church, a steady drizzle was falling. He’d heard enough about Cicely Peet during his earlier visit to Spondon to be aware of her exalted position in the community. Even so, he was taken aback by the number and quality of vehicles stretching down Church Hill and beyond. No women attended but a sizeable male congregation had come to pay its respects to the deceased. Leeming was glad. It was easier to remain anonymous in a crowd. When he joined the queue of solemn men filing into the church, he picked up several comments about Cicely Peet. She was not only held in high regard by everyone. Her beauty was also recalled and praised. What saddened the mourners was that such a lovely woman should have died so suddenly instead of gracing the village for many years to come. The general feeling was that her husband, devastated by his loss, would not be long in following her to the grave.