‘Haygarth will never admit that he made a mistake.’
Colbeck studied him. ‘Why do you dislike the man?’
‘It’s not so much a question of dislike as of distrust.’
‘He struck me as being very decisive.’
‘Haygarth is too decisive, Inspector. He exceeds his authority. Mr Quayle would never have done that. I had my reservations about the man but they can be disregarded. As a future chairman, he had all the right qualities.’ Wigg sniffed loudly. ‘That’s not the case with Donald Haygarth.’
‘When we first met you,’ remembered Colbeck, ‘you jokingly put his name forward as a possible suspect.’
‘There was no joke involved, I promise you.’
Colbeck was taken aback. ‘Are you being serious, Superintendent?’
‘I was never more so,’ said Wigg. ‘I may have made the suggestion in a light-hearted way but that was deliberate. If you want to compile a list of suspects, you can cross out the name of Gerard Burns and insert Haygarth in its place. He’s involved in this crime somehow and I hope to be the person to place him under arrest.’
‘How long have you been there?’ asked Leeming.
‘Three years.’
‘Do you like the work?’
‘I love it, Sergeant. It’s opened my eyes in every way.’
‘What did you think of the service?’
‘It was very dignified.’
‘Is that what you’ll say in your report?’
‘Yes,’ said Philip Conway, ‘but I can’t guarantee that my words will be printed. The editor always trims my articles to the bone. The main thing he wanted me to get were the names of all the bigwigs who attended. People like to be mentioned in a newspaper — in the right way, that is.’
Victor Leeming had warmed to the young reporter. Conway had looked shifty at first but, on further acquaintance, he’d turned out to be an enthusiastic young man with a questing intelligence. As soon as the sergeant had introduced himself, Conway had fired half-a-dozen questions about Scotland Yard at him, and he was still wide-eyed about meeting a man who worked alongside Inspector Colbeck.
‘I’ve followed his career,’ he explained, ‘so I must have seen your name as well. We have all the London newspapers here, you know. They’re delivered by train at a surprisingly early hour.’ He gave a sheepish grin. ‘My ambition is to work on one of those papers one day.’
They were in the Malt Shovel, the public house where Leeming had booked the room and where he’d invited Conway to share a pint of beer with him. From the table where they sat, they could see a malt shovel perched on two hooks above the bar. The beer was exceptional and the atmosphere flavoursome. Leeming had taken to the place immediately.
‘I’ve got some cuttings about the Railway Detective’s cases,’ said Conway with a boyish grin. ‘You saved the royal train from being blown up, didn’t you?’
‘We were lucky enough to do so,’ replied Leeming, modestly.
‘Then there was a case somewhere in Yorkshire.’
‘The village was called South Otterington. Actually, Spondon reminds me of it in some ways. I can’t say that I enjoyed my stay in Yorkshire very much but there was an unexpected bonus.’
‘What was that, Sergeant?’
‘We found a village named Leeming.’
They shared a laugh then sipped their drinks. Ordinarily, Leeming would have been very circumspect when talking to a reporter. Colbeck had warned him to say too little to the press rather than too much. Some editors had an agenda that included biting criticism of the Metropolitan Police Force. The Derby Mercury had no such axe to grind. In its edition that day it had given an account of the murder and welcomed the arrival of the detectives from Scotland Yard. Besides, Leeming decided, the young reporter was not there to denigrate them in any way. Conway was in awe of them. He was also a native of Derbyshire and therefore able to relate more easily to local people. Leeming had not just made a new friend, he’d acquired an assistant.
‘Then there was that case in Wales,’ recalled Conway.
‘Let’s forget our past successes,’ said Leeming, firmly. ‘If we spend all our time talking about them, we won’t be able to add to the list. I need to know this village inside out. You may be able to help me.’
‘I’ll do what I can, Sergeant, but I have to answer to an editor. He tells me where and when I can go. I was sent here to attend the funeral and to gauge the reaction of Spondon to the murder. The second bit is easy. This village has been knocked senseless by the crime.’
‘Who have you spoken to so far?’
‘Lots of people,’ said Conway, fishing a notebook out of his pocket and leafing through it. ‘The first person I interviewed was Walter Grindle. It was his daughter who leapt into the grave where Mr Quayle was lying.’
‘I saw the blacksmith as well. On the way into church, he stood close to me. I heard him say what an effect the discovery had had on his children.’
‘They’re terrified.’
‘In the same circumstances, mine would be as well.’ Leeming sat back and his chair creaked. ‘What exactly did Mr Grindle say to you?’
Nottingham was a thriving manufacturing town with a population that had increased markedly in the past decade. It owed much of its reputation to a textile industry in which the quality of its lace, in particular, stood out. Yet it had by no means lost all of its charm and its picturesque aspects. When he glanced through the window of his compartment, Colbeck saw a community sited conveniently on the navigable River Trent and still possessing striking relics of its past such as its Norman castle, now in ruins but with undeniable grandeur. News of the murder in the neighbouring county had caused great upset in Nottingham because the victim had hailed from there and was a well-known figure. As soon as he left the train, Colbeck overheard people speculating on the identity of the killer and his motivation. The name of Vivian Quayle seemed to be on everyone’s lips.
When he left the station, Colbeck made for the cab rank. He had not needed to ask anyone where Quayle had lived because the man’s address had been printed in that morning’s edition of the Derby Mercury. The cab drove to the edge of the town before turning into the gateway of an estate. Filtered by the trees, bright sunshine was casting intricate shadows over the winding track. When he emerged from a hundred yards or more of woodland, Colbeck saw ahead a well-tended lawn edged with flower beds and, beyond it, a large Jacobean mansion in an impressive state of repair. Having met many railway magnates in the course of his work, Colbeck was used to seeing the high standard of living that they enjoyed, but Vivian Quayle’s abode was more sumptuous than most.
The cab stopped well short of the house because a uniformed policeman stood in its path with his hand raised. He came over to eye the passenger.
‘This is a house of mourning,’ he said, crisply. ‘No visitors are allowed.’
‘I’m not a visitor, Constable. My name is Inspector Colbeck and I’ve been summoned from Scotland Yard to lead the murder investigation. It’s imperative that I talk with a member of the family.’
The man was suspicious. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’
‘You simply have to look into my eyes.’
Colbeck gazed at him with an intensity and a sense of authority that made the policeman back away. Producing a weak smile of apology, he stood aside and waved the cab on. The man had been officious but Colbeck approved of his being there to keep unwanted visitors at bay. Quayle’s murder would have set the local press buzzing and the last thing that the family wanted at such a time was a demand from reporters to make a statement. They would still be reeling from the thunderbolt that had hit them. Colbeck needed to behave with the utmost tact.
When the cab drew up outside the house, he asked the driver to wait then went to the front door. It opened before he could even reach for the bell and he was confronted by a beetle-browed butler who seemed as intent on sending him on his way as the policeman. Having heard who Colbeck was, however, the man grudgingly admitted him and took the visitor along to the study. Colbeck was left alone to gauge something of the character of Vivian Quayle from the room in which he’d worked. Patently, he was not a reading man. Though two walls were lined with bookshelves, there were very few books on them. Pride of place had instead been given to delicate porcelain. It occupied the majority of the shelves and the most attractive objects stood in a glass-fronted cabinet.