That set him off on the next stage of his journey. Since none of the trio lived in the town, he had to hire a trap in order to drive out to the respective houses where they lived. For a man like the sergeant, questioning a young lady about an emotional attachment they once had was highly embarrassing. Leeming had married the only woman he’d ever loved and had never been tempted to stray. He was therefore shocked to learn that Bruntcliffe had dallied with three beautiful women without the slightest intention of proposing marriage to any of them. It had left all three with a deep reservoir of bitterness. The first hotly denied ever knowing Bruntcliffe, the second was horrified that what had been a clandestine relationship was now the subject of police interest and the third, daughter of a minor aristocrat, was so indignant at being asked such personal questions that she ordered the butler to show Leeming out. All that the sergeant had to show for driving many unproductive miles in unfamiliar countryside was a bill from the man who’d provided the horse and trap.
When he finally caught the train back to South Otterington, he found Colbeck waiting for him at the Black Bull. Each told the other what their day had so far yielded. Leeming seized on a threat.
‘Superintendent Tallis is coming here?’ he cried.
‘I did my best to dissuade him.’
‘We’ll be here for ever if he takes charge. I’ll never get home to Estelle and the children.’
‘There is one way to head the superintendent off,’ said Colbeck, ‘and that’s to solve the murder by Monday.’
Leeming goggled. ‘We can’t do that, sir. We seem to be going around in circles. I’ve spent all morning and most of the afternoon hard at work and I’ve come back empty-handed.’
‘Don’t be so defeatist, Victor. You brought back the name of this gentleman from Doncaster. He may unwittingly have some useful evidence for us. As for Michael Bruntcliffe,’ he continued, ‘you found out a great deal more about our prime suspect than we knew before.’
‘He was a philanderer,’ said Leeming with revulsion. ‘I met three of his victims and I suspect there were many others.’
Colbeck was thoughtful. ‘A successful philanderer must have two attributes – charm and money. We know that Bruntcliffe has great charm, though it might have been blunted somewhat by his time behind bars. What he no longer has is the wherewithal to fund his romantic entanglements. He’ll need money,’ he said. ‘Where could he get it?’
‘He won’t get a penny from his parents, I discovered that.’
‘Then he might turn to Adam Tarleton.’
‘But he doesn’t have any money either, does he?’
‘He has prospects, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘He probably stands to inherit half of the estate. On the strength of that, he wouldn’t have much difficulty in raising a loan.’
Leeming snapped his fingers. ‘That makes it almost certain that Bruntcliffe is the killer. His old friend paid him to commit the murder.’
‘You’ve overlooked something. That, on its own, wouldn’t have brought in the cash that Adam Tarleton coveted. He needed both his mother and his stepfather to die. Only on the death of the colonel would he be able to claim his inheritance.’
‘Ah!’ Leeming was instantly deflated. ‘I never thought of that, Inspector. How could Tarleton know that his stepfather would take his own life?’
‘He’d know how bereft the colonel would be at the loss of his wife,’ reasoned Colbeck, ‘and he’d be aware that his stepfather would be under suspicion. The pressure on the colonel was intense. It may even be that his stepson added to that pressure by getting someone to write poison-pen letters on his behalf.’
‘It’s all beginning to make sense at last,’ said Leeming.
Colbeck was cautious. ‘Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. At the moment, we’re constructing a hypothesis on the basis of limited facts. We need far more information, Victor, and we only have until Monday to get it.’
‘Then we’re doomed, sir.’
‘Have more faith, Victor. Our efforts will soon be rewarded. Remember what the superintendent always tells us.’
‘Perseverance is a virtue,’ groaned Leeming.
They were in the bar at the Black Bull, enjoying a drink at a table in a quiet corner. Neither of them looked up when the door opened. It was only when a shadow fell across them that they realised they had company. Bertram Reader was relieved to see them.
‘I was hoping that I’d catch you here,’ he said.
‘Then do join us,’ invited Colbeck, pointing to an empty chair. ‘Can I get you anything to drink, sir?’
Reader sat down. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Why did you wish to see us?’
‘I may have some evidence for you, Inspector.’
‘Thank goodness someone does!’ said Leeming under his breath.
‘First, let me give you this list drawn up by my wife. All the people on it knew that Miriam would be visiting her that day.’ He handed it over. ‘Now, do you still have that letter you showed me?’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, reaching inside his coat.
‘May I have another look at it, please?’
Colbeck gave it to him. ‘Be my guest, Mr Reader.’
‘Thank you.’
Reader took out the letter and unfolded it, scanning the lines as if searching for a secret code. At length, he gave a decisive nod.
‘I knew that I was right,’ he said. ‘It’s the same hand.’
‘Would you care to explain, sir?’ asked Colbeck.
‘My wife and I worship at All Saints’ church in Northallerton. We rarely come to the church here. But when we heard that Miriam’s body had been found, my wife sought a visible way to express our grief. I suggested that she might buy flowers to adorn St Andrew’s this Sunday when the prayers will certainly be offered for Miriam – if not, I regret to say, for her husband.’
‘That was a very kind gesture, sir.’
‘It was much appreciated,’ said Reader, taking a card from his pocket, ‘and this was sent from the rectory in acknowledgement. As soon as I saw it, I thought I recognised the handwriting.’
Opening the card, he laid it beside the letter so that Colbeck and Leeming could compare the two. Each had the same neat, looping hand. One person had obviously written them both and the polite phrases on the card came in sharp contradistinction to the vile insinuations in the letter. Grateful for such evidence, the detectives were astounded to see the name at the bottom of the card.
It was Dorcas Skelton.
The arrival of her husband was the blessing for which Eve Doel had prayed. She collapsed into his arms, confident that he would take over and provide the commiseration that her brother had signally failed to supply. Lawrence Doel, a stocky yet elegant man of middle years, was mortified that he’d been away when tragedy had struck his family and upset that his wife had been unable to make contact with him while he was negotiating contracts with merchants in various European cities. His presence was not only succour to Eve, it had a curative effect on Adam Tarleton, who dressed and bore himself in a way more suited to the circumstances.
Mrs Withers noted the changes with approval. During a lull in what had been almost endless activity, she was in the kitchen with Lottie Pearl who was mending the tear in her dress.
‘This is how it should be,’ said the housekeeper. ‘It’s started to feel like a house of mourning at last.’
‘Mr Doel seems such a capable person,’ said Lottie, seated on a chair as she repaired her hem. ‘You can tell by looking at him.’
‘He’s also a true gentleman.’
‘How long will he stay, Mrs Withers?’
‘They’ll all be here until the funeral is over. When that is, I fear, hasn’t yet been decided. They have to wait for the inquest.’
‘I overheard Mrs Doel saying that the colonel wouldn’t be buried in the churchyard.’