‘Yes, I know Truss. He’s a sound, God-fearing fellow.’
‘Is he a married man?’
‘No,’ said the vicar, ‘he can be a little alarming until you get used to those eyes. I think he’s accepted that he holds no attraction for the gentler sex.’
Leeming didn’t disillusion him by telling him about Truss’s night-time activity. After taking the funeral then trying to comfort the family, Sadler was already in a delicate state. The loss of faith in one of his parishioners would be painful to him and, in any case, Leeming would not break his promise to the glove-maker.
‘I really came to look for the marks of a wheelbarrow,’ he explained.
‘You won’t find many of those, I’m afraid. A lot of feet have trampled across the churchyard today.’
‘Some marks are still visible.’
‘Then they were put there by Bert’s wheelbarrow. It’s monstrously heavy but he shoves it around as if it’s as light as a feather.’ He turned to point. ‘He keeps it out of the way behind the tool shed.’
‘I know, Vicar. I made a point of finding it.’
‘Why do you have such a fascination with a rusting old wheelbarrow?’
‘I wanted to eliminate it,’ explained Leeming. ‘There are traces of it all over the place. But there’s also the marks of another wheelbarrow and they end right here beside the grave. Do you see, Vicar?’ He bent down to pat the earth. ‘This wasn’t made by the wheel on Knowles’s barrow. So I’m bound to ask where it did come from. Mrs Peet arrived for the funeral in a glass-panelled hearse,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if Mr Quayle got here in a meaner form of transport.’
When Lucas Quayle went in search of his brother, he found him seated at the desk in the study and flicking through the pile of papers he’d taken from a drawer.
‘What are you doing in here, Stanley?’ he asked.
‘I’m searching for Father’s will.’
‘Mother would tell you where that’s kept.’
‘She’s far too unwell to be bothered,’ said Stanley. ‘Besides, according to Agnes, the doctor has given her something to make her sleep. Mother needs rest.’
‘Are you certain that the will is actually here?’
‘I’m convinced of it.’
‘Father must have lodged it with his solicitor, surely.’
‘He’ll have kept his own copy. He did everything in duplicate.’
‘That’s true.’
Annoyed at the intrusion, he put the papers aside and rose to his feet.
‘Why do you need to bother me, Luke?’
‘There’s something we must discuss.’
‘If it’s what I think, you’re wasting your breath. That matter is long over and done with. Forget all about it.’
‘Lydia is our sister. We can’t just ignore that fact.’
‘She left this family of her own accord and she is not coming back to it.’
‘I disagree.’
Lucas Quayle usually lost any arguments with his brother because the latter had established his dominance over a long period. This time, however, the younger man would not give way. Tall and well built, he had something of his father’s good looks and had cultivated a similar moustache. The resemblance ended there. While Vivian Quayle had been wholly committed to his responsibilities as the owner of some profitable coal mines, his second son had been more wayward, embarking on two or three different careers before abandoning each in turn, and feeling the lash of his father’s tongue and that of his elder brother’s. It was only when he’d married after a succession of dalliances that he’d introduced any stability into his life. It irked him that his brother still treated him like the aimless drifter he’d once been.
‘I think that we should get in touch with Lydia,’ he declared.
‘I won’t hear of it.’
‘She has a right to be here, Stanley.’
‘Lydia spurned this family and lost all claim on it as a result. When I finally find the will, I’ll guarantee that her name is never mentioned in it.’
‘Our sister is not expecting it to be. She and Father … broke apart decisively. I accept that. But the nature of his death will surely wipe away the old bitterness. Lydia needs to be told that she’s welcome in this house again.’
Stanley stamped a foot. ‘It will never happen while I’m here.’
‘Think of Mother. She’d want to see her daughter.’
‘Don’t drag Mother into this. I’m the head of the household now and my writ runs here. No more argument, Luke,’ he affirmed. ‘Lydia is persona non grata here.’
His brother was appalled. ‘Do you hate her so much?’
‘I don’t even acknowledge her existence.’
‘What’s happened to you, Stanley? You’ve changed since you took over the mines. Father could be callous when forced to be but you make a virtue of it. I don’t have to ask Mother or Agnes how they feel. I know that, in their hearts, they’re ready to forgive and forget. They’d love to see Lydia again.’
‘Well, it won’t happen.’
‘You can’t keep her away from the funeral if she chooses to come.’
‘Yes, I can. I’ll see that she’s refused entry to the church.’
‘Would you really do such a thing?’ asked his brother.
‘I’m confident that it won’t come to that,’ said the other, softening slightly, ‘but I’ll do what Father would have wanted and that’s to shun her completely. As for getting in touch with Lydia, we don’t even know where she is.’
‘I do,’ said the other.
For a few seconds, his brother was stunned. His eyes smouldered and, when he spoke again, his voice was dripping with accusation.
‘You dared to maintain a correspondence with her?’ Stanley grabbed his brother’s lapels.
‘I’m entitled to make my own decisions about Lydia.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
Lucas waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘How long, I asked?’ demanded his brother.
‘I tracked her down a few months ago.’
‘Whatever for?’ he shouted, veins standing out on his temples.
‘I was curious.’
Stanley Quayle released him and stood back, eyeing him with complete disgust. Before he could say anything, there was a tap on the door and the butler entered with a telegraph. Aware of the taut atmosphere, he simply handed it to the elder brother and left at once.
‘If it’s a telegraph, it must be important,’ said Lucas Quayle.
After glaring at him, his brother tore open the missive and glanced at it.
‘The post-mortem has been completed,’ he said, curtly. ‘Father’s body will be released to us tomorrow.’
Staying at the Malt Shovel was a mixed blessing. While he enjoyed its food and relished its beer, Victor Leeming found himself under siege. At the end of the working day, a stream of people came in turn to see him, each with what they felt was information worthy of attention and, possibly, of reward. Some of it was clearly fabricated and therefore easily dismissed, some was so confused as to be of no help at all and the rest was well meant but irrelevant. In the interests of maintaining goodwill, however, he took down all the statements and thanked each witness. When there was a lull in activity, he was tempted to slip off to his room but another person came through the door, a basket-maker from Potter Street. He was an old man with watery eyes and a croaking voice but his memory seemed unimpaired. Having taken his dog out for a walk on the night in question, the basket-maker recalled seeing a man pushing a wheelbarrow towards the church. He was too far away to see what was in the barrow but said that it was moving slowly.
Leeming was so glad for the corroboration of Barnaby Truss’s evidence that he bought the man a drink. He then retired to his room to sift through the statements he’d taken in the course of the day and to have a quiet moment alone. His escape was short-lived. The landlord pounded on the door before flinging it open.
‘There’s someone to see you, sir,’ he grunted.