‘Tell him to wait.’
‘He said he’d come up here, if you prefer.’
‘This room is not big enough for two of us,’ complained Leeming. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll come down at once,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘But I can’t spend the whole evening down there. The world and his wife want to see me.’
When he clattered down the stairs, he was in a resigned mood but his face brightened when he saw who his visitor was. Colbeck was seated at a table in the corner with two tankards of beer on it.
‘This is good,’ he said, taking another sip. ‘What about the food?’
‘It’s wholesome, sir.’
‘How does it compare with the menu at the Royal Hotel?’
‘The pork pie is grand but the choice is a bit limited.’
After taking the seat opposite Colbeck, the sergeant downed the first couple of inches of his beer before using the back of his hand to wipe the froth from his mouth. He gave an abbreviated account of his day and was pleased with the way that Colbeck complimented him on his visit to the churchyard to search for marks of a barrow.
‘This could be an important sighting,’ said the inspector.
‘It was verified by a second man.’
‘Then you have to find out if someone else was abroad at that time of night. What’s the latest train to get into Spondon? Who was on it and which way did they walk home? I suppose it’s not unusual for someone to be pushing a wheelbarrow about in a village like this.’
‘It is if there’s a dead body in it, sir.’
‘We don’t know that for certain.’
‘What else could he have been taking up that hill?’
‘Did anyone actually see him enter the churchyard?’
‘No,’ conceded Leeming, ‘but I found those wheel marks there. They were quite deep and obviously caused by a heavy load. Anyway,’ he went on, taking another long drink, ‘what have you been up to, sir?’
‘Oh, it’s been a full day.’
Colbeck’s version of events was concise and lucid. He talked about his visit to Nottingham and what he’d learnt there about the Quayle family. He’d returned to Derby, called in at the hotel and found an important letter awaiting him.
‘What was it, sir?’
‘It was a copy of the post-mortem report, Victor. It appears that the victim was sedated before he was injected with a poison. Since he’s not an expert toxicologist, the man who conducted the post-mortem was not entirely sure of all the elements in that poison but his conclusion is that death would have been fairly swift. Whoever killed Mr Quayle knew exactly what he was doing.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lost in thought, Lydia Quayle walked along the Thames embankment in the fading light of a warm evening. She was torn between family loyalty and an abiding hatred, nudged by an impulse to return home for the funeral yet repelled by the memory of the man who would be lowered into his grave. Years of deep anger could not be so easily laid to rest. When she’d made the decision to leave Nottingham and all its associations behind her, she’d vowed never to return, trying to create a new life for herself elsewhere. Lydia had even persuaded herself that she was happy being independent and free from the dictates of others. But the move to London had not been without its disappointments and limitations. It had taken her time to adapt to them.
When she first saw the newspaper report about the murder of her father, she’d felt an instant elation and wanted to meet the killer in order to thank him for doing something that she had considered doing in her darkest moments. Shame had quickly set in, to be replaced by a distant pity but that, too, had soon evaporated. Recalling what her father had done and — above all — said to her, the bitterness had returned afresh. Devoid of love for him, she could not even find an ounce of regret, still less of forgiveness. If she went back home, it would be to rejoice in his death.
Lydia made an effort to put her father aside and to consider the other members of her family. Her mother might be glad to see her, though she’d offered her elder daughter little support when the turmoil had occurred. On the other hand, she was a sick woman and that had been taken into account. She’d had no strength to oppose the wishes of her husband or to protect Lydia in some way and had therefore appeared to condone what was going on. Stanley would certainly not welcome her and might even forbid her to enter the house. He was simply a younger version of their father with the same implacable resentment towards her. Nor would Stanley’s wife speak up for her. She was far too dutiful and submissive.
Agnes lacked the spirit or the desire to stand up against her elder brother. She and Lydia had never been close. They had played together as young children but any bond between them had soon been stretched to breaking point. Lydia had been the clear favourite of their parents and of the wider family. She was more attractive, appealing, intelligent and venturesome. Living in her sister’s shadow, Agnes had been almost invisible. Since Lydia had shown little care or sympathy for her, she could expect none in return. In the years since she’d been cut off from her family, Lucas was the only member of it that she really missed. Significantly, he was the one who had got in touch with her.
While she had never really enjoyed the company of her sister or her elder brother, Lydia still had fond memories of Lucas Quayle. He was bright, engaging and had a streak of wildness that had got him into trouble in earlier days. Agnes had been horrified by some of his escapades and Stanley had been as outraged as their father but Lydia had always admired his youthful bravado and was sorry that it had slowly been suppressed. She and her younger brother had too much in common to grow completely apart. Lydia decided that she would like to see him again, but he was only one member of the family and she had good reason to avoid the others. On balance, therefore, she felt that it would be wiser to stay away from Nottingham.
Preoccupied as she was, Lydia hardly felt a shoulder brush hers.
‘Oh,’ said the man, raising his top hat, ‘I do apologise.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ she murmured.
‘It was my mistake.’
His voice was soft and educated and her first impression was that he was a polite, well-dressed man of middle years who’d been strolling harmlessly along the embankment when he’d made unintended contact with her. Lydia then saw the look in his eyes. It was no accident. Mistaking her for a prostitute, he had deliberately sought her out. His gaze was a compound of interest, invitation and sheer lust. A burning disgust coursed through her whole body but a stronger emotion followed. What she saw in front of her was not a complete stranger but the figure of her father, compact, stern, arrogant and entitled to everything he wanted in the way that he wanted it. As the man smiled at her and offered his arm, she pushed him angrily away and emitted a long, loud, high-pitched scream of pure hatred.
‘How much do you know about the Midland Railway?’ asked Haygarth.
‘I’m more well-informed than most people, I fancy.’
‘Big changes have taken place in the last decade.’
‘They were forced upon you, Mr Haygarth.’
‘I’d rather draw a veil over our former manager, if you don’t mind. George Hudson did wonderful things for us in the early days, one must acknowledge that, but he … left us with problems. That chapter in our history is closed.’
‘The succeeding one had much to recommend it.’
‘We like to think so.’
‘Mr Ellis was the ideal choice as your chairman.’
To Haygarth’s chagrin, Colbeck gave a brief and accurate outline of the recovery of the Midland Railway under its recently retired chairman, thereby robbing the other man of the chance to lay claim to some of the improvements. With Maurice Cope in attendance, they were at the company headquarters, Haygarth occupying the chair behind the desk like a usurper seated on a throne. He and Cope had been impressed and sobered by the inspector’s detailed knowledge of the history of the Midland. It warned them that they could not make unjustified assertions without being challenged by him.