After explaining what he’d done the previous day, Colbeck told them that Sergeant Leeming had made what appeared to be progress in Spondon itself. While Haygarth was pleased to hear it, Cope made no comment and remained watchful.
‘What it all boils down to,’ said Colbeck in conclusion, ‘is this. Should we be looking for someone inside the company or outside it?’
‘Oh, outside it, surely,’ bleated Cope, breaking his silence.
‘Do you agree, Mr Haygarth?’
‘You must leave no stone unturned,’ replied the other, sonorously.
‘Does that include Enoch Stone?’ asked Colbeck, unable to resist the comment and swiftly apologising for it. ‘So I have complete access to the company?’
‘Of course — Cope will make sure of that, Inspector.’
‘Yes,’ said Cope with a marked absence of enthusiasm. ‘You may call on me.’
‘During my brief conversation with him,’ said Colbeck, ‘Stanley Quayle was of the opinion that his father might have had enemies among his fellow directors. I’m not suggesting in any way that you incited them to commit murder, Mr Haygarth, but passions can run high in a contest and you wouldn’t be the first person embarrassed by the zeal of one of your supporters.’
‘I accept that,’ said Haygarth, urbanely, ‘but you’ll find no killers in my camp, Inspector. They are all law-abiding individuals.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ added Cope.
‘Then you’ll be happy to give me a list of all board members,’ said Colbeck.
‘Well …’ Cope looked for a prompt from Haygarth.
‘We’ll be quite happy,’ said the acting chairman. ‘We have nothing to hide.’ He shot Cope a glance before turning back to Colbeck. ‘What help have you had from Superintendent Wigg?’
‘Not a great deal,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Apart from the fact that he sent a copy of the post-mortem report, he’s done very little beyond mocking me for claiming that I had the name of a suspect.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was written on the back of a reward notice and delivered to my hotel. When I mentioned the name to the superintendent, he said the man probably never existed.’
‘And does he?’
‘Oh, yes. Stanley Quayle confirmed that.’
‘Who is the fellow?’
‘Gerard Burns.’
Haygarth frowned. ‘I’ve heard that name before somewhere.’
‘I gather that he’s a talented cricketer.’
‘Ah, that’s it, of course!’ said the other, snapping his fingers. ‘I have no interest in cricket myself but Vivian Quayle had something of an obsession about it. Burns was his head gardener, I think. Every summer Mr Quayle used to host a couple of cricket matches. His elder son, Stanley, used to captain a team made up largely from household servants and the estate staff. Because of this man, Gerard Burns,’ said Haygarth, ‘they won every match.’
‘He was good enough to represent the county, I hear.’
‘That may well be so, Inspector.’
‘Why was he named as a suspect?’ asked Cope.
‘He was dismissed by Mr Quayle,’ said Colbeck. ‘To get rid of his finest cricketer, he must have had good reason. I’m told that Burns left in disgrace.’
‘I knew nothing of that,’ claimed Haygarth. ‘Vivian Quayle and I saw very little of each other socially so I was not aware of events at his home any more than he knew about my private life. What about you, Cope?’
‘The name is entirely new to me, sir.’
‘Are you taking him seriously as a suspect, Inspector?’
‘I must do,’ replied Colbeck. ‘He appears to have had a motive and, being young and strong, would have the means to overpower his victim. Whether or not he had the opportunity to do so, of course, is another matter.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He works in the garden at Melbourne Hall. I’ll visit him today.’
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Haygarth. ‘You’ll be in exalted company. Do you know who happens to live at Melbourne Hall?’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t.’
‘It’s the prime minister — Lord Palmerston.’
Having taken the wheelbarrow from the churchyard, Victor Leeming had borrowed two sacks of potatoes from a greengrocer so that he was pushing a substantial weight. He even covered them with a cloth. He took his cargo to the bottom of the hill and began the slow ascent. In reconstructing what he believed might have been the route taken by the killer, he hoped that he might jog the memory of a passer-by who’d happened to have been in the vicinity on the night of the murder. Disappointingly, the only villagers he encountered were two old ladies and a postman. They all asked him what he was doing but none was of any help to him.
The load was heavy and even someone of Leeming’s considerable strength was feeling the strain. Before he reached the gate to the churchyard, he was confronted by a big, broad, rugged man in his thirties with a swagger. The newcomer was carrying a pair of riding boots.
‘You must be Sergeant Leeming,’ he said with a lazy grin.
‘That’s right. Who might you be?’
‘Oh, I’m Jed Hockaday, sir. I’m a cobbler by trade but I was also sworn in as a special constable, so you might say we’re in the same business. What are you doing?’
‘Were you anywhere near here on the night of the murder?’
‘No, sir, I was visiting friends in Duffield.’
‘Then you’re of no use to me.’
Hockaday was wounded. ‘Don’t say that, Sergeant. I was hoping you’d call on me. I’ve been involved in a murder case before, you see.’
‘Was that the one involving Enoch Stone?’
‘Yes — he was a good friend of mine.’
‘I was told he was killed by a traveller.’
‘No, no,’ argued the other man. ‘The murderer lives here in Spondon. I’d swear to that. Most folk in this village are good, kind, honest people. They’d do anything to help someone in a spot of bother. Then there are the others,’ he went on, glancing around, ‘those who keep themselves to themselves. You never know who’s hiding behind a closed door, do you, or what they might be planning? I hate to say it because I’ve probably mended his shoes at some point, but Enoch’s killer is one of us.’
Leeming had seen enough of Hockaday to realise that he was a man of limited intelligence. His sheer bulk and his willingness had recommended him for police work and he would be very effective at dealing with anyone in a brawl. As an assistant in a murder investigation, however, he would be a handicap.
‘I’ll be standing by all the time, Sergeant,’ said the cobbler. ‘You’re staying at the Malt Shovel, aren’t you? My shop is farther along Potter Street.’
‘Thank you. I’ll remember that.’
‘A man dressed like you shouldn’t be pushing a wheelbarrow. Would you like me to take over from you?’
Leeming was affronted. ‘No, I wouldn’t. I can manage on my own.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to it and deliver these boots. Remember my name.’
‘I will, Mr Hockaday.’
‘Everyone here calls me Jed.’
He treated Leeming to another lazy grin then swaggered off. Though there was a link between them, Hockaday was no Philip Conway. Both men were excited to make the acquaintance of a Scotland Yard detective. While the young reporter was a reliable source of information, however, the cobbler was better left to his trade. In the hands of such amateur constables, Leeming believed, the murder of Enoch Stone would remain unsolved until Doomsday. Grasping the handles of the barrow again, he gave it a shove and it creaked into action but he did not get as far as the church. A horse and cart came into view with a pungent load of manure piled high on it. The driver was enraged by what he saw.
‘Leave my barrer alone!’ yelled Bert Knowles. ‘Thass stealin’, thar is.’
Since the railway had yet to reach Melbourne, Colbeck was obliged to take the train to the nearest station then hire a cab. It took him through rolling countryside with pleasing vistas wherever he looked. Derby might be a railway town, with its works contributing liberally to the regular din, smoke and grime, but whole areas of the county were still untouched by industry. Colbeck found the leisurely journey both restorative and inspiring. Melbourne was a small village in the Trent valley that still retained its rustic charm. Standing at the south-east end, the Hall was by far the largest and most striking house in the area, a fitting place of residence for a prime minister. The cab went down the hill towards it, giving Colbeck the opportunity to see the smaller houses and cottages of ordinary mortals.