When he reached the house, his attention instead went straight to the church of St Michael with St Mary, standing close to the stables and the servants’ quarters of the Hall. One of the finest Norman churches in the kingdom, it was a truly magnificent structure with a size and quality worthy of a cathedral. Colbeck promised himself that he would take a closer look at the place before he left Melbourne. The Hall itself was an arresting edifice in an idyllic setting. Its origins were medieval but it had fallen into such a state of disrepair during the later years of Elizabeth’s reign that its new owner had pulled down and rebuilt large parts of it. Substantial alterations were also made in the next century and, over the years, each new owner felt the urge to stamp his mark upon the house.
Colbeck was unable to take in all the architectural felicities. He was there simply to speak to the head gardener. The garrulous housekeeper insisted on telling Colbeck that Melbourne Hall actually belonged to the former Emily Lamb who’d inherited it from her brother, Frederic, who had himself acquired the place at the death of his elder brother, William Lamb, erstwhile Lord Melbourne, another prime minister. Colbeck didn’t wish to alarm her by saying that he was treating the head gardener as a murder suspect so he merely said that he hoped Gerard Burns would be able to help him with enquiries relating to an estate in Nottinghamshire on which he once worked.
When he met the gardener himself, he was able to be more forthright. After introducing himself, he explained exactly why he had come to Melbourne. Gerard Burns stared at him with what seemed like genuine surprise.
‘Mr Quayle is dead?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘Have you not heard the news?’
‘How could I? We are very cut off here.’
‘Reports of the murder have been in all the newspapers, Mr Burns.’
‘I’ve no time to read newspapers, Inspector. Looking after these gardens takes up all of my time.’ With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the grounds. ‘It’s hard work to keep them in this condition all the time.’
‘You’re obviously very proficient at your trade, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Though I suspect it’s rather like the one in which I’m engaged. It’s never possible to master it because one always has to learn new things.’
‘That’s very true of horticulture,’ said Burns, ‘because new plants and shrubs arrive from abroad all the time. You have to learn how to nurture them. Then there are the new ways they keep inventing to kill weeds.’
Burns spoke openly but there was an underlying surliness in his voice and manner. He clearly wanted to be left alone to get on with his job. What he least wanted to do was to talk about his time with the Quayle family but Colbeck needed answers and pressed on.
‘Where were you three nights ago, sir?’ he asked.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Were you here in Melbourne?’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ admitted the other. ‘I went over to Ilkeston to play cricket.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard about your prowess as a bowler. I believe that you played for the county when you lived in Nottinghamshire.’
Burns smiled. ‘We beat the All-England team once. I took seven wickets.’
‘And you also played for a team organised by Mr Quayle, I’m told.’ The glowing pride vanished instantly from the gardener’s face. ‘Thanks to you, victory was assured every time. What sort of a captain was Stanley Quayle?’
‘That world is long behind me, Inspector.’
‘I should imagine that he liked to throw his weight around.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Burns, sharply, ‘I’d rather not talk about all that.’
‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to, sir. Otherwise, I may have to invite you to accompany me to the nearest police station where we can have a more formal interview. A pleasant chat out here in these wonderful gardens is surely preferable to that, is it not?’ Burns gave a reluctant nod. ‘Why did you leave Mr Quayle’s employ?’
‘I think you already know that.’
‘All I have is one side of the story. I’d like to hear yours.’
‘It was a mistake,’ said Burns, vehemently. ‘I broke their rules and I was dismissed. When you work for people like that, there are lines you’re never allowed to cross. I strayed over them and paid the penalty. Mr Quayle not only had me thrown off the estate, he made sure that I’d never get another job in the county again.’
‘So how did you end up here?’
‘One of the gentlemen who ran the county cricket team had some influence here. He gave me a letter of introduction and I was taken on. When the head gardener retired, I’d done enough to show that I could replace him.’
‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ observed Colbeck, looking around. ‘But you must have had regrets when you left your former post.’
Burns shifted his feet. ‘I had no regrets on my own account.’
‘Yet I daresay you felt sorry for the lady herself.’
‘That’s as maybe, Inspector.’
‘Have you seen Miss Lydia Quayle since?’
There was a studied pause. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Did you want to see her?’
‘As I told you,’ snapped Burns, ‘that world is behind me. I’ve put down roots here. I’m married now. I’ve got all I want.’
Colbeck took a long, hard look at him. Burns met his gaze with a mingled bitterness and defiance. Someone had identified him as a killer and there were aspects of his character that easily qualified him for the role. Yet he’d taken pains to distance himself from the Quayle family and had started afresh in a quiet, rural refuge. Colbeck wondered just how deep his acrimony still was.
‘That’s a beautiful church you have on your doorstep, Mr Burns.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Do you worship there?’
‘My wife and I go most Sundays.’
‘Then you’re obviously acquainted with Christian virtues,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m going to take a look inside the church. It will give you time to think over what you’ve told me. Some of it is very plausible yet I have a nagging sensation of being deceived. When I come back, I hope that you’ll realise the importance of being completely honest with me. See it as an opportunity of getting something off your chest.’
‘I’ve nothing new to add, Inspector,’ insisted Burns.
‘In that case, you might wish to subtract from your statements.’
‘You’ll be wasting your time if you come bothering me again.’
‘We can talk about cricket,’ said Colbeck, airily. ‘That’s never a waste of time, is it? If you played against the All-England XI, you’ll no doubt have encountered the redoubtable Mr Stephenson.’
Burns straightened his shoulders. ‘I bowled him out.’
‘Why did H. H. Stephenson play for that team when Gerard Burns did not?’
‘Gardening’s what I love. Cricket’s just for fun.’
Colbeck appraised him again. Lydia Quayle’s romance with him was understandable. Apart from his physical attractions, Burns was well spoken, self-possessed and highly skilled. The inspector was bound to wonder which of them had made the first move. Had he set his cap at one of the daughters of the house or had she been the one to initiate things? Colbeck would be interested to find out.
‘When I told you about Mr Quayle’s death,’ he recalled, ‘you were surprised but there was no other reaction from you.’
‘Why should there be?’
‘Don’t you feel even the slightest regret at his murder?’
‘No,’ said Burns, stoutly. ‘To be honest, I am delighted.’