CHAPTER NINE
When the family gathered in the drawing room, there was a surprise in store for them. Harriet Quayle, widow of the murdered man, insisted on being present. Though she had to be helped to her seat by her daughter, Agnes, a spindly young woman with an anxious face, she was determined to be involved in what would be an important discussion. Stanley Quayle was irritated by her arrival, not least because it would inhibit him slightly. He tried to get rid of her.
‘Are you sure that you feel well enough to be here, Mother?’ he asked.
‘I do feel poorly,’ she confessed, ‘but I’m staying.’
‘It may be a long debate.’
‘I’ll manage to remain awake somehow.’
‘We can tell you afterwards what’s been decided.’
‘You won’t have to, Stanley. I can help to make any decisions.’
‘Very well,’ he said, resignedly.
‘Mother is entitled to be here,’ said Lucas Quayle. ‘I agree that both my dear wife and Stanley’s wife are best excluded. They’re only members of the family by marriage and, in any case, neither of them felt that it would be right to join us.’
‘All needed are now here,’ said Stanley.
‘All except Lydia, that is,’ said his brother, waspishly.
‘Let’s keep her name out of this, please. This doesn’t concern her.’
They all looked towards Harriet for a word or sign of confirmation but she said nothing. Sitting deep in an armchair, she seemed frailer than ever. Stanley was the only person still on his feet. He struck a pose.
‘Father’s body has been returned to us,’ he began, ‘so we can make all the necessary funeral arrangements. Lucas and I have already had a preliminary talk on that subject but now is the time for anyone else to offer their opinion as to how the event should be planned. Under other circumstances, we would invite mourners back here after the event but — given Mother’s weakened condition — that would put far too big a strain on her.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Stanley,’ she said.
‘Stanley is right,’ argued his brother. ‘Your health comes first, Mother.’
‘That’s nonsense, Lucas. The person you should first consider is your poor father. This is his funeral not mine. We must ask ourselves what he would have wanted and I think that we all know the answer. He would like a dignified ceremony followed by a gathering of family and friends under this roof.’
‘I agree,’ Agnes piped up.
‘So do I,’ said her younger brother.
‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ said Stanley Quayle, irked that they were all of one mind. ‘There are other factors to consider. Father, alas, did not die a natural death. He was the victim of a cruel murder.’
Harriet clutched at her throat. Agnes quickly put a comforting hand on her shoulder and shot a look of reproof at Stanley for being so carelessly explicit. Her elder brother surged on regardless.
‘In the first instance,’ he declared, ‘it might be better to have a small, private service for the immediate family. After a decent interval to allow for the investigation to continue, and for an arrest to be made, we can hold a memorial service for all and sundry. By that time, Mother may be fully recovered and more able to cope.’
‘By that time,’ said Harriet, wryly, ‘I may well be dead myself.’
‘Mother!’ exclaimed her daughter.
‘I don’t have unlimited time, Agnes.’
‘You shouldn’t even think such things.’
‘I agree,’ said Stanley Quayle. ‘It’s morbid.’
‘My view is this,’ said his brother, sitting up. ‘Please listen carefully.’
The argument had started and it went on for a long time, rising in volume and growing in intensity. Agnes was the surprise. Normally so subdued, she spoke up for once and did so to some effect. Lucas Quayle seemed more intent on opposing his brother’s views than on putting forward an alternative plan and it caused a deal of friction between them. It was the elder brother who first started shouting. Harriet took a full part in the quarrel and it was only when she lost her voice that it came to an abrupt end. They sat there in silence, looking around at each other and feeling embarrassed that they’d descended into an unseemly squabble at a time when they should have been mourning the death of Vivian Quayle.
Several minutes went by before Stanley Quayle finally spoke. His voice was low and almost sepulchral. He looked from one to the other.
‘I’ve not had an opportunity to tell you all that a detective from London called here yesterday,’ he said. ‘An Inspector Colbeck has been put in charge of the case.’
‘What kind of man was he?’ asked his brother.
‘He seemed competent but I was too distracted to spend much time with him.’
‘You should have let me talk to him, Stanley.’
‘That’s precisely what I didn’t want to do. We must be discreet and restrained, Lucas. I didn’t want you blurting out family secrets to him.’
‘If he’s any kind of detective, he’s bound to find out the full facts about Lydia’s departure from here.’
‘Don’t bring her name up again,’ pleaded Agnes.
‘We can’t just pretend that she never existed.’
‘That’s exactly what we must do.’
‘Be reasonable, Agnes.’
‘Remember what Father told us. She must be banned from coming here.’
‘Wait a moment,’ said Harriet, regaining her voice. ‘What’s this about a detective from London?’
‘He’s from Scotland Yard,’ explained her elder son. ‘He’s far more likely to solve the crime than the police in Derbyshire.’
‘Who sent for him? Was it you, Stanley?’
‘No, Mother, I should imagine that it was Mr Haygarth.’
‘Keep that dreadful man away from me,’ wailed Harriet in distress. ‘I won’t have him in this house. He’s been plotting against your father for years. If that inspector is hunting the killer, he should look no further than Donald Haygarth.’
‘Mr Haygarth tried to poach me away from the estate,’ said Burns.
‘But he told me that he only knew you as a cricketer.’
‘Then he was lying.’
‘He said that he’d simply heard about your feats as a demon bowler.’
‘It was my gardening expertise that he prized, Inspector. He didn’t approach me in person, mark you, but he sent a man to sound me out. Somehow, he knew exactly how much I was paid and was told to offer me more.’
‘But you declined the offer.’
‘Yes, I did, and for two good reasons.’
‘I think we both know the first one,’ said Colbeck, tactfully. ‘You had emotional commitments to a member of the family. What was the other reason?’
‘Mr Haygarth didn’t really want me for what I could do to his garden. He just wanted to spite Mr Quayle. When I realised that I sent the go-between away.’
‘Who was the man? Did he give you a name?’
‘Yes — it was Maurice Cope.’
Colbeck was not surprised. When he’d seen them together that morning, he’d worked out the relationship between the two of them without difficulty. Cope was Haygarth’s henchman, a company employee who was in a good position to know everything that went on at the headquarters of the Midland Railway and who reported it immediately to his master. Haygarth’s crude attempt to lure away the head gardener was yet one more instance of the bad blood between him and Vivian Quayle. Colbeck was ready to wager that it would have been only one of many such attempts to annoy or wound his rival.
The second visit to Melbourne Hall was more productive. After a long and fascinating exploration of the church, Colbeck had returned to find that Gerard Burns was less defensive. He talked a little more about his romance with Lydia Quayle and admitted that it had reached the point where they’d considered marriage, even if it involved an elopement. Evidently, it was no passing attachment. The pair had been betrayed by one of the servants who’d seen them together in the woods. Dismissal was instant. Lydia was locked in her room and Burns was hustled off the property and forbidden to return.