‘I misled you earlier,’ said Burns, contritely. ‘I did make an effort to see Lydia afterwards. She’d never have forgiven me if I hadn’t at least tried.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was seen and chased away again.’
‘Did you make a second attempt?’
Burns hung his head. ‘I intended to,’ he said, ‘but he changed my mind.’
‘Who did?’
‘Lydia’s father.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Mr Quayle sent two men to the house where I was staying. They were paid ruffians, Inspector. There’s no other word for them. I put up a good fight and bloodied their noses but they were too strong for me. When they made their threat, I knew that they were deadly serious.’
‘What threat was that?’
‘I still shudder when I remember it.’
‘Tell me what they said,’ urged Colbeck.
Burns needed a full minute to compose himself before he did so. Long-suppressed memories streamed through his brain and the agony showed in his face. Eventually, he licked his lips before speaking.
‘They said that, if I tried to get anywhere near Lydia again, they’d cut off my right hand. They meant it, Inspector. They’d take away my livelihood without a second thought. One of them sneered at me and said I wouldn’t be able to bowl a cricket ball again.’
‘Are you certain that Mr Quayle put them up to it?’
‘They never mentioned his name but who else could it have been?’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ asked Colbeck.
Burns gave a hollow laugh. ‘What use would that have been?’ he said, sourly. ‘They’ve no power over a man like Mr Quayle. It would have been my word against his. Besides, I’d already been frightened off by those two men. They said that, if I dared to go to the police, they’d cut off both my hands and that they wouldn’t stop there. From that day on, I’ve always had this with me,’ he went on, pushing back his coat so that he could take a long knife from its sheath. ‘It’s my protection.’
‘Mr Quayle can’t hurt you now.’
‘I’d like to spit on the bastard’s coffin!’
Colbeck understood the sentiment. What he wanted to know was whether or not Burns would do anything to put the man into the coffin. In view of the treatment meted out to the gardener, he felt sorry for him but he also realised that what he was hearing was a powerful motive for murder. With a knife in his hand, Burns looked more than capable of using it. Had he waited for a few years before wreaking his revenge? The bond between him and Lydia Quayle had been broken asunder and his subsequent marriage to someone else had proved that. But the urge for revenge could lie dormant for a long time before bubbling back to the surface again. Had that happened in the case of Gerard Burns? He’d freely confessed that he’d been playing cricket in Ilkeston on the day of the murder. Colbeck knew enough of Derbyshire geography to realise how easy it would have been to get to Spondon the same night. The revelation about the wheelbarrow could also be pertinent. As they were talking, a barrow was standing no more than a few yards away. It was part of a gardener’s stock-in-trade.
Burns sheathed his knife. ‘Will that be all, Inspector?’
‘Yes, Mr Burns — for the time being, anyway.’
‘There’s no need for you to come back, is there?’
‘One never knows.’
‘I did not kill Mr Quayle.’
Colbeck looked him in the eye. ‘I’d like to believe that.’
He took his leave and strolled away, taking a few moments to admire the landscaping. Melbourne Hall clearly had its own Garden of Eden. Colbeck walked on past an avenue of cedars. Tucked away behind them was a garden shed and he took the trouble to stroll across to it. Since the door was unlocked, he eased it open and glanced inside. A copy of the Derby Mercury lay among the implements on the table. It appeared that Gerard Burns did find time to read newspapers, after all.
Victor Leeming was pleased to see Philip Conway back in the village again. The reporter had picked up various snippets of information in Derby and he passed them on. The one that interested Leeming most was the fact that Superintendent Wigg had been overheard pouring scorn on the efforts of the Scotland Yard detectives and boasting that he would solve the crime before them.
‘Then where is he? The murder was committed here.’
‘But it may have been planned somewhere else, Sergeant.’
‘We’ve already accepted that. What does the superintendent know that we don’t? If he’s holding back anything from us, Inspector Colbeck will tear him to pieces. The man is supposed to help.’
‘Derbyshire police can be very territorial.’
‘It’s a common weakness among certain constabularies. Thinking they can handle complex investigations themselves, they get into a terrible mess then call on us to bail them out. Superintendent Wigg is only one of a kind.’
They were sampling the beer at the White Swan in Moor Street. Arriving with high expectations, Conway was disappointed that there’d been no apparent progress.
‘I was hoping you’d have … something to tell me,’ he said.
‘I do have something,’ said Leeming. ‘This beer is nowhere near as good as the stuff at the Malt Shovel. You should have warned me.’
‘You wanted to get around the village. Men who drink here wouldn’t go anywhere near the Malt Shovel or the Union Inn or the Prince of Wales, for that matter. Like any other village, Spondon is a collection of little groups.’
‘I found that out.’ He put a hand on the reporter’s arm. ‘I need a favour from you, Mr Conway.’
‘It’s granted before you even ask it.’
‘There’s something you could put in your newspaper for me.’
Leeming told him about the double sighting of a man with a wheelbarrow at a crucial time on the night of the murder. The post-mortem had been unable to give a precise time of death but it did specify the likely hours between which it must have occurred. The barrow had been seen well inside that wide spectrum of time. Leeming wanted an appeal for anyone else who might have spotted it to come forward and he suggested that the reward on offer be mentioned once again. Conway agreed to do his bidding and began to speculate on the murder.
‘Why push him up the hill in a wheelbarrow when the killer could have driven a horse and carriage right up to the church gate and unloaded the body there?’
‘People were about that night. Two of them, at least, saw the barrow. I fancy that a few more would have seen something as conspicuous as a horse and carriage outside the church. That would have attracted too much attention. Someone would have been bound to be curious.’
‘I never thought of that.’
‘If that’s what the killer used,’ said Leeming, ‘it was safer for him to leave the horse and carriage out of sight. That’s my theory, anyway. Earlier on, I borrowed the wheelbarrow from the churchyard and went back down the hill. I found a likely place to tuck away a horse and carriage. When I pushed the barrow uphill, I discovered what a struggle it was and I was only carrying some sacks of potatoes.’
‘You were being very thorough.’
‘I was hoping someone would see me who’d been out and about on the night of the murder. I wanted to jog their memory.’
‘And did you?’
‘I’m afraid not. The only person who stopped to talk to me was one of the village constables.’
‘Which one was it?’
‘He was a burly fellow named Jed Hockaday.’
‘Yes,’ said Conway, ‘I’ve met him. He’s a cobbler.’
‘He didn’t strike me as being all that intelligent. But he was very keen to help. He boasted that he’d been involved in the Enoch Stone case. Hockaday told me that he and Stone had been good friends.’
‘Then he was telling a barefaced lie, Sergeant.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve read all the reports of that investigation and Hockaday’s name pops up more than once. Far from being a friend of the victim, he was one of Stone’s enemies. The two of them came to blows over something. Hockaday deliberately misled you.’