‘How often do you see Mr Hockaday?’
‘He only comes every now and then.’
‘Why is that, sir?’
‘Shouldn’t you be back in Spondon, trying to catch that killer?’ asked the old man with a burst of anger. ‘It wasn’t Jed, I tell you. I’d swear to it.’
‘Why do you say that, sir?’
‘It’s because he only comes here when he has money to give us.’
‘Is he a relative of yours, Mr Verney?’
The old man looked over his shoulder to make sure that nobody inside the cottage could hear him, then he leant forward to confide in Leeming’s ear.
‘I’m Jed’s father.’
Harriet Quayle’s health had swiftly declined. Though there’d been no apparent ill effects from her sojourn in the grounds, she later became visibly unwell. Even though she was in a warm bed, she began to shiver. Her face whitened and her breathing was irregular. She complained of pain in her limbs. But the biggest change was in her attitude. Hitherto, she’d made an effort to cope with the devastating news of her husband’s murder and had even been able to go for a ride in the landau. It was almost as if the ugly truth had finally sunk in. She had lost the man who’d been beside her for so many years and who’d fathered her four children. Her grief was exacerbated by the fact that one of those children was no longer there to comfort her.
‘Mother is getting worse,’ said Agnes.
‘Give her something to help her sleep,’ advised her elder brother. ‘The doctor left those tablets.’
‘She’s rambling, Stanley. Her mind is crumbling.’
‘Stay with her. If Mother doesn’t improve, send for the doctor. I’ll look in on her when I get back.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve business in Nottingham.’
‘I feel so much better when you’re here — everybody does.’
‘Goodbye, Agnes.’
After brushing her cheek with a token kiss, he ignored her plea and left the house. The landau was waiting for him on the drive. Standing beside it and holding the door open was John Cleary. He acknowledged Stanley Quayle with a nod. After clambering into his seat, the passenger turned on the coachman.
‘Do you see what you did, Cleary?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ said the other, folding the step into position and closing the door.
‘Thanks to you, my mother is very ill.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘You should have considered her health before you agreed to take her for a drive. Her constitution was too weak for an outing.’
‘Mrs Quayle seemed well enough to me, sir.’
‘It wasn’t your place to make such a judgement.’
‘No, sir,’ said Cleary. ‘I know that.’
‘My mother left the house against the express wishes of my sister. You must have been aware of that when they came out together.’
‘I was too busy helping Mrs Quayle into her seat, sir.’
‘You’ve displeased me, Cleary,’ warned the other.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ said the coachman, earnestly, ‘and I didn’t think that it would do Mrs Quayle any harm. I was as worried as anybody when she disappeared. Well, you saw me, sir. I helped in the search for your mother and I was very relieved when she was found.’
Stanley Quayle looked at him with undisguised contempt. Unable to decide if the coachman was being honest or merely obsequious, he repeated his warning that Cleary’s job hung in the balance. If he was given the slightest cause for annoyance, Quayle would have him dismissed.
‘Do you understand, Cleary?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When I make a threat, I always mean it.’
The coachman’s manner was courteous. ‘Yes, Mr Quayle.’
The passenger sat back in his seat and waved a lordly hand.
‘Take me to the railway station.’
Whether on the cricket field or off it, Gerard Burns always committed himself to the task in hand. In the time that he’d worked in the gardens at Melbourne Hall, he’d suggested a number of initiatives. Though some had inevitably been turned down, those that had been implemented proved to be universally successful. He was always looking for ways to improve vistas and add floral refinements. His latest project concerned the fountains and he was studying them yet again when he realised that he had a visitor. Robert Colbeck seemed to have materialised out of thin air.
‘I never expected to see you again, Inspector,’ said Burns.
‘I’d hoped it might not be necessary, sir.’
‘It’s not really convenient for me to talk now.’
‘Then I’ll wait for you in the police station, Mr Burns, and we can have the interview there. It might not be quite so private, I’m afraid.’
Colbeck’s threat had the desired effect. If Burns was seen giving a statement in the police station, it would soon become common knowledge. Several people were employed at the Hall. One of them was certain to catch wind of the development and taunting was sure to follow. If it was known that Burns was a suspect in a murder inquiry, his job might be at risk. Changing his mind, he led Colbeck to a quieter part of the garden and they sat on a bench in the sunshine.
‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’ asked the gardener.
‘I’m sure that you recall that cricket match in Ilkeston.’
‘Very clearly.’
‘I went there,’ said Colbeck, noting the look of surprise from the other man. ‘I have to say that I’ve seen better pitches.’
Burns recovered quickly. ‘If you took the trouble to check up on me, you’ll know that what I told you was the truth. I did play cricket there on that day.’
‘It’s not what you told me that’s at issue here, Mr Burns. It’s what you deliberately held back from me.’
‘And what was that?’
‘After the match, you took a train to Derby.’
Burns shrugged. ‘Is that a cause for suspicion?’
‘Why did you go there?’
‘That’s a personal matter.’
‘Did you go to see a friend or were you drawn there by an enemy?’
‘Speak more plainly, Inspector.’
‘If you were in Derby late that night, you were not far from Spondon.’
‘That doesn’t mean I went there.’
‘No, but it raises the possibility that you could have.’
‘I could have done all sorts of things.’
There was an underlying smugness in the reply that alerted Colbeck. He sensed that Burns had reverted to the posture he’d adopted at their first meeting when he’d been evasive and unhelpful. It was at their second encounter that he’d been far more honest. The gardener was behaving as if he’d expended his reserves of honesty and was falling back on prevarication. Waiting for the next question, he offered a challenging smile. Colbeck jolted him out of his complacency.
‘We’ve spoken to Miss Lydia Quayle.’
Burns was startled. ‘Where is she?’
‘The lady lives in London now, sir. I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting her myself but I’ve had a full report of what transpired.’ He could see the gardener’s extreme discomfort. ‘You may be relieved to know that Miss Quayle did not talk about you at any length.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You belong to an episode in her life that she has left behind her.’
‘It’s the same in my case, Inspector.’
‘When we last spoke, you told me of a threat made against you. The same vile threat was repeated to Miss Quayle by her father. It was the final straw that broke the bond between them. And, of course,’ added Colbeck, ‘it severed the bond between you and the young lady.’
There was a lengthy pause. Burns gritted his teeth and looked him in the eye.
‘If you’re waiting for a comment,’ he said, eventually, ‘I don’t have one to make except to say that I wish Lydia … Miss Quayle well.’
‘I’ve no doubt that those are her sentiments with regard to you, sir.’
A note of aggression crept in. ‘So why are you really here, Inspector?’
‘An odd coincidence has occurred, Mr Burns.’
‘What is it?’
‘Before I tell you that,’ said Colbeck, gazing around, ‘can you tell me how you keep these gardens in such pristine condition. The lawns are like brushed velvet and the flower beds have nothing but flowers in them. How do you control weeds?’