‘Who is it?’
‘Superintendent Wigg.’
‘I’d forgotten him.’
‘Should we treat him as suspect?’
Stanley Quayle pondered. ‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘Yes, you should.’
Now that the shock of the murder was wearing off in Spondon, people were starting to remember things that had seemed irrelevant at the time. The reporter was therefore able to pick up scraps of information here and there that might be of use to the detectives. Having become a familiar figure in the village, he’d won the trust of most of the inhabitants so they were more ready to confide in him. When his work was done, he strolled towards the railway station with the feeling that his day had been well spent. Before Conway reached the building, however, he saw Jed Hockaday emerging from it. Spotting the reporter, the cobbler bore down on him with a vengeance.
‘I want a word with you,’ he said, angrily.
‘You can have as many as you like,’ replied the other, coolly.
‘Stop telling lies about me to those two detectives.’
‘You’re the one who’s been telling lies, Mr Hockaday. According to you, on the night of the murder, you weren’t even in Spondon. Yet when the sergeant had a word with the stationmaster, he discovered that you got back here on the last train.’
‘I’d been drinking,’ said Hockaday. ‘I was confused.’
‘You were sober in the morning. When you woke up in your own bed, you must have realised that you got back home somehow.’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘If it’s relevant to the murder investigation, it is my business.’
‘I had nothing to do with the murder,’ said the cobbler, brandishing a fist, ‘so you can stop saying that I did. I never even knew the dead man.’
‘Are you sure?’ challenged Conway.
‘I’m very sure.’
‘What about Mr Haygarth?’
Hockaday glared. ‘Who?’
‘Donald Haygarth — did you know him?’
There was a momentary delay in replying that gave the cobbler away and his manner was shifty. Though he insisted that he was neither friend nor acquaintance of Haygarth, his claim was unconvincing. The question had put him on the defensive and it irked him. He went back on the attack again.
‘Keep away from Spondon,’ he warned.
‘It’s a free country. I can come here, if I want to.’
‘You’re not welcome.’
‘You don’t speak for the whole village,’ said Conway. ‘Most people have been very friendly. They’ve been glad to help, especially as it may get their names in the Mercury.’
Hockaday stepped in close. ‘Don’t spread lies about me — or else.’
‘Are you threatening me, Mr Hockaday?’
‘There’s such a thing as slander.’
Conway laughed. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ he said. ‘I work for a newspaper so I’ve had the laws of libel and slander drummed into me. It’s the reason I always tell the truth. Malicious lies can be expensive.’
‘You’d do well to remember that.’
Hockaday stood over him as if about to strike a blow. In the end, he took a step to the side so that the reporter could go past. Conway paused.
‘Let me ask you again,’ he said. ‘Do you know Donald Haygarth?’
Unable to contain his anger, Hockaday stalked off.
Colbeck was intrigued. Of all the people involved in the case, he found Gerard Burns the most interesting and not only because of his prowess as a cricketer. On the journey back to Derby, he reflected on the character of the gardener. Until his romance with Lydia Quayle, he’d been viewed as an ideal employee, honest, dependable, hard-working, keen to improve the gardens he tended and ready to lend his skills to the family on the field of play. Yet he was also capable of dishonesty, entering into a relationship that called for systematic deception on his part. Having heard from Leeming what an attractive young woman she was, Colbeck could understand how Burns had been drawn to her but he sensed that there was another element at work. Gerard Burns was a man who liked danger and who would be drawn into a romance by the very thing that should have kept him at bay. He might have been beaten by hired ruffians, but he’d taken care to point out that he’d given both men a good fight before he was overpowered.
Where had he been after the match in Ilkeston? The groundsman there had placed him in Derby on the night of the murder and Burns had admitted it freely. What he refused to say was what he was doing there and who might vouch for his whereabouts at a time when Vivian Quayle was being lowered into a grave in Spondon. Colbeck had left Melbourne Hall with many questions unanswered. Burns had been unmoved when it was pointed out that poison similar to that in the herbicide he used had been found in the murder victim. Of the main suspects — Burns, Wigg and Haygarth — the gardener was the one most likely to have committed the crime on his own. The others would probably have used a trusted confederate. As a policeman, Wigg seemed the least likely candidate but Colbeck had arrested a murderous sergeant in his time so he knew that a police uniform was no proof of innocence. Wigg might have had a ready assistant in someone like Jed Hockaday and Haygarth merely had to call on Maurice Hope.
His meditations took him all the way back to the headquarters of the Midland Railway. Colbeck felt that the warm welcome he received from the acting chairman was a trifle forced. Haygarth pressed for details. When he heard that Colbeck had made a return visit to Melbourne Hall, he wondered why the inspector had not arrested Gerard Burns on the spot.
‘I had insufficient evidence, sir,’ explained Colbeck.
‘You had him lying about where he was on the night of the murder and you discovered that he uses a weedkiller which contains a poison found in the victim’s body. What else do you need?’
‘Mr Burns didn’t lie to me. He merely withheld the truth and that’s a slightly different thing. As for the herbicide, he’s not the only gardener who uses it.’
‘But you just told me that it came from Germany. How many people would even know that such a product existed?’
‘Good horticulturalists are observant people,’ said Colbeck. ‘They read articles about developments abroad. Mr Burns is luckier than most in that he’s encouraged to keep abreast of the latest news.’
‘I think you’ve got enough to put him behind bars.’
‘Then you have an inadequate grasp of the law.’
‘I don’t think so. On the evidence we have — including his hatred of Vivian Quayle — a clever barrister could send him off for a rendezvous with the hangman.’
‘I dispute that,’ said Colbeck, firmly, ‘and I speak as a former barrister. When you prosecute an innocent man, it can be embarrassing and not without consequences. To begin with, the police can be sued for wrongful arrest. Before you go to court, you must ensure that you have watertight evidence of guilt.’
‘But you have it, Inspector. Burns is the obvious killer.’
‘The burden of proof still lies with us.’
‘Arrest him now before he makes a run for it.’
‘Where would he go, sir?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Burns has a wife and a child on the way. It’s one of the factors that I deem important. He loves his job. Would he risk losing everything by committing a murder?’
‘Yes,’ asserted Haygarth, ‘if he could get away with it.’
‘Most killers suffer from that delusion.’
The remark produced a long, heavy silence. Haygarth pretended to look for something on his desk then opened a drawer to continue the search. He slammed it shut in annoyance.
‘There was something I wanted to show you,’ he said, ‘but I can’t find it.’
‘Give it to me another time, sir.’
‘It was the list of the new locomotives being built for the Midland. I thought you might be interested in it.’ He looked up. ‘And you still haven’t visited the Works, have you? Cope is ready to show you round.’