‘That must have been a trial,’ said Madeleine.
‘It was — we both hated it.’
‘Did your father ever talk about Spondon to you?’
‘No, he never did.’
‘So what was he doing there that night?’
‘More to the point,’ said Colbeck, ‘who was with him?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Lydia.
‘What sort of man was he?’
‘I’ve already told you how badly he treated me.’
‘But until that point, you and he must have got on reasonably well. If he was away a lot, the two of you would have met infrequently.’ Lydia nodded. ‘Yet he was always there for the cricket matches, I suppose.’
‘Father would never miss those.’
‘He loved the game, I’m told.’
‘No, Inspector,’ she corrected, ‘it went deeper than that. He loved to use the game as a way of showing off and humbling his rivals. And as long as he had the head gardener and the coachman in the team, he could rely on winning, especially as my brother, Lucas, was a talented cricketer as well.’
‘Cricket and railways — it’s an odd combination.’
‘Cricket was only seasonal and very few games were played. Railways, by contrast, absorbed him every day of the year. There’s a portrait of him in his study. That tells you a lot about my father.’
‘I saw it on my first visit,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m only sorry that Madeleine didn’t paint the locomotive in the background. It would have been more realistic.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Robert,’ said his wife, modestly.
‘Mr Quayle hired a portrait artist and the result must have been satisfactory or he wouldn’t have hung it on the wall. But the artist lacked your draughtsmanship.’
‘I’d like to see more of your paintings,’ said Lydia. ‘Puffing Billy was wonderful. How many other locomotives have you painted?’
‘Oh, they’re not the sort of thing that would interest you.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Your taste is very different,’ said Madeleine. ‘When I came to your house with Sergeant Leeming, I noticed that the house had a few paintings on the walls. Every one of them was a pretty landscape.’
‘They were not my choice.’
Beatrice Myler popped up in her mind again and caused a jolt. Wherever there was a wall without space for a bookshelf, Beatrice had hung a picture. Lydia had had no part in its choice. She was reminded once more of the fact that she’d left no real imprint on the house. It belonged to her friend and mirrored her taste in every way. A feeling of sadness washed over her. Beatrice had gone and she had definitely lost Gerard Burns to another woman. Her future lay elsewhere. Lydia might be forced to move through a series of hotels again. Conscious that the others were waiting for her to speak, she apologised.
‘If you saw my father’s study,’ she said, ‘you’d have noticed his collection of fine porcelain.’
‘At first,’ recalled Colbeck, ‘I thought it might belong to your mother.’
‘She has no interest in it at all.’
‘How long has your father been a collector?’
‘Many years,’ said Lydia. ‘After making his fortune out of coal, he developed a fondness for something that was less filthy and more delicate. He spent a great deal of money on that collection.’
‘Where did he find the items?’
‘He went to auctions in London. If you’d met him,’ said Lydia with bitterness, ‘you’d have found my father essentially a man’s man. The last thing you’d expect is that he was a regular visitor to Christie’s to buy teacups and saucers.’
The temptation was there but Leeming managed to resist it. After escorting Tallis to the apartments where he lived, the sergeant made sure that he was comfortable then he left. His wife and children were only fifteen minutes away by cab and he was desperate to see them again. What held him back from going home was the certainty that he’d spend much longer there than he intended and would be late setting off. Colbeck had been specific. Armed with his copy of Bradshaw, he’d told Leeming which return train to catch. If he arrived hours later, the sergeant would be in trouble. Besides, he told himself, the investigation took precedence. The sooner the case was solved, the sooner he could enjoy the fruits of family life. Leeming therefore turned his footsteps towards the railway station.
‘I’m glad to see you, Inspector,’ said Elijah Wigg. ‘I have a complaint to make.’
‘What is it?’
‘Your sergeant insulted me.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘He accused me of having a reporter moved from Spondon because he was collecting more evidence than the constables there.’
‘Why did you have him moved?’ asked Colbeck, mischievously.
‘I didn’t — that’s the point. It was the editor’s decision.’
‘I’ll explain that to Sergeant Leeming when he returns from London.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘He’s probably in flight from your wrath, Superintendent.’
Colbeck had walked to the police station in Derby in search of information but he first had to provide some. When he described Tallis’s accident, he drew a grim smile from Wigg and the observation that a visit to the Works had no bearing on the investigation and was therefore a needless diversion.
‘On the contrary,’ said Colbeck, ‘it’s shown the whole case in a new light. That’s why I’m here, Superintendent. What do you know of the Peet family?’
Wigg was incredulous. ‘You’re not going to arrest one of them, are you?’
‘Tell me about Roderick Peet.’
‘He’s wealthy and well connected. He owns one of the finest houses in Spondon, another in Devon and a third in France. As someone who can only afford to buy one house, I should be envious of Mr Peet but I’m not and I’m sure that nobody else is either.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He’s a man of such decency and uprightness that you can’t begrudge him anything. Roderick Peet has given thousands of pounds to charity. He’s been particularly generous to the village itself.’
‘What about Mrs Peet?’
‘Some people say that it was she who encouraged him to open his wallet so wide. Cicely Peet is his second wife, by the way. His first died after a bad fall from her horse during the Boxing Day hunt. The second Mrs Peet was much younger than him,’ said Wigg, ‘and she got very involved in local activities. Since she had money of her own, she led the way in charitable donations.’
‘Were they happily married?’
‘They were devoted, Inspector.’
‘Did you meet them as a couple?’
‘I did so many times,’ said Wigg. ‘Roderick and Cicely Peet were kind enough to make a substantial donation to the Police Benevolent Fund.’
Colbeck smiled. ‘They obviously recognise a good cause.’
‘As to their private life, I can’t speak with any authority. I was never invited to their home. I know someone who was, however. If you want to learn more about the Peets, you might speak to him.’
‘Whom do you mean, Superintendent?’
Wigg scowled. ‘Donald Haygarth.’
Haygarth slapped the desk so hard with the flat of his hand that the inkwell jumped an inch into the air and sheets of paper were sent flying. Too frightened to say anything, Maurice Cope sought to win favour by retrieving the papers that had floated to the floor. Haygarth was hoarse with fury.
‘Who’s behind this, Cope?’
‘I can’t be certain.’
‘You’re paid to be certain.’
‘It’s one of three people.’
‘Earlier today, you were assuring me that I’d be elected as the new chairman without opposition. Now you tell me that there’s to be a contest, after all.’
‘I’m as disappointed as you, Mr Haygarth.’
‘I want names.’
‘They’re not easy to find,’ admitted Cope. ‘People say one thing and do another. When I canvassed opinion, the majority of board members were firmly behind you. There was no whisper of a challenger.’