Timetable of Death by Edward Marston Read Free Book Online Page A

him to say too little to the press rather than too much. Some editors had an agenda that included biting criticism of the Metropolitan Police Force. The Derby Mercury had no such axe to grind. In its edition that day it had given an account of the murder and welcomed the arrival of the detectives from Scotland Yard. Besides, Leeming decided, the young reporter was not there to denigrate them in any way. Conway was in awe of them. He was also a native of Derbyshire and therefore able to relate more easily to local people. Leeming had not just made a new friend, he’d acquired an assistant.
    ‘Then there was that case in Wales,’ recalled Conway.
    ‘Let’s forget our past successes,’ said Leeming, firmly. ‘If we spend all our time talking about them, we won’t be able to add to the list. I need to know this village inside out. You may be able to help me.’
    ‘I’ll do what I can, Sergeant, but I have to answer to an editor. He tells me where and when I can go. I was sent here to attend the funeral and to gauge the reaction of Spondon to the murder. The second bit is easy. This village has been knocked senseless by the crime.’
    ‘Who have you spoken to so far?’
    ‘Lots of people,’ said Conway, fishing a notebook out of his pocket and leafing through it. ‘The first person I interviewed was Walter Grindle. It was his daughter who leapt into the grave where Mr Quayle was lying.’
    ‘I saw the blacksmith as well. On the way into church, he stood close to me. I heard him say what an effect the discovery had had on his children.’
    ‘They’re terrified.’
    ‘In the same circumstances, mine would be as well.’ Leeming sat back and his chair creaked. ‘What exactly did Mr Grindle say to you?’
     
    Nottingham was a thriving manufacturing town with a population that had increased markedly in the past decade. It owed much of its reputation to a textile industry in which the quality of its lace, in particular, stood out. Yet it had by no means lost all of its charm and its picturesque aspects. When he glanced through the window of his compartment, Colbeck saw a community sited conveniently on the navigable River Trent and still possessing striking relics of its past such as its Norman castle, now in ruins but with undeniable grandeur. News of the murder in the neighbouring county had caused great upset in Nottingham because the victim had hailed from there and was a well-known figure. As soon as he left the train, Colbeck overheard people speculating on the identity of the killer and his motivation. The name of Vivian Quayle seemed to be on everyone’s lips.
    When he left the station, Colbeck made for the cab rank. He had not needed to ask anyone where Quayle had lived because the man’s address had been printed in that morning’s edition of the Derby Mercury . The cab drove to the edge of the town before turning into the gateway of an estate. Filtered by the trees, bright sunshine was casting intricate shadows over the winding track. When he emerged from a hundred yards or more of woodland, Colbeck saw ahead a well-tended lawn edged with flower beds and, beyond it, a large Jacobean mansion in an impressive state of repair. Having met many railway magnates in the course of his work, Colbeck was used to seeing the high standardof living that they enjoyed, but Vivian Quayle’s abode was more sumptuous than most.
    The cab stopped well short of the house because a uniformed policeman stood in its path with his hand raised. He came over to eye the passenger.
    ‘This is a house of mourning,’ he said, crisply. ‘No visitors are allowed.’
    ‘I’m not a visitor, Constable. My name is Inspector Colbeck and I’ve been summoned from Scotland Yard to lead the murder investigation. It’s imperative that I talk with a member of the family.’
    The man was suspicious. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’
    ‘You simply have to look into my eyes.’
    Colbeck gazed at him with an intensity and a