Timetable of Death by Edward Marston Page B

defiance. Someone had identified him as a killer and there were aspects of his character that easily qualified him for the role. Yet he’d taken pains to distance himself from the Quayle family and had started afresh in a quiet, rural refuge. Colbeck wondered just how deep his acrimony still was.
    ‘That’s a beautiful church you have on your doorstep, Mr Burns.’
    ‘Yes, it is.’
    ‘Do you worship there?’
    ‘My wife and I go most Sundays.’
    ‘Then you’re obviously acquainted with Christian virtues,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m going to take a look inside the church. It will give you time to think over what you’ve told me. Some of it is very plausible yet I have a nagging sensation of being deceived. When I come back, I hope that you’ll realise the importance of being completely honest with me. See it as an opportunity of getting something off your chest.’
    ‘I’ve nothing new to add, Inspector,’ insisted Burns.
    ‘In that case, you might wish to subtract from your statements.’
    ‘You’ll be wasting your time if you come bothering me again.’
    ‘We can talk about cricket,’ said Colbeck, airily. ‘That’s never a waste of time, is it? If you played against the All-England XI, you’ll no doubt have encountered the redoubtable Mr Stephenson.’
    Burns straightened his shoulders. ‘I bowled him out.’
    ‘Why did H. H. Stephenson play for that team when Gerard Burns did not?’
    ‘Gardening’s what I love. Cricket’s just for fun.’
    Colbeck appraised him again. Lydia Quayle’s romance with him was understandable. Apart from his physical attractions, Burns was well spoken, self-possessed and highly skilled. The inspector was bound to wonder which of them had made the first move. Had he set his cap at one of the daughters of the house or had she been the one to initiate things? Colbeck would be interested to find out.
    ‘When I told you about Mr Quayle’s death,’ he recalled, ‘you were surprised but there was no other reaction from you.’
    ‘Why should there be?’
    ‘Don’t you feel even the slightest regret at his murder?’
    ‘No,’ said Burns, stoutly. ‘To be honest, I am delighted.’

CHAPTER NINE
    When the family gathered in the drawing room, there was a surprise in store for them. Harriet Quayle, widow of the murdered man, insisted on being present. Though she had to be helped to her seat by her daughter, Agnes, a spindly young woman with an anxious face, she was determined to be involved in what would be an important discussion. Stanley Quayle was irritated by her arrival, not least because it would inhibit him slightly. He tried to get rid of her.
    ‘Are you sure that you feel well enough to be here, Mother?’ he asked.
    ‘I do feel poorly,’ she confessed, ‘but I’m staying.’
    ‘It may be a long debate.’
    ‘I’ll manage to remain awake somehow.’
    ‘We can tell you afterwards what’s been decided.’
    ‘You won’t have to, Stanley. I can help to make any decisions.’
    ‘Very well,’ he said, resignedly.
    ‘Mother is entitled to be here,’ said Lucas Quayle. ‘I agreethat both my dear wife and Stanley’s wife are best excluded. They’re only members of the family by marriage and, in any case, neither of them felt that it would be right to join us.’
    ‘All needed are now here,’ said Stanley.
    ‘All except Lydia, that is,’ said his brother, waspishly.
    ‘Let’s keep her name out of this, please. This doesn’t concern her.’
    They all looked towards Harriet for a word or sign of confirmation but she said nothing. Sitting deep in an armchair, she seemed frailer than ever. Stanley was the only person still on his feet. He struck a pose.
    ‘Father’s body has been returned to us,’ he began, ‘so we can make all the necessary funeral arrangements. Lucas and I have already had a preliminary talk on that subject but now is the time for anyone else to offer their opinion as to how the event should be planned. Under other