Free Timetable of Death by Edward Marston Page B

They packed her off to Europe on a tour and they sacked the fellow straight away. He was their head gardener.’
    One mystery was solved. ‘It was Gerard Burns, I’ll wager.’
    ‘It was, indeed.’
    ‘That explains why Stanley Quayle was so angry when I mentioned him.’
    ‘I’m not surprised.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Was Burns such an ogre or did the family think that his low status made him a highly unsuitable attachment?’
    ‘I reckon they turned their noses up at him. Money does that to people. Nice as pie as he could be on the surface, Mr Quayle stamped out his daughter’s romance.’
    ‘What happened to her?’
    ‘I don’t rightly know, Inspector. Talk was that she’s in London.’
    ‘Apparently, there’s a doubt over her return for the funeral.’
    ‘She must come back for that,’ said Lambert with passion. ‘Her father was murdered , for heaven’s sake!’
    ‘Quite so.’
    ‘It’s unnatural.’
    ‘Let’s go back to Gerard Burns.’
    Lambert pursed his lips. ‘Shame to see him go, Inspector.’
    ‘Why – did you know him?’
    ‘Not personally, but I watched him many a time. Do you have any interest in cricket, Inspector?’
    ‘Yes, I do,’ replied Colbeck. ‘I loved playing it in my younger days.’
    ‘Burns was not only a canny gardener,’ said Lambert, ‘he was the best bowler in the county. Nottinghamshire’s loss is Derbyshire’s gain.’
    ‘Is that where he went – over the border?’
    ‘He couldn’t stay here. Mr Quayle made that very clear.’
    ‘So where exactly is he?’
    ‘Oh, he’s fallen on his feet in one way,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s a promotion of a kind. He looks after the gardens at Melbourne Hall.’
     
    Gerard Burns was a tall, lean, sinewy man in his thirties with a mop of fair hair imprisoned under his battered hat. The gardens under his aegis were among the finest in the county, comprising broad tracts of lawn, avenues of trees, explosions of colour in the flower beds and tasteful statuary. As he walked around the edge of the Great Basin, he watched the insects buzzing merrily above the water. Burns took great pride in his work and made every effort to maintain the high quality of grounds constructed a hundred and fifty years earlier after consultation with no less than the royal gardeners. He turned along a path that led to the ponds and saw two men busy with their hoes. One of them suddenly bent down to retrieve an object from behind a shrub. He held it up for Burns to see.
    ‘Iss thar ball the children lost,’ he called out. ‘You’d best ’ave this, Mr Burns. Catch it.’
    He threw it high in the air but the head gardener caught it easily with one hand. Burns rolled the ball over in his palm. Aware of his skill on the cricket field, the undergardeners were both watching him expectantly. He obliged them with a demonstration. After walking away from it, he turned to face the Birdcage, the outstanding feature of the gardens, a large and elaborate wrought iron arbour created by a celebrated ironsmith at the start of the previous century and still retaining its full majesty. Burns, however, was not there to admire it. Having measured out his run-up, he setoff, accelerated, then flung the ball with all his strength. Flashing through the air, it struck the arbour and bounced harmlessly off. The undergardeners gave him a round of applause.
    ‘I told ter,’ said one of them to the other. ‘He’s like a strick o’ lightnin’.’
     
    Victor Leeming was gazing reflectively into the empty grave in the churchyard. He tried to envisage what Vivian Quayle had looked like when he lay there on his back. Fortunately, the dead man had fitted into the cavity without difficulty. A much taller or broader corpse would have been crumpled up.
    ‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ asked the vicar, coming up beside him.
    ‘I’m just thinking.’
    ‘This is a day for contemplation. I made that point in my address.’
    ‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ said