‘Could you run us through the sequence of events – I’m particularly thinking of who came and went – and when.’
The man nods urgently. They are seated on the pair of chesterfield sofas, the two sergeants opposite Skelgill and Thomas Montagu-Browne. The police are trying to look relaxed, but he sits bolt upright, uncomfortable in a tweed suit. He has his hands loosely together resting on his thighs – his fingers make little movements that might almost be counting – although it strikes Skelgill that he could be subconsciously tying knots.
‘When I came in with the trolley it was 6.54pm.’
Skelgill flashes a glance at his at subordinates – immediately the specific time reminds them of the nature of the information they are about to receive.
‘Mr Makepeace was first to arrive – at 7pm exactly. I sounded the gong just as the clock was striking the hour.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He took a cocktail and drank it immediately and asked for a refill.’
Skelgill seems to hesitate for a moment.
‘How did he appear?’
‘He was dressed in a white dinner jacket with black lapels, buttons and pocket hems. A black bow. Black trousers and black patent leather shoes.’
Now Skelgill seems to start – this was not the answer he banked upon – but of course Thomas Montagu-Browne deals in particulars and not sensibilities.
‘And Mr Liddell was next to arrive.’
‘Yes – at 7.03pm. He collected a drink – and Mr Makepeace approached him – and they walked over to face the eastern window.’
‘Did you happen to hear what they were discussing – since there was just the three of you in the room?’
Skelgill adds the rider by way of exonerating Thomas Montagu-Browne from any accusation of eavesdropping – but the man does not seem perturbed.
‘Mr Makepeace was telling Mr Liddell about the recall of a batch of malt whisky that had been incorrectly labelled. The logistics of recovering the stock from retail outlets in different countries and a programme of reimbursement – and then the reworking of the product with new labels.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow.
‘Did Mr Liddell engage in the conversation?’
‘He listened and nodded – but they were soon interrupted – Mr Duff and Mr Luker came in at 7.05pm. They chose drinks and joined the other two gentlemen. Mr Duff made a toast to Mr Liddell – concerning his birthday.’
‘So that was all the chaps here.’
‘Mrs Duff arrived a minute later – it was 7.06.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She accepted a cocktail and walked over to the gentlemen. They f-formed into a semi-circle – and they were admiring her d-dress.’
Skelgill notes that while the man has been reciting straight facts his stutter has been largely absent – as if he is more confident with exact detail. Only now does he stumble over his image of Suzy Duff and her dress – or was it the admiring thereof?
‘Did you hear anything that was said?’
Thomas Montagu-Browne gives a sideways jerk of his head.
‘Mr Duff turned up the volume on the sound system. One of the speakers was placed just behind me. After that I couldn’t hear anything clearly.’
‘Who was doing the talking?’
‘It was mainly Mr Duff – he seemed to be telling jokes – or at least recounting amusing anecdotes. Then Ms Belvedere and Mrs Luker arrived – at 7.11pm.’ He glances at Skelgill – who provides an encouraging nod. ‘I think the group were then discussing the costumes that the ladies were wearing. The three ladies moved away to take a photograph of themselves in front of the fireplace.’
Skelgill is reminded of the selfie shown to him by Felicity Belvedere. It occurs to him that the clock might be in the background.
‘What about Mr Liddell – what was he doing at this point?’
‘He was watching the ladies. Then when they had taken the photograph he went across to speak to Mrs Duff.’
‘What – he interrupted them?’
Now Thomas Montagu-Browne shakes his head in a more conventional manner.
‘She moved away from the other two ladies – she noticed him coming towards their group.’
Skelgill glances briefly at DS Jones and DS Leyton; they diligently take notes.
‘Tom – now think carefully about what happened next.’
Thomas Montagu-Browne frowns; he does not need to think carefully. ‘They spoke for a few minutes – the clock chimed for a quarter past seven – Mrs Duff noticed it. I think she pointed out the time to Mr Liddell. He handed his glass to her and went out through the door to the tower on the ladies’ side.’
‘What did Mrs Duff do?’
‘She waited alone. She sipped her cocktail – and tasted the drink given to her by Mr Liddell. It was a negroni – she didn’t appear to like it.’
Skelgill recalls the revealing dress worn by Suzy Duff – as captured in the photograph. He does not wonder that the butler’s attention was easily held by her presence. The man’s eyes fall upon his hands, and his fingers stop moving.
‘Carry on, Tom.’
‘Y-yes. Mr Liddell returned almost immediately – the minute hand on the clock was still on the quarter hour. Mrs Duff gave him his glass. They spoke for a moment and then they both finished their drinks and left the room together.’ He indicates with a raised finger. ‘Through the door to the staircase on the gents’ side.’
‘Did they speak to anyone else – tell them where they were going?’
‘Mrs Duff smiled at the two ladies. The other three gentlemen were laughing together about something and didn’t notice. Mr Liddell went ahead of her by a few paces.’
‘And the time?’
‘7.16pm.’
‘Did anyone else leave the library after that?’
‘No.’
‘What were the rest doing?’
‘Mr Makepeace and Mr Duff came for more drinks – but otherwise they were all talking together in a group in front of the fire.’
Skelgill regards the man evenly – it strikes him that, by now, most people would understand they are to read between the lines of the interactions, to provide a more subjective insight into what was afoot – but Thomas Montagu-Browne continues faithfully to replay the movements of the participants. Skelgill tries a more oblique tack.
‘And how did you feel about what was going on?’
‘I began to be concerned that the time for the Murder Mystery was approaching and that I would need to warn Lavinia that not everybody was ready. And then Mrs Duff came crashing back through the ladies’ stair door – at 7.21pm – and she screamed at me to c-call an ambulance.’
Now Skelgill remains silent. Indeed there is a hiatus such that his colleagues look up expectantly from their notebooks. After a few moments more, it seems that DS Leyton can hold his tongue no longer.
‘Mr Montagu-Browne – did she speak to you directly – Mrs Duff – about the ambulance?’
‘She was staring right at me.’
DS Leyton sees that his superior is still disengaged, and continues in his lieu.
‘When I questioned you previously, sir – you said the other guests thought it was part of the Murder Mystery.’
‘Yes – some of them were laughing at her – Mr Duff – and Mr Luker.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I did as asked. I knew that Mrs Liddell was not the intended murder victim.’
DS Leyton’s brow creases.
‘But you didn’t know she was dead, sir.’
Thomas Montagu-Browne looks suddenly alarmed – as if he realises the interview has been a charade – and that the police are tricking him – into making a confession – he shrinks away from the pugnacious sergeant like a cornered animal.
‘B-b-but –’
The man’s reaction causes Skelgill to snap out of his reverie. He leans sideways to slap Thomas Montagu-Browne on the shoulder.
‘That’s all, Tom – ver
y helpful.’
Skelgill rises purposefully and jerks a thumb in the direction of the main door of the library.
‘Tom – that cardboard box I left in the porch. It’s got a load of tackle inside – for the kids you’re having up to fish – you might want to go and have a sort through it. We’ve just got a couple of things to do – in private. Aye?’
Thomas Montagu-Browne is plainly accustomed to being dismissed for such trivial purposes – and does not appear to take offence; indeed he might be greatly relieved, although his features have regained the startled look that seems to be their default setting. When he has gone, Skelgill addresses his sergeants collectively – though his gaze seems to favour DS Jones.
‘Get all those times?’
DS Jones replies in the affirmative – but DS Leyton seems a little crestfallen – and looks askance at his own notebook, as if his was a futile exercise. Moreover, Skelgill torpedoed his interrogation tactic. But now his superior points a decisive finger at him.
‘I want to do an experiment. Leyton – you can be timekeeper.’
*
‘One minute sixteen seconds, Guv.’
DS Leyton mops his brow and draws in a couple of lungfulls of air. Climbing the four floors from the library to enter Lady Anne’s chamber from the ladies’ stair has taken its toll. He looks expectantly at Skelgill, who has not yet enlightened him regarding the purpose of their exercise – and now Skelgill seems distracted.
‘Where’s Jones? I asked her to come back up with you.’
‘Oh – thing is, Guv – just after she burst into the library – and I stopped the watch – Lavinia Montagu-Browne appeared saying there was a call. DS Jones went to her office. Seems the station’s been trying to get us on our mobiles – but of course there’s no signal. George on the desk must have guessed we’d come here.’
Skelgill makes a face that acknowledges the fact.
‘Aye – he saw me arrive with that box – he accused me of bringing a ferret to work so I had to explain what was in it. Turns out he’s got a grandson in the scouts – I promised I’d tip him the wink once they start up these free fishing classes.’
DS Leyton makes a superficial attempt to appear interested – but he is plainly preoccupied with his part in the ‘experiment’ – a recording of the time it took for Skelgill and DS Jones to leave the library together, ascend the spiral staircase on the gentlemen’s side, enter the ‘Lord’s chamber’ – what had been Will Liddell’s suite – pass through the interconnecting dressing rooms into Lady Anne’s chamber – formerly Scarlett Liddell’s room – for Skelgill to peer into the bathroom – and for DS Jones to hare down the ladies’ stair and break into the library – at which point DS Leyton was to stop his watch. Now he waggles the handset at shoulder height to attract Skelgill’s attention.
‘What about this time, Guv?’
‘Take it away from five minutes and what have you got?’
Somewhat out of condition, DS Leyton is still panting – and this mental challenge compounds his discomfort.
‘Cor blimey – now you’re asking me, Guv. Seconds and minutes – always does my head in – arithmetic with sixties instead of hundreds.’
‘Leyton – it can’t be that difficult – if it were racing odds and I said work out your winnings at sixty-to-one you’d tell me in a flash.’
DS Leyton half closes one eye.
‘Strictly speaking, Guv – that’s even more confusing.’
‘How come?’
‘Well – sixty-to-one against means that means that if a horse ran sixty-one times it would be expected to win once. If you wanted the odds out of sixty you’d need to say fifty-nine-to-one against.’
Skelgill looks like he is regretting his question.
‘Leyton, just work it out.’
‘Yes, Guv.’ DS Leyton scowls at his handset. Little oscillations of his head reflect some inner machinations. ‘Three minutes forty-four seconds, Guv.’
Skelgill gives a condescending nod.
‘That’s what I thought. Have you got a countdown timer?’
‘It’s got everything, this, Guv – more features than they landed on the moon with, so they say.’
Skelgill makes a disparaging scoffing noise in his throat.
‘Set it for 3:44 and let it run.’
‘Righto, Guv.’
DS Leyton does as bidden. He props the handset against one of the mirrors of the Queen Anne dressing table so that they can both observe the display. But Skelgill turns away and wanders across to the west-facing window, whence there is a view of Bassenthwaite Lake. Behind him, DS Leyton shuffles about, and begins to make little fretful groans as his body recovers from its exertions.
‘It seems like ages, Guv.’
‘Watched pot.’ Skelgill stares at the lake, perhaps wondering when he’ll get back out there, free of any burden, when waiting in anticipation of a bite becomes a sheer pleasure. ‘You’ll never make a fisherman, Leyton.’
‘You know me and water, Guv.’
Skelgill is about to respond but the timer breaks in – and a second later there comes the rattle of the door handle from the ladies’ stair – and then another rattle followed by a tentative knock – and then DS Jones’s voice.
‘Guv – are you in there? I’m locked out!’
Skelgill scowls at DS Leyton.
‘Did you lock it, Leyton?’
‘Nope. Definitely not, Guv.’
Skelgill strides across to the door. He turns the handle and simultaneously gives it a sharp tug, but there is no response. He tries again, this time putting his body weight behind it, tug o’ war fashion – but still to no avail. The lock is a traditional mortise set into the darkened oak, and a large blackened iron key protrudes from the keyhole. He turns the key and there is a click, and then DS Jones pushes through. She is breathing noticeably; she must have run back up the spiral staircase. She appears eager to speak – but Skelgill pre-empts her with a terse statement.
‘We never locked it. I’ve been nowhere near the door – and Leyton just came in and shut it normally.’
DS Jones parks whatever news she bears – she has her notebook open in one hand.
‘Well – obviously – I went out – I couldn’t have accidentally locked it – not with the key on the inside.’
DS Leyton gives a nervous laugh. He looks cautiously about the old room.
‘Must be that ghost, Guv – Lady Anne whatsername?’
Skelgill’s retort is dismissive, one that relates the phantom to a part of his anatomy, around the median posterior. Addressing DS Jones he points an index finger at the door.
‘Go back out. Close it.’ When DS Jones does as instructed, he raises his voice. ‘Now come in.’
She opens the door – she seems a little disappointed – as if expecting it to have foiled her.
‘Do it again.’
‘The same, Guv? Right outside?’
Skelgill gives a curt nod. DS Jones duplicates the procedure. Again the door swings smoothly open.
‘Keep going. Pull it snappier when you shut it.’
DS Jones glances a little sheepishly at DS Leyton, who has moved backwards by a couple of paces and is looking baffled; he might almost be thinking of the maxim attributed to Einstein that to repeat the same action and expect a different outcome is a sign of madness. He lets out a long sigh.
But at what must be the eleventh or twelfth salvo by DS Jones, just as she is beginning visibly to flag, the door does not open. Her voice comes as an echo from the stone stair.
‘Guv?’
Skelgill darts forward and tries the door himself. Sure enough, it is locked – despite that the key has not been touched, and is in its normal upright or neutral position in the keyhole. However, he twists it clockwise and it serves to free the lock. He pulls the door open to reveal a wide-eyed DS Jones.
‘Wow.’
But Skelgill does not wait for any praise. He drops to one knee and, with the door ajar, he turns the key a
nticlockwise and takes hold of the protruding deadbolt between his left thumb and forefinger.
‘Look at this.’
As his subordinates crowd over him, he demonstrates that there is play – not much, but about a quarter of an inch – in the direction of travel of the deadbolt.
‘This lock’s ancient. The springs must be work-hardened.’
Now DS Leyton pipes up.
‘So what, Guv – what’s happened?’
Skelgill stands up and flexes his spine. Then he gives the door an illustrative shove.
‘I reckon each time someone closes it, that deadbolt creeps out a fraction more. Eventually it’s just enough to catch in the strike plate – bingo – it’s locked.’
There is a moment’s silence – but it is not long before DS Jones speaks, her voice tending towards a whisper.
‘But, Guv – this means when Scarlett Liddell died – it might not have been locked from the inside.’
There is a more prolonged silence as they each process the implications – at their respective rates – and it is DS Jones that states what is perhaps the most salient aspect.
‘Someone could have come in and out this way – without needing to pass Will Liddell. When they closed the door – it locked itself.’
‘Whoa – that’s opened a can of worms. Now it could have been any of the beggars!’
DS Leyton’s interjection is rather too flippant for Skelgill’s liking.
‘Tom included, eh, Leyton? Or Lavinia?’
There seems to be sarcasm in Skelgill’s tone – and perhaps DS Leyton takes what he himself might call ‘the hump’ – albeit he would pronounce it minus the initial ‘h’. He contrives a rather grumpy sounding retort.
‘It is like the flippin’ Adams Family.’
Skelgill flashes a surreptitious grin at DS Jones.
‘Never mind the Adams Family, Leyton – if it weren’t for you and your flippin’ 5:21 we wouldn’t be standing here now. I’ll settle for the can of worms.’
DS Leyton appears to be a little placated.
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