*
Taken together, it was a mixed bag that Skelgill had watched enter the church. The experience had aroused both his curiosity and his sense of vocation. This notion of destiny is now recalled as he gazes down from a heavenly perspective – having pulled rank in order temporarily to divert the rescue helicopter from its original purpose. As Crummock Hall enlarges beneath his dangling feet, he ponders who among its company has fallen victim – and, indeed perhaps more pertinently, who might be the perpetrator?
2. CRUMMOCK HALL
Sunday 3pm
On his knees, Skelgill shrugs off his harness and signals the all clear to the winch-man. Another squall is arriving and the coastguard pilot wastes no time, he dips the nose of the Sikorsky S-92 and beats away to the south, the winch rope trailing like an umbilical cord that has served its purpose. Skelgill reorganises his outerwear, which has become disarranged during his descent. The mountain rescue is an organisation funded by donations, and its budgets do not stretch to suitable uniform for its team members; they must clothe themselves. Skelgill sports a typically uncoordinated ensemble of navy blue boots, maroon ski trousers, fluorescent orange cagoule, and the aforementioned fur-lined trapper hat – tartan – a recent acquisition in an after-hours pub bet over who could win a left-handed arm wrestle (Skelgill’s opponent being either unaware, or too inebriated to remember that Skelgill is in fact left-handed).
He rights himself in the midst of the circular snow-covered lawn, and casts about. The ground behind him rises quickly through ornamental conifers, a bank of midnight-green foliage laden with snow; ahead stands Crummock Hall. Believed to be one of the oldest houses in the Lake District, it has something of an ecclesiastical appearance, almost Normanesque. Grey harled walls topped by bluish slate roofs are tinged with yellowing moss and silvery lichen; many of the transoms are arched, and there is a squat, square tower with crenellations; from this centrepiece various halls and wings extend like the nave and transept of a church, and connect with other similar buildings added down the centuries. Skelgill becomes conscious of faces, vague shadows like pale ghosts beyond the diamond-paned leaded lights of the long windows; it looks the sort of place that might be haunted.
He has made something of a snow angel in his ungainly landing, and now he seems reluctant to carve a path through the perfect surface that lies before him, knee-deep and crisp and even. But fresh flakes are falling and, caught and thrown by a swirling wind into his face, prompt him to end his deliberations; he strikes a beeline for a low tiled porch that might be the principal rear entrance.
Although it is not yet dusk, at his approach a bulb comes on over the heavy oak door, and from within there is the scraping of a key in the old mortise. Skelgill can hear a male voice, its owner evidently cursing his inability to get the door open. And although the lock is turned, it seems the door is now jammed. There are more profanities and a faint tremor that suggests it is being tugged from the inside. At this point Skelgill loses patience and gives a helping hand – or, rather, foot – and slams the sole of his left boot just below the blackened cast-iron knocker. It does the trick – at least as far as the door is concerned, although it does not entirely endear him to the surprised occupant.
‘Good lord!’
The man, of about his own height and age, and attired in the casual county outfit of blue tattersall check shirt, cream corduroys and polished chestnut brogues, has recoiled against the inner door. Presumably intending to admit Skelgill as a welcome arrival – hearing the roar of the helicopter and observing Skelgill’s descent – now his expression is filled with doubt, as though he fears some kind of special forces raid is in progress. Skelgill appears oblivious to the man’s concern and, dispensing with pleasantries – or anything resembling an apology – thrusts out his warrant card.
‘DI Skelgill, Cumbria police.’
*
If the tale is true that Declan Thomas O’More lived all of his life within the bounds of Crummock Hall, then Skelgill must reflect that its final chapter brings a certain concluding symmetry – for there can be no doubt that this is the aged man he saw taking tentative steps to his pew; indeed, the gaunt features are little altered in death. He sighs and steps back; the inert form lies on the carpeted floor of a wood-panelled study, a dark stain extending from the back of its skull. DS Leyton was right, suspicious it is.
Skelgill knows he must take care not to compromise any evidence that may come to light upon detailed forensic examination. But instinct tells him that now is equally important for what his own senses might divine. And in any event the scene is not uncontaminated: the butler – Thwaites – discovered the body; several of the family responded to his cries of distress. Some time elapsed before they heeded DS Leyton’s advice, conveyed by telephone, to vacate and lock the room.
A police photographer will record the scene in its minutiae, but certain details strike him as salient (if not yet significant). The study is of a generous size, a good fifteen feet by twenty. On the same wall as the door through which he has entered hangs a pendulum clock of considerable age. Its casement is made of light oak, and its hinged front is wide open. He squints at the silvery face; it is pitted, and scored with circular markings that might reflect decades of adjustment of the hands, which read two o’clock. However, there is no tick and Skelgill realises the pendulum is missing. He glances about and sees it is lying in the nearest corner of the room, protruding from beneath an antique wainscot chair. Further scrutiny reveals a brass winder key, generally tarnished but shiny like a new penny on one wing, cast upon the rug a yard from the corpse. Was he attending to the clock when he was struck?
Slowly Skelgill scans around, his gaze moving left from the stilled timepiece. There is the chair in the first corner, the pendulum beneath; the adjacent wall is mainly taken up by two arched windows glazed with leaded glass and towards the next corner an external oak door with a square porthole; beyond, in the descending gloom, Skelgill can see only a narrow expanse of snow-covered lawn, hedged by the dark trunks of conifers. The third wall is lined floor to ceiling with bookcases, and in front of these stands a writing desk, its chair backing on to the shelves and facing into the room across the desk. There is an antique library step with three rungs and a turned hand pole. The final wall houses the fireplace, a substantial stone affair with the date 1666 carved into the mantel. Wood ash smoulders in the grate and infuses the air with a sweet fragrant residue. A pair of old-style leather walking boots rest splayed upon the hearth and a tweed shooting-coat hangs on a hook to one side. Beneath this is a capacious walnut coffer with its hinged lid open, almost full of hewn timber. Skelgill finds himself staring into the gilded mirror above the mantelpiece – he sees a vision of himself, alarmed – it can only be his unexpectedly unruly appearance, his hair matted and spiky, his jowls sporting a weekend’s worth of stubble, his red-rimmed eyes hooded by anxious brows. No wonder the family had regarded him with apprehension.
He pulls himself away and glares at the external door. He wants to try it but knows he should not touch the handle. There is a key, turned at an angle, which suggests it might be locked. He squats down and squints into the crack between the door and the jamb: sure enough, the dead bolt is engaged. He checks the windows; they each have panels that open, but these are clearly fastened with lever latches. With the jab of an elbow he disengages one such catch; then he reaches up and with the screwdriver blade of his penknife prises open the panel until he can lean right out. The dusk is well advanced and now he produces a small but powerful tactical torch. The snow beneath the windows is unblemished, but between the door and the belt of conifers there is a line of disturbance. However, these tracks are not fresh – at least, that is to say they have already been covered by new snow, and more is falling as Skelgill watches. He pulls in his head and closes the window, reversing his no-touch method.
Now he turns to consider the room. Immediately he notices that a tumbler – a rocks glass of the type that would be used for whisky – is lying
tipped on the floor halfway between the desk and the door. Beside the glass is a damp patch on the rug – and more clear droplets on the wooden tiled surround near the door. Skelgill decides to leave the glass where it is, and moves on to the desk itself. It is of the kind known as a partners’ desk, expansively designed for use by two persons, one working at either side. Only shaded wall-lights and a cowled table lamp illuminate the study, and in the last vestiges of daylight the atmosphere is becoming positively Dickensian. Skelgill rounds to the chair and takes a seat. There is no trace of a computer or laptop, or indeed any electronic device or connections, and the telephone is of the old candlestick variety with a corded receiver; it has no dial and seems merely to be an extension to which calls may be put through, or requested via a switchboard. There is a stack of matching textbooks with pale worn dustcovers – The Handbook of British Birds, Volumes 1-5 – and beside these a pair of binoculars in brown leatherette and black enamelled brass that must date from an era when they would be called field glasses. Before him on a framed blotting pad lies a bound manuscript jotter embossed with the initials, D.T.O’M. Beside it there is a traditional fountain pen. Skelgill opens the cover. In compact handwritten script on the flyleaf are the words, Ornithological Log, Crummock Hall.
He begins to examine the pages. The first entry dates back almost thirty-five years, and Skelgill for a moment is transfixed – for here are scenes in which he may have figured, a long lost newsreel vignette of the locale, a small boy an unobtrusive extra poking about in the far distance. It takes an effort for him to shrug off the thought – he frowns and flips to the end of the journal and thumbs back until he finds the most recent entry. Now again he stiffens, but for a different reason: it is dated today. He slides the book a little closer to the desk lamp and reads:
Barnacle Goose c. 20 – small skein N from Buttermere. Raven 8 – unkindness W from Grasmoor End, high to Mellbreak. Fieldfare c. 30 – mutation taking haws at Lanthwaite Beck. Brambling 13 – charm amongst beech mast in copse below Cinderdale Crag.
Skelgill immediately recognises the topographical aspects of the account; as for the birds, however – he is familiar with their names (if not the traditional collective nouns), and could identify them at a push, although maybe not Brambling. The entry comprises two paragraphs, and now he peruses the second:
“Mainly overcast; frequent snow showers; wind force 4-5, NNW; temperature 35F; pressure 982mb, rising slowly; 1155 – 1335 hrs.”
Skelgill stares pensively at the page. His eyes are glazed and it is a good fifteen seconds before he breaks out of his reverie and begins, rather cursorily, to leaf through the journal. It is crammed with entries of an identical format: two paragraphs, one to record the birds, the other the weather and time; and written in black ink in the same neat slanted hand. Although there is not a record for every day, it seems that most weeks there was a sighting worthy of mention. Finally Skelgill returns to today’s entry and reads it once again. Then he takes out his mobile phone and captures his own snapshot of the morning’s events.
Now he rises and inspects the impressive library that backs the desk. Most of the books are of an antiquarian appearance, frequently in sets. He notes, Familiar Wild Flowers (8 volumes), The Birds of the British Isles (3 volumes), and Cassell’s Natural History (5 volumes). There appears to be a complete collection of Warne’s pre-1960s Observer’s series – and then Skelgill spots something that makes his heart take a little leap: a set of first edition Wainwrights. Dating from between 1955 and 1966, the seven dwarf tomes capture a labour of love that is without parallel, and one that – via their wonderfully intuitive maps, diagrams and drawings – once memorably and explosively illuminated the hitherto alien world of books for a young Daniel Skelgill and his particular brand of dyslexia.
Skelgill selects Book Six, The North Western Fells. He locates the section on Grasmoor – 2791 feet in this book, he knows it off by heart – and flicks to the page that best features Crummock Hall. Drawn up to one side of the desk is a rosewood harpist’s chair, set on casters for manoeuvrability, and Skelgill sinks down upon it. He ponders over the map for some time, and then traces with an index finger the lines of a paragraph of text. Now he taps the page and looks about, rather aimlessly, it must be said – until his gaze falls upon a polished silver cloche on a tray at the corner of the desk. He reaches forward and with a napkin raises the dome: beneath is a rectangular china plate holding a neat array of sandwiches, white bread with crusts removed, cut into little triangles. He ponders for a moment, and then replaces the silver cover. He returns his attention to the book. After about a minute, still perusing the page, absently he lifts the cloche and eats one of the sandwiches.
*
‘Sir?’ There comes a faltering knock upon the door of the study; the voice is rasping. ‘Excuse me – sir?’
Skelgill starts, rather in the manner of one who has been woken from an unplanned catnap. He stares with some surprise at the book in his right hand, and the half-eaten sandwich in his other. He jams the latter into his mouth, and rises and replaces the Wainwright in its position between The Northern Fells and The Western Fells. Then he carefully lowers the cloche over what is left on the plate – a truncated pyramid of about one-third its original length.
He stalks across the room, carefully rounding the body on the carpet, and – pausing to swallow and wipe his mouth on his sleeve – unlocks the door. Thwaites, the manservant, takes half a step backwards.
‘There is a telephone call for you, sir – Detective Sergeant Leyton.’ He bows subserviently, his uneasy gaze hovering somewhere about Skelgill’s chest. ‘I didn’t like to put it through on Mr Declan’s line, sir – in case you couldn’t touch it due to smudging fingerprints.’
‘You’ve been watching too many detective programmes, Thwaites.’
‘We don’t have television, sir – neither Sir Sean nor Mr Declan approved of it.’
Skelgill narrows his eyes – for a moment he looks like he might not concur – however, more likely the man’s ready adoption of the past tense is the source of his reaction.
‘That’s fine by me.’
Thwaites interprets Skelgill’s remark as consent to the redirecting of the telephone call, rather than agreement to the outmoded dogma.
‘You could take it in my butler’s pantry, sir – at the end of the hall here.’ Arthritically, as though his neck is fused to his shoulders, he makes a slow quarter turn of his upper body and vaguely extends his left arm behind him. But he seems to detect some discontent on Skelgill’s part and proffers an alternative suggestion. ‘Or there’s the smoking room in the east wing – just along this corridor, sir.’ Now he ratchets in the other direction and indicates with a raised little finger of his right hand.
‘That sounds more like it, Thwaites – I’ll need privacy for interviews.’
Thwaites dips his head in what for him must be an enthusiastic gesture. ‘It should be ideal, sir – I’ll show you in and set a fire.’
Pedestrian progress now enables Skelgill to take in his surroundings. The walls are mostly panelled in the same dark oak as the study, and adorned with antique guns and swords and armour, and display cases that contain stuffed birds or mammals or fish. He pauses to read the faded inscription on the exhibit of a sea trout, “Mort, 7lbs 13oz – Crummock Water, 22nd July 1934.”
‘Caught by Mr Declan when he was a young boy, sir.’ The butler has turned to observe Skelgill’s interest. Now he slowly wheels around and continues on his way, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Of course, sir – all angling was stopped after The Accident.’
Skelgill would like to dwell upon the fish – it interests him that it has been described by its local name, mort – and not least because Crummock Water is a devil of a place to tempt even a brownie out of, never mind a specimen sea trout. But the manservant’s intonation, capitalising the generic expression ‘The Accident’ as though it were a proper noun obliges him to respond.
‘Aye – that were in the eighties, t
hough.’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘You worked here then?’
‘Since 1959, sir.’
Skelgill expels a small puff of wonder.
‘No thoughts of retiring?’
Skelgill’s quip is glib and when old man stops and crabs about to face him, there is an expression of pathos that causes him some regret.
‘I don’t know what I shall do now, sir – now that both Sir Sean and Mr Declan are gone.’
Skelgill manufactures an unconvincing grin.
‘Surely they’ll keep you on, Thwaites?’
‘I doubt they’ll keep the place on, sir.’
But now the old man seems to pull himself together, and sets off as purposefully as he can muster, as if he realises he has spoken out of turn.
‘Better get you to the telephone, sir – it was a mobile your sergeant was using and the signal didn’t seem very regular.’
‘Aye.’
He leads Skelgill through a door on the left side of the passage, into what is a relatively small, narrow room with a fireplace at the far end and a multiple lancet window with a deep sill along much of the external wall. The remainder of the interior is papered in a heavy flock of a fleur-de-lis pattern, in deep blood red. Like the study the lighting is subdued – just three shaded wall lamps – and outside it is now almost dark. Skelgill pauses to stare out into the gloom; he checks his watch: sunset falls at around 3:45 this time of year and he must reflect that the helicopter team will have done well to locate the stray walker.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 53