‘If you would care to take the call there, sir – I could get the fire started.’
The butler refers to a writing bureau, its lid opened out and another old-fashioned telephone on the surface. Skelgill glances about. There are various items of antique furniture, and ranged before the hearth two winged chairs upholstered in dark leather, each with a small side table. He notes there are no ashtrays – nor the lingering smell of stale tobacco; perhaps the designation of smoking room is one that has been brought forward from a bygone era.
‘Don’t bother with the fire, Thwaites.’ The old man immediately looks a little crestfallen, which prompts Skelgill to add a poorly considered rider. ‘Tell you what – I could murder a cuppa – wash down those sandwiches.’
This unfortunate turn of phrase – not to mention the revelation that Skelgill has plundered the comestibles – might ordinarily draw a disapproving response, but Thwaites is evidently long schooled in discretion, and indeed visibly perks up at the prospect of providing some domestic service. He bows once more and shambles away, leaving Skelgill to wrestle with the technology of the 1920s.
‘Leyton?’
‘Ah – Guv – I was beginning to think you were lost – I’ve been trying your mobile for the past half hour.’
‘No signal, Leyton – this place sits below two thousand foot of rock.’
‘I’m well on my way, Guv – we’ve got a snowplough – the Chief managed to swing it. Roads boys have taken the right old petrol pump.’
Skelgill allows himself a wry grin at his sergeant’s imaginative use of Cockney slang. Then unseen by his colleague he shrugs indifferently, as if he considers in any event his need is greater.
‘You’re not driving it, I hope, Leyton.’
‘Nah, Guv – I’m with a couple of the SOCOs and Dr Herdwick – in his Defender. We’re following the gritter. Seems there’s some farmer with a backhoe loader who’s clearing the worst drift about a mile ahead.’
Skelgill nods.
‘Aye – that’ll be George Robinson.’
‘That’s it, Guv.’
‘I’ll see you when I see you, Leyton.’
‘One other thing, Guv.’
‘Aye?’
‘I rang the mountain rescue – when I was trying to get you. They told me they’d dropped you off okay – but they never found the woman – the coastguard had to return to base.’
‘Aye – but we’ll still have a team out on foot.’
‘That’s what they said, Guv.’ DS Leyton now makes an exclamation of alarm, as if the vehicle in which he is travelling has narrowly avoided some danger. But he continues without explanation. ‘Thing is, Guv – I don’t know if you realised – I ran a name check on her – Rowena Devlin, she’s called – she’s a writer, quite well known by all accounts – but that’s not her real name – she’s actually Perdita Regulus-O’More – staying at Crummock Hall.’
*
By the time Thwaites returns to the smoking room bearing a tray of refreshments Skelgill has a fire crackling in the grate, and with the toe of a boot is adjusting a sizeable log to catch the flames. The old retainer is somewhat perturbed; a condition exacerbated as Skelgill barges in to pour his own tea and toss a handful of sugar lumps into his cup.
‘Get one yourself, Thwaites – and have a seat.’
‘Sir – Master Martius was saying he would see you first – now that he is the head of the household.’
Skelgill has moved the chairs so that they are angled towards one another, and settles down with his hot drink and a generous helping of biscuits. He dunks a shortbread finger and despatches it, nodding approvingly. He glances at Thwaites and affects surprise that the butler is hovering indecisively.
‘I’ll talk to you, Thwaites.’
That Skelgill is riding roughshod over his orders is plainly disconcerting for a man who has spent his entire working life in service. He edges a little closer to the empty seat but still is reluctant to comply.
‘I shan’t have tea just now, sir, if it’s all the same – it’s not my regular break time.’
‘As you like.’
Skelgill regards him with calm indifference. He can’t remember if the old man has on the same suit that he wore to the funeral – certainly the black tie, which may now be retained as an extended mark of respect. The outfit is the traditional butler’s morning coat with a grey vest and wing-collared shirt beneath, grey striped trousers and white cotton gloves. It could not, however, be said to be in prime condition. Finally, beneath Skelgill’s unrelenting gaze, the man yields and gingerly lowers himself into the chair – but preferring to perch on the edge of the seat with his hands playing nervously upon his lap.
‘Tell me what happened when you found him.’
Paradoxically, the elderly butler is prepared for this question – he looks relieved at being set a straightforward task. He clears his throat with a chesty wheeze.
‘I knew right away he was dead, sir – what with the eyes staring and him not breathing. I must have called out – because it wasn’t long before Master Martius and Miss Cassandra came rushing in, and then Master Edgar. I believe it was Master Edgar that ran and dialled 999. And Miss Cassandra took me along to the drawing room – she insisted I drank a brandy.’ He glances apprehensively at Skelgill. ‘I’m usually teetotal, sir.’
‘What time was it – that you found the body?’
‘2:15, sir – I went to collect Mr Declan’s lunch things.’
‘When did you take them in?’
‘12:15, sir.’
‘But he didn’t eat.’
Skelgill’s statement – when it might be expected to be a question – seems to cause a shudder to run through the old man’s bent frame.
‘He was bird-watching, sir – he went out almost every day.’
Again there is the past tense.
‘At the same time?’
‘It would depend on the weather, sir – and how Mr Declan was feeling. It must have been later today. Ordinarily he would be back for his lunch at 12:30.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘That would have been about 8:45, sir – when I collected his breakfast tray.’
‘From his study?’
‘Yes, sir – he would spend his waking hours there, sir.’
‘And how was he?’
‘Just as normal, I should say, sir.’
Skelgill dips another biscuit into his tea and casually stirs it around.
‘What happened to the clock on the wall?’
‘The clock, sir?’
Skelgill stops what he is doing and raises a quizzical eyebrow.
‘The front is open and the pendulum and key are lying on the carpet.’
The old man looks troubled.
‘I can’t say as I noticed that, sir.’ He wipes his brow on the back of a gloved hand – it could be the heat from the fire, which is beginning to roar, compounded by his layers of formal clothing. ‘I imagine I was quite upset by the sight of Mr Declan.’
Skelgill nods. The soggy end of his biscuit crumbles into his cup, but he ignores it and nibbles pensively at the residual stump. His silence prompts an aside from Thwaites.
‘It’s an eight-day clock, sir.’
He evidently expects Skelgill to know what this means. Skelgill dips his head in such a way as to convey that he doesn’t.
‘It was Mr Declan’s custom to wind it on a Sunday – today, sir – that way the clock never needs to stop. I believe it’s never stopped since his mother Lady Elizabeth passed it on to him as a 21st birthday gift, sir.’
Skelgill appears only marginally interested in this rather extravagant claim. He yawns and takes a sip of his tea. He has removed his outer jacket and now he pats a breast pocket of his shirt.
‘This key – it’s usually left in the door of the study?’
‘That’s correct, sir. Mr Declan would lock it at night when he went up to bed.’
‘What about during the day – when he was in the
study?’
‘It was generally unlocked, sir. Of course I would always knock when I brought a meal and if he didn’t answer I would know he was out bird-watching.’
‘What about the door that leads outside?’
‘I believe he usually locked it whenever he went out that way, sir. I couldn’t say for sure what he did about it when he came back.’
‘It’s locked at the moment.’
The butler’s countenance undergoes something of a change. He appears to be wrestling with the possible implications of this fact: his master attacked and it might not have been by an intruder? He seems to will otherwise.
‘Perhaps someone could have slipped in while he was out, sir?’
‘But where would he hide, Thwaites?’ Skelgill’s tone is unduly scornful.
The man is forced to concede, there is nowhere in the room that would conceal a person. He nods sadly and does not offer a suggestion.
‘Was anything of value stored in the study?’
‘Not to speak of, sir. We don’t keep more than petty cash in the house – Hindscarth of Cockermouth delivers all the groceries on account. I’ve once or twice overheard Mr Declan say he’d put all his capital into his books, and warn the maid to go easy with her duster. And neither Sir Sean nor Mr Declan was one for having showy wristwatches and suchlike.’
Skelgill nods. He doesn’t doubt the literature would make a tidy sum – he couldn’t buy that set of Wainwrights for a month’s wages – but it is not the currency of the common-or-garden thief, who seeks pocketable items. And clearly the study bears none of the usual hallmarks of a burglary, when every drawer and shelf is ransacked.
‘What were you doing in the hour before you discovered the body?’
Thwaites looks alarmed.
‘I, sir?’ His voice is rasping and hoarse, but then his words come without hesitation and there is a ring of authenticity about them. ‘It was my own lunch hour between one and two o’clock, sir. I went back to the staff quarters and heated up some soup and took it to my room. I listened to the wireless – there was The World This Weekend and after that Gardener’s Question Time. Just after two o’clock I came back along to my butler’s pantry and polished up the crystal glasses for tonight’s dinner.’
‘So you were back on duty for what – ten minutes – before you went to collect the lunch tray?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘And you didn’t hear or see anything – any disturbance – anyone entering or leaving the study?’
‘No, sir – nothing at all, sir.’
Though Skelgill’s question is narrow in its scope, he poses it in the knowledge of the bird-watching log, which has Declan O’More returning at 13:35. Then there was time taken to remove his outdoor gear and write up his field notes. Only forty minutes later he was found dead by the butler. Furthermore there is the clue of the stilled eight-day clock.
‘What about this morning – did anybody visit Declan?’
Thwaites shakes his head.
‘Not that I can say, sir. It’s the maid’s day off – I believe she stayed in the staff quarters – I saw her making some lunch. And as for the family, sir – they weren’t really in the habit of coming to this end of the house. All of the main public rooms and the guest bedrooms are on the north side of the tower.’
‘What interaction would they normally have with Declan?’
The butler appears surprised by this question.
‘Oh – none at all, sir. Bear in mind they are uncommon visitors. And of course Mr Declan was a very shy person, you might say, sir.’
Skelgill takes it that shy is probably not what the butler means – but that the corollary is the same, whether or not this is a euphemism for a less amenable adjective.
‘Are you aware of anyone having more than passing contact with him – since the funeral on Friday, say?’
Thwaites again shakes his head – but then he raises an index finger to indicate a thought has struck him.
‘Well, no, sir – except for Mr Mullarkey, of course.’
‘Mullarkey?’
‘The O’More family lawyer, sir – he’s across from Dublin for the funeral. He was due to travel back yesterday – but of course he’s become snowed in and unable to return.’
Skelgill nods as he makes the connection with the middle-aged man whom he observed in conversation with the Vicar before and after the service.
‘You saw him and Declan together?’
‘Mr Mullarkey came to the study on Saturday afternoon, sir. Mr Declan rang for tea at about a quarter to three. Then I noticed Mr Mullarkey leaving the study about three-quarters of an hour later.’
Skelgill is silent for a few moments. But if this account troubles him, it is something he can easily follow up, given the lawyer is stranded like the rest at Crummock Hall.
‘How did Declan react to the death of his brother?’
‘It was a long time coming, sir – if you get my meaning? Sir Sean had been ill for over a year and hadn’t been expected to live beyond the summer.’
Skelgill nods grimly.
‘So it was business as usual for Declan – is that what you’re saying, Thwaites?’
The manservant looks uncomfortable on his late employer’s behalf.
‘He wasn’t a sentimental person, sir – kept his feelings to himself.’
‘Was there a disagreement, a dispute – between him and anyone else – a member of the family or the staff?’
Thwaites is slowly shaking his head.
‘Nothing that I can call to mind, sir.’
‘What about you, Thwaites?’
Skelgill leaves the question hanging, open to interpretation. The butler’s features take on a cornered expression, that this policeman might suddenly be suspecting him, since he has failed to cast suspicion upon anyone else. He clears his throat with a stuttering cough and speaks, rather more disjointedly now.
‘I’m sure Sir Sean – and Mr Declan – both – have been happy with my work, sir – else I don’t know that they would have kept me on all this time.’
It is a somewhat oblique rejoinder, but the man has a point – his tenure spans seven decades. Skelgill relents and leans forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, his body language altogether more convivial.
‘Thwaites, how did you come to Crummock Hall?’
‘My mother worked here, sir – she was a local girl, Mary Ann Thwaites of Lorton – went into service when she were just fifteen.’ Now a haunted expression suffuses his features. He stares into the fire and his brown eyes appear to smoulder as they reflect the flames. ‘Got herself into trouble, sir, in a manner of speaking.’ He pauses, though he does not glance at Skelgill to check that he has understood. ‘But the war had begun and the family took pity upon her. The master of Crummock Hall back then was Mr Padraig – and his Lady Elizabeth – she hailed from a titled Cumberland family.’
‘You were born here.’
Skelgill has correctly divined the nature of the maid’s little difficulty.
‘There’s a little cottage near the gates to the estate, sir – very generous they were, to let her stay there. As a small child I didn’t have cause myself to come up to the big house. I remember Mr Padraig calling by occasionally – but he died of a sudden when I was aged ten and the estate passed to Sir Sean.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I went off to do my National Service – Cumberland Rifles, sir. Afterwards I signed up as a Regular – but I was wounded in action – you’ll perhaps have heard of the Mau Mau Uprising?’
Skelgill nods grimly – his impression of this rather frail old man is perhaps undergoing some conversion. He waits for Thwaites to continue.
‘My mother fell ill around about the same time, sir. I was able to come back and Sir Sean was good enough to find me a position. It meant I could look after her at the cottage. When she passed away after a long illness they kept me on – and shortly after that Sir Sean gave me the promotion to butler, sir.
’
‘Had you known them – Sean and Declan – when you were growing up?’
‘Only in passing, sir. They would be seventeen years older than me, sir – so you can imagine, folk of their station, they didn’t ordinarily pay any great attention to a poor lad off the estate.’
Skelgill narrows his eyes as he regards the faithful old retainer. Perhaps there is something in this sentiment with which he empathises. Whatever the feeling it evokes, it points him to a particular line of questioning.
‘What age are you, Thwaites?’
‘Seventy-six, sir.’
‘Did you go to the village school in Lorton?’
‘I did, sir – the church school.’
‘Do you remember a girl called Minnie Graham?’
‘I do that, sir – quite a character if I recall.’
Skelgill is plainly uncertain of what he should say next. The Grahams are an ancient Borders clan of considerable notoriety – known down the centuries for their reiving of cattle, thieving of possessions, looting of properties and worse. Also aged seventy-six, also schooled at Lorton C of E, and also still referred to by some under her maiden name Minnie Graham, is Skelgill’s mother.
3. INHERITANCE
Sunday 5pm
‘She’s just walked in, Guv!’
‘Who, Leyton?’
‘The missing woman – the novelist.’
DS Leyton – having initially reported to his superior on arrival – has now returned rather breathlessly to the smoking room bearing this news. Skelgill puts down what must be a third or fourth cup of tea and rises from his chair by the fire. He strides to the long window and rests his elbows upon the deep sill. All that is visible are falling flakes of snow, illuminated by the weak light cast from within; beyond a foot or so they dissolve into total blackness. He stares broodingly into the hypnotic scene; it is like a tank filled with a great swirling shoal of tiny pale fish. That the woman has found her way back is no mean feat – through snowstorms and darkness, descending two miles of mountainous terrain from the location of her last distress call – when it appeared that her mobile phone’s battery died. Skelgill swings about, arms akimbo, gunslinger fashion, his features stern.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 54