The man nods with a modicum of enthusiasm.
‘It is quite possible – provided it were signed by two witnesses.’ He regards Skelgill closely, as if he is trying to read his reaction. ‘Of course, Inspector, a witness cannot benefit from a will.’
This statement appears to provide some food for thought for Skelgill, and it is half a minute before he raises another question.
‘What will happen to Thwaites – and the other members of staff?’
The lawyer relaxes into the high wingback chair; perhaps he was expecting a more challenging line of enquiry.
‘If the estate is maintained as a going concern then their positions may be unaffected – even were it to be sold to a third party. If it became a hotel, for example, there would be many more jobs created. However, there is a provision for Thwaites to have use of the gatehouse, a liferent as the Scots aptly call it – a continuing legacy from the will of Padraig Willoughby O’More. And I believe Thwaites has a war pension along with his state entitlement and therefore could live comfortably whether he works or not.’
Skelgill’s features are cast with a degree of scepticism – but he rouses himself and stands up, flexing his spine and yawning simultaneously; it seems the interview is drawing to a close.
‘And what about you, sir – your travel plans?’
The lawyer seems in no hurry to leave.
‘I have a hire car which I must return to John Lennon.’ He refers to Liverpool airport, but chuckles. ‘Now there’s an Irish name if ever there were one. I imagine I shall need my secretary to reschedule my flight – heaven knows when I’ll get safely through the snowdrifts.’
‘It isn’t hard to do, sir – we’ll be keeping the back lanes clear through to the A66 – you’ll be fine in the morning.’
The lawyer grins.
‘So we shan’t have the pleasure of you for dinner, Inspector? Having dropped in as you did, I thought you might be staying the night.’
Skelgill affects a degree of dutiful modesty.
‘I shall be heading down to Buttermere – there’s an old lady I need to check on.’
4. HEADQUARTERS
Monday 9.15am
‘Shanks’s pony, Guv – all the way to Buttermere?’
‘Aye, why not?’
‘How far was that?’
‘Couple of miles, Leyton – stroll in the park.’
‘The park in the dark, Guv – never mind the snow. How did you find your way?’
Skelgill takes a gulp of his tea and pulls a disapproving face.
‘Safe enough on the road – I wasn’t going to get run over, was I?’
DS Leyton shrugs resignedly. His superior has arrived late looking distinctly hung over, unshaven and wearing the same outdoor clothes as last night. That he had abruptly disappeared from Crummock Hall, passing an ambiguous message via Thwaites inferring a visit to his elderly mother, had not entirely convinced the sergeant. The knowledge that Skelgill’s mountain rescue cronies were likely bunking down for the night at the inn in Buttermere suggested an alternative scenario. It had all the makings of the classic lock-in: impassable country roads and the police joining the party. Skelgill now claims to have obtained a lift back to Penrith in the team’s Defender, tailgating a snowplough over the Newlands Pass. But DS Leyton knows better than to question the mysterious movements of his boss.
‘DS Jones should be up with the lab report and photographs any minute, Guv. She’s briefed on what we know. I’ve printed out the statements, so I can run through them if you like?’
He leans over from his regular seat beside Skelgill’s token filing cabinet and slides a single sheet of paper across his superior’s desk. Skelgill glances somewhat disparagingly at the item, and sinks back against his headrest and folds his arms.
‘Give it a minute, Leyton. Wait for Jones – no point wasting time if Herdwick’s come up with some innocent explanation.’
‘Don’t seem very likely, Guv – going by what he reckoned last night.’
But Skelgill already has his eyes closed, and does not reply. A silence descends. DS Leyton watches his boss with growing consternation – or it might be exasperation, for eventually he begins to pull faces of simulated annoyance – and is caught in the act by the arrival of the soft-soled DS Jones. She can’t help herself from breaking out into a giggle – and this rouses Skelgill from whatever trancelike state he had entered. He jerks forward in a rather ungainly fashion.
‘Jones – what’ve you got?’
‘Morning, Guv.’
She beams endearingly, unperturbed by his dishevelled appearance and abrupt reception. She bears a tray with fresh drinks from the canteen, and deposits this upon his desk. Skelgill greedily lurches for the nearest mug. DS Jones lifts up a manila folder and settles in her seat beside the window. Skelgill takes a couple of slurps, inhaling loudly over the piping hot liquid. His attention is restored.
‘Well?’
She glances at her papers.
‘There’s no doubt he was attacked, Guv – a severe blow from behind at a rising angle of about 30 degrees – some sort of club with a rounded end – possibly a baseball bat.’
Skelgill scowls over the rim of his mug.
‘That lot wouldn’t know a baseball bat if it smacked them between the eyes. Croquet mallet, aye.’
His sergeants simper amenably. With a kick of one boot Skelgill rotates his chair away from them in order to scrutinise the map of the Lake District pinned upon the wall behind his desk. DS Jones glances at DS Leyton, who grins encouragingly; she continues.
‘The provisional tests suggest a time of death around twelve noon – but with the falling temperature of the room and the considerable age of the victim, there could be an hour’s margin of error either side. However, the midpoint does correspond to the time that the clock stopped – so he could have been struck from behind while he was winding it.’
Skelgill is silent – but it is apparent that his posture has markedly stiffened. After a moment, still facing the map, he speaks in a strained voice.
‘What do you mean – the time the clock stopped?’
Again DS Jones glances at her fellow sergeant – though now with heightened apprehension. Having not attended the scene, she is less sure of her ground, and she detects some discontinuity is afoot. DS Leyton, longer-serving by a decade, is more inured to Skelgill’s capriciousness. He extends an arm and signals with a flicking of his fingers that she should pass him the file.
‘There’s a bunch of photos taken by SOCO – one of them shows the clock face stopped at twelve.’ He leafs through the papers. ‘Here we go, Guv.’
Skelgill spins around. He takes the proffered colour copy and stares at it, alarmed. His features grow increasingly severe, as though a storm is brewing behind his troubled brow. There is only so much to see – the rectangular casement clock on the wood-panelled wall, its front open, the pendulum missing, the hands neatly aligned, pointing to twelve – but Skelgill takes a good half-minute before he returns the picture to DS Leyton.
‘The study’s secured, right?’
‘Both doors, Guv – I’ve got the key for the internal door and SOCO still have the external one for prints – I said we’d drop down for it before we go back over. Plus we’ve taped off the hallway and PC Dodd’s on duty. According to the butler there’s only one key for each door in the whole place.’
Skelgill glowers unreasonably.
‘Happen the horse has already bolted, Leyton.’
Both DS Leyton and DS Jones wait in anticipation – but in characteristic Skelgill fashion, it appears he is not about to divulge the source of his contradiction, and to what metaphorical equine he refers. Of course, the informed fly on the wall would see the paradox: the facts of the photograph tell him twelve noon, while his senses, his memory – albeit dulled by little sleep and no little beer – scream out that twelve noon cannot be right. It is an impasse compounded by the nature of Skelgill, a man who does not like to admit he is wrong, or �
� worse – to look a fool.
‘We’ll get over to Crummock Hall as soon as we’ve finished here.’ He fixes DS Jones with a stare. ‘What else from Herdwick and his crew?’
She gazes rather helplessly at the file held by DS Leyton. She seems unnerved by Skelgill’s erratic manner.
‘That was really all from the lab at the moment, Guv.’ But then she gathers her wits as she recalls a point. ‘Oh – they did say there’s no evident blood spatter from the primary blow. The bloodstain on the carpet came from a secondary wound – probably when he toppled back and hit his head – he would have already been unconscious. Death occurred within two or three minutes as a result of massive internal haemorrhaging.’
Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.
‘Run me through what you know. Start with security.’
DS Leyton nods. He glances at DS Jones to indicate he includes her in his address.
‘I found no signs of a forced entry, Guv – the place is a rabbit warren – but all the ground-floor doors were locked – except the main one at the front – but of course we came in there.’
‘Who let you in?’
‘It was the butler, Guv - Thwaites.’
‘What did he say about it?’
‘Said he couldn’t remember, Guv – he was upset by what had happened – but he reckons it’s not normally locked during the daytime – and especially with some of the guests having their motors parked out there.’
‘What about tracks?’
‘Crikey, Guv – there were plenty at the front – some of them were ours though – but all mixed up – it was as much as I could see in the dark, and what with more snow falling. We might find something leading away if we have a proper butcher’s in the daylight.’
‘Other doors?’
‘There’s about a dozen, counting French windows. I checked outside them all – mostly no disturbance. You know about the study. The kitchen door leads onto a yard with storerooms round about it. There were footprints there – but the cook said she and the maid had been out for supplies every so often. Plus the gamekeeper and gardener who’ve got cottages in the grounds use that as the tradesmen’s entrance – seems they’d both been in for their breakfasts. Then there’s a cellar where they keep fuel – that’s got a door up some steps leading to the woodsheds. Quite a lot of tracks there – Thwaites said that would be him as they’ve been getting through stacks of logs.’ Skelgill is looking unimpressed, and DS Leyton’s features become increasingly strained. However, it seems he has saved his most promising item until last. ‘But there’s this, Guv – at the back of the main part of the house there’s a kind of porch, like a church. There was a single line of tracks coming from across the lawn out of the darkness – definitely some geezer with big feet walking right up to the door.’
Skelgill pulls a sour face.
‘That was me, Leyton, you donnat.’
DS Leyton looks somewhat crestfallen – but he is naturally thick-skinned (a necessary qualification for working with Skelgill) and doubly protected by his limited understanding of the Cumbrian dialect.
‘Oh, righto, Guv.’
Skelgill clicks his fingers.
‘The family.’
Now DS Leyton wavers.
‘I know you said to concentrate on the hour before the finding of the body, Guv – but I asked what they each did from the time they got up in the morning.’
He is clearly expecting a rebuke – but the photograph of the clock has dislocated Skelgill’s picture of events, and none is forthcoming. DS Leyton gestures to the untouched notes on Skelgill’s desk. He slips another copy from his file and passes it to DS Jones. He glances hopefully at Skelgill, but his superior resolutely ignores the paper.
‘Chop chop, Leyton.’
DS Leyton realises he must orate. He is about to begin when it strikes him that DS Jones will not be fully informed. He tilts his notes towards her.
‘These are the grandchildren of Sir Sean Willoughby O’More, who died a week ago of natural causes. Declan – full name Declan Thomas O’More – was his twin, and their great uncle. They were orphaned when their parents died in the eighties. There’s five of them.’ Now he closes a fist and sticks out a thumb and successive fingers as he begins to count. ‘An older brother – next a sister. Then twin brothers. And then the youngest sister – the writer who was missing in the hills. She got back safely, but I didn’t speak to her.’
DS Jones nods in appreciation.
‘Twins run in families – expressed through the females.’
DS Leyton widens his eyes. Skelgill appears disinterested.
‘How do you know that, girl?’
‘Remember I was on a forensics course at the University of York in October? There was a module on identical twins – there are historical cases where offenders have escaped justice because there was insufficient proof of which twin committed the crime. There are new developments in DNA profiling that can overcome that.’
‘Cor blimey. How come –’ But DS Leyton must suddenly sense Skelgill’s disapproval. He lifts up his paper and mutters under his breath. ‘Well – let’s hope it were the butler and not one of the twins.’
‘They’ll all be escaping scot-free if you don’t get on with it, Leyton.’
DS Leyton squints dutifully at his notes.
‘Martius Regulus-O’More first then, Guv. Age 39. Resident of Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent. Married. Two children at private school. Occupation merchant banker. Arrived on his Jack Jones by car on Thursday for the funeral on Friday. Had intended to travel home on Saturday. On Sunday went down for breakfast as soon as it was called at 8am. Saw his brother Edgar and the younger sister Perdita. Returned to his room and worked there on documents he’d brought with him until lunch at 12 noon. At lunch he saw Mr Mullarkey – the family solicitor,’ (he adds this qualification for the benefit of DS Jones) ‘as well as Cassandra, Edgar and Perdita – the missing one being the other twin, Brutus.’
He pauses now, and looks from one to the other of his colleagues. His expression is rather belligerent – as if he expects to be accused of making up these extravagant names. Certainly they are idiosyncratic, traditionally Irish among the older generations, more latterly classical. DS Jones, however, seems to appreciate his disquiet.
‘It sounds like a Shakespearean tragedy.’
Now Skelgill intervenes tersely.
‘Their mother was an actress.’
Compliantly they nod – let this be the explanation.
‘Martius went back to his room after lunch and continued to work there. At about 2:15pm his sister Cassandra came hammering on his door and that’s when they rushed to the study. Moving on to her, Cassandra – next eldest, age 37. Resident of Knightsbridge, London. Divorced, no children. Occupation party planner.’
DS Leyton now pauses, as though he anticipates an objection from Skelgill – however it is restricted to a doubting glower, to which the sergeant responds accordingly.
‘I asked her twice, Guv – and she insisted. I thought it was the gin talking – but give the lady her due she seemed most affected by the death, and what with seeing the body and all – so I just got on with finding out what her movements were. Claimed she never made it to breakfast and couldn’t remember for certain being at lunch – despite Martius saying he saw her. She was complaining that one day merged into the next, what with them being trapped indoors by the snow since Friday afternoon.’
‘But she raised the alarm, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s retort is thick with indignation.
‘I pointed that out, Guv. She heard Thwaites calling – she said she might have been in the drawing room. I notice that’s where they keep a drinks trolley.’
Now he shrugs and exhales rather wheezily. The actions serve to punctuate entries on his report.
‘Edgar. Eldest of the two twins. Age 35. Resident of Hampstead, London. Occupation chartered accountant. Single. Quietly spoken – polite – a bit stiff, know what I mean?’ DS Leyton’s intonation suggests that
such humility is not a trait shared by the entire family. ‘He was at breakfast and lunch, and who he saw there corresponds to the others’ statements. He’d brought work with him, too – said he’d set up a makeshift office in a room at the top of the tower – reckoned he could get a weak signal every so often to do his emails. Said he’d worked there either side of breakfast and lunch – heard the commotion just after 2:15pm and ran down to see what it was all about. Martius and Cassandra were already in the study with Thwaites. It was Edgar that called 999 – and a bit later I had a phone conversation with him about locking up until we could get there. We’ve got those calls recorded, Guv. He sounded quite unemotional.’
‘You said it yourself, Leyton – he’s an accountant.’
DS Leyton nods in deference to Skelgill’s omniscience.
‘Finally, his twin brother – Brutus.’ DS Leyton stares at his notes and makes a sudden gurning expression, as though he is reminded of some unpleasant experience. ‘Chalk and cheese, considering they’re twins. Resident of Covent Garden, London – although if you ask me, Charing Cross Road is Soho. Arrived by train and taxi with Cassandra and Edgar on Thursday evening. Occupation actor. Didn’t recognise him, myself – Brutus Regulus-O’More – you think you’d remember that one if you heard it.’ Now he gives a small introspective shake of the head. ‘Anyway – he’s another one who slept in – missed breakfast and lunch – said he wandered down to the drawing room in his dressing gown about 2:30pm – claimed that was the first he knew of it.’
DS Leyton looks up to find Skelgill is glaring at him.
‘There’s someone missing, Leyton.’
‘But, Guv – I thought you said we’d interview the youngest sister this morning?’
‘I’m not talking about her, Leyton – what about Declan? Who saw him, and when?’
DS Leyton rocks back and flaps his sheet of paper.
‘Ah, Guv – no, I mean, yes – I was saving that to the end.’ Now he brings the page forward and jabs at it with a sturdy forefinger. ‘All four gave me the same answer on that one. No one saw Declan on Sunday or went anywhere near his study before the alarm was raised. The only person who admits to any contact with him is Thwaites.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 56