Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill springs up and retrieves his jacket, earlier discarded in a corner.

  ‘Leyton – get a pool car – a 4x4 – go ahead of me and interview the other staff – same thing – their movements – who saw Declan – who saw anyone near his study – anything unusual – anyone seen walking in the grounds. And get Thwaites to have a good look around the study – stay with him – see if he can identify anything that’s missing.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’

  DS Leyton rises more circumspectly; he nods to DS Jones and departs the office. Skelgill meanwhile is punching a fist into his jacket.

  ‘Get your coat, Jones. I need a driver.’

  5. PERDITA

  Monday 10.30am

  ‘Aye, best part of thirty years ago it happened.’

  DS Jones shakes her head sadly. She is holding a framed photograph that she has lifted from the lid of a grand piano in the bright drawing room. Although it is printed in colour, it is faded almost to sepia and this effect, combined with the traditional dress of its subjects, could give the impression of a 1920s Pimm’s party. Raising their glasses at the centre of a laughing coterie are the late couple, Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More; milling in the background are wearers of striped blazers and boaters, and bearers of tennis racquets and whites, and beyond a rising skyline that Skelgill recognises as Mellbreak, and – more ominously – a horizontal sliver of bluish grey that is Crummock Water.

  ‘I’ve never heard of the accident, Guv. Do you remember it?’

  Skelgill’s brow is furrowed. Slowly he shakes his head.

  ‘I were just a kid – folk seemed to drown in the Lakes every year back then. I reckon it made a bit of a splash in the London press.’

  DS Jones glances sharply at him, but he appears to have used the metaphor in all innocence, since he continues without seeking her approbation for his wit as he might habitually do.

  ‘I knew this lot, though.’

  Now he points to a photograph of the children, of a comparable vintage. They are lined up in descending age order, left to right, in wellingtons, waving fishing nets and proudly dangling jam jars crammed with tadpoles. Martius, the eldest has a face of noble triumph. Cassandra, blonde and pouting, is the tallest – a girl’s growth spurt, perhaps. The twins Edgar and Brutus with their crewcuts are very near identical – except that one is serious, while the other sticks out his tongue and makes a two-fingered hand gesture. Perdita, just a toddler, grasps the shorts of the joker and looks up to him with laughing admiration.

  ‘What do you mean, Guv – when you say you knew them?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘I used to knock about here – birds’ nesting, fishing, exploring.’ He grins. ‘Trespassing, in their gamekeeper’s book. They used to come for their summer holidays.’

  ‘Even after their parents died?’

  ‘Aye, well after.’

  DS Jones remains thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘Do they recognise you?’

  Skelgill throws back his head scornfully.

  ‘A peasant like me – what do you think?’

  He digs his hands into his trouser pockets and saunters rather aimlessly over to the windows that give on to the Christmas cake lawn of his landing yesterday. His mood of urgency seems to have dissipated since their arrival at Crummock Hall, and now he calmly surveys the south-facing scene. There is a clear blue sky, though the winter sun is screened by the bulk of Grasmoor, which towers like a great white pyramid above the shelterbelt of conifers. He squints as he tries to determine the topography, but the flat light defies his efforts to spy familiar crags and gullies, and the blanket snow conceals the natural contour bands of first bracken, then heather, and finally rocky scree. His gaze falls closer to home as a movement in a shrub border catches his eye. He realises a flock of birds is busily plundering berries of guelder rose. He watches as they compete to gobble the glistening ruby globules, almost too big to be a beak-full; yet they vanish in the way that a magician folds a foam ball into a palm. Though he is no ornithologist, he has a vague idea that these are waxwings – surely a sighting to have pleased Declan, who would no doubt know their collective noun.

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting, officers – nobody told me you had arrived, now.’

  Simultaneously the detectives swing around – the soft Irish accent might almost emanate from hidden speakers.

  ‘Good morning to you – I’m Perdita.’

  The young woman has slipped unobtrusively into the carpeted drawing room; now she stops a couple of yards short of them. She links her hands behind her back and makes the tiniest bending movement at the knees, like a maidservant presenting herself for inspection. She is of below medium height and slight of frame and she wears a fitted short-sleeved dress in viridian that accentuates her narrow waist. She has a pale complexion and long strawberry blonde hair, parted rather mischievously to reveal fine upcurving brows; equally striking are high cheekbones and full pink lips, elegantly sculpted and set within a diamond face. And where green Irish eyes might be expected, dark brown irises merge with black pupils to produce an expression of dilated awe.

  Skelgill is plainly swayed by her striking presence – though he might be thinking she is not the hearty hillwalker he anticipated. She detects his dubiety and smiles quizzically. Rather awkwardly he gestures that they should be seated – a matching pair of large country sofas are arranged perpendicular to the hearth, a low table between them, and they take opposing sides, DS Jones (who exchanges polite nods but whom Skelgill fails to introduce) settling undemonstratively beside her superior.

  ‘We were looking for a Rowena Devlin.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector?’

  ‘Yesterday – out on the fell.’

  Skelgill’s contrary opening gambit seems designed to shift his disharmony back upon her. Perdita takes an anxious breath, her pale skin flushing at the cheeks. She raises finely boned hands in an apologetic gesture.

  ‘I had no idea my call would bring out the mountain rescue team – let alone a helicopter.’ She regards him from behind long fluttering lashes, and bites her lower lip in a signal of self-reproach. ‘And then I understand you abseiled into Crummock Hall. You’re something of a Local Hero.’

  Though she likens him to the multi-tasking protagonist of the eponymous movie, a clichéd figure of fun in rural parts (and apposite given his dual role as rescuer and policeman), Skelgill’s ego chooses to interpret the allusion as a direct compliment. Now he must play down his greatness.

  ‘It wasn’t exactly an abseil – and you wouldn’t normally have got a helicopter.’ He shrugs casually. ‘We’d just stretchered a climber off Scafell Pike and taken him to Carlisle. On another day the chopper could have been two hundred miles away.’

  ‘I was really just hoping for advice with a bearing – but then my battery died.’

  ‘Did you have a compass?’

  ‘I’m afraid I was trusting to the app on my phone – but the data signal was intermittent and I got all sorts of wonky readings.’

  Skelgill is wearing a thermal base layer beneath his shirt, and now he hooks a finger into the turtle neck and draws out a grubby length of nylon cord to which is tied a small rectangle of transparent plastic – a field compass – and an alloy mountain whistle.

  ‘Essential kit – as important as your boots – no battery needed.’

  She bows in deference to his expertise.

  ‘Inspector – anywhere else I should have gone prepared – I even have avalanche reflectors built into my jacket – but, in spite of my accent, I first climbed Grasmoor when I was knee-high to a grasshopper – I thought I couldn’t go wrong.’

  There is a degree of consternation in Skelgill’s expression. Her explanation is reasonable, if not entirely an excuse; however it also contains a piece of information – the implication that she does not recall him from her childhood. His features harden.

  ‘You still could have walked off Dove Crags – then we’d have been bringing you down
on a stretcher, if you were lucky.’

  She lowers her eyes and again bites her lip in contrition – it is a ploy that causes Skelgill to relent.

  ‘How did thee get down, lass?’

  She glances up in surprise: that he has suddenly lapsed into the vernacular.

  ‘I waited at the summit – I squatted in the lee of the stone shelter – I thought another walker might appear. But after a while I got a faint glimpse of the sun – I guessed it was about 2pm – I knew if I went carefully due north I could descend into Gasgale Gill – and then follow Liza Beck to our packhorse bridge.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow – but it is a grudging recognition of her competence – and at least she had ventured out adequately clothed – albeit she hardly looks strong enough to have battled through deepening drifts and swirling squalls.

  She may detect that such matters of practicality sidetrack him – for now she seizes the initiative and brings the exchange full circle.

  ‘So you see, Inspector – I said I was Rowena Devlin without really thinking about it. I suppose it’s a lot easier to shout out in the midst of a blizzard – and to be honest, for work purposes I mainly go by it these days – it’s quite a relief after being saddled for thirty-odd years with a real name like mine, I can tell you.’

  Skelgill regards her broodingly – she has a point, at least. And now she takes advantage of this little hiatus to address her own concerns. She looks imploringly to Skelgill and then to DS Jones and back.

  ‘Is my great uncle’s death really a murder?’

  That the family came straight to their own conclusions has not yet received any corroboration from the police – but now Skelgill breaks the embargo.

  ‘It’s hard to see it any other way, madam.’ This abrupt switch to formality – to madam – plainly discomforts him, but there is the matter of professional distance. ‘The autopsy has confirmed he was struck before he fell.’

  The woman is silent for a moment. She is not outwardly distressed, but her demeanour is one of helplessness – that something has been taken from her.

  ‘He was alive and kicking when I last saw him.’ She shakes her head ruefully. ‘At his cantankerous best.’

  ‘When was that, madam?’

  ‘Just before lunch – it must have been 11:40, thereabouts.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  ‘In his study – I went to see him.’

  ‘What for?’

  She smiles in a considered way.

  ‘You might say I received the imperial summons, Inspector.’

  She hesitates; Skelgill is impatient.

  ‘What did he want?’

  Now she shakes her head – perhaps a demonstration that she herself is still a little bemused.

  ‘To give me a dressing down, it would seem.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘My books, Inspector.’ She grins self-consciously. ‘I’m a writer?’

  Skelgill makes a faint inclination of his head to confirm that he knows this. He looks pointedly at DS Jones – for the first time properly acknowledging her participation – and now only for the purposes of passing the buck, so to speak – for plainly he expects her to be informed on the subject of Rowena Devlin’s literary output, should the need arise. DS Jones folds her arms. Skelgill turns back to Perdita, who is observing this little exchange with some interest.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘It seems I am in danger of invoking the family curse – he said I am my mother’s daughter – even if I don’t know it – he called me a witch.’ Now she folds her hands upon her bare knees and leans forwards in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘On reflection I think he meant it as a statement of fact rather than an insult.’

  That the course of the conversation has taken an unexpected, even surreal turn, robs Skelgill of any familiar landmark to guide his next question. He glances expectantly at DS Jones, but she seems determined to withhold her reaction. However, Perdita begins to elaborate of her own volition.

  ‘I don’t imagine you have read any of my novels, Inspector,’ (she does not wait for confirmation) ‘but I write romantic historical fiction – I write about the plantations and slaves and their masters and mistresses in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.’

  Skelgill is seated with his forearms resting upon his thighs, and now he regards his fingers as they entwine. He might be reflecting that there are sufficient digits to count the novels he has read – or, at least, started.

  ‘Inspector, if Great Uncle Declan were to be believed then back in the mists of time the O’Mores had a hand in such events – and that one of our more ruthless forbears double-crossed an African slave trader – who in turn enlisted his tribal witch doctor to lay a curse upon the family.’

  Now her accented eyes narrow in a decidedly feline manner.

  ‘Great Uncle Declan claimed the curse strikes among every generation – that my mother was the most recent victim.’ Her eyes suddenly widen and she opens her palms as though she is appealing to the detectives that they should believe her. ‘I have researched plantation society in the British and Irish colonies – but I have never come across anything in the family history that suggests such a connection.’

  Skelgill grins somewhat inanely.

  ‘Happen there’s your next plot.’

  She regards him pensively.

  ‘To be truthful, Inspector – I was thinking just that. Until –’

  ‘Until what?’

  ‘Until – a couple of hours later – I became disoriented on a mountain I ought to know like the back of my hand.’

  ‘Even the shepherds struggle when they can’t see which way’s up.’

  ‘And then Great Uncle Declan dies?’ She looks imploringly from one detective to the other.

  But Skelgill is unwilling to entertain this line of speculation. His face is the mask of a man who suspects he is being sold a tin of snake oil, albeit by a salesperson whom he finds far from objectionable. He sits upright and folds his arms, and manifestly composes his features.

  ‘I believe his collection of books is valuable.’

  Perdita is quick to react to this change of tack; and her tone is cooperative.

  ‘I’m sure it is, Inspector. It’s a life’s work.’

  ‘Did he say anything about it?’

  There is just the smallest hesitation while she brushes a strand of hair from her cheek.

  ‘Now you mention it... not directly – but he did ask if I still have my Bible.’

  ‘What’s the significance of that?’

  ‘Well – I don’t remember this, of course – but when I was Christened he gave it as a present – he did so for each of my siblings – a valuable illuminated antique edition.’

  ‘And do you still have it?’

  She nods – now she smiles sadly.

  ‘It has pride of place beside my bed.’

  ‘And what did he say about it?’

  ‘That was all, really – that was when he started to lecture me about my writing – he began to get agitated and shouted at me.’

  ‘How did you respond?’

  ‘I’m afraid I swore at him and stormed out. I told him he was a feckin dinosaur.’ Now she combs the fingers of both hands through her hair, revealing small delicately pointed ears that contribute further to her elfin appearance. ‘I’ve got a bit of a temper, now. It was with good reason that the others used to call me Paddy and not Perdy when I was a wee girl.’

  Skelgill looks rather blank.

  ‘I thought feckin wasn’t considered as swearing.’

  ‘Well, to be sure – in Ireland it’s a regular minced oath – but it was the best compromise I could come up with at the time.’

  Skelgill inhales pensively.

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Great Uncle Declan? To be honest, Inspector – ridiculous as it might sound I didn’t really know him – I’ve only met him on a handful of occasions since my childhood – and then barely to have a conversa
tion. I was only three when my parents died – after that it was always Grandpa Sean who hosted us when we came for the holidays. Great Uncle Declan kept to himself, and you might not see him for days – except perhaps at a distance, out in the grounds with his binoculars.’

  Skelgill seems more comfortable with this line of interrogation.

  ‘So you left him, what time was that?’

  ‘I was only at his study for a few minutes, Inspector – I should say, 11:50.’

  ‘Did you see Thwaites?’

  Now she appears puzzled.

  ‘I don’t believe I did – though you never know when he’s secreted himself in that butler’s pantry of his – Grandpa Sean used to tease us that there were spyholes and secret passageways – so the adults always knew what mischief you were up to.’

  Skelgill follows her gaze as she turns to look at an oil painting hung to one side of the chimney breast. It is a full length rendering of a youngish man dressed in the manner of a country squire, with tweeds and a shotgun and a dog at his heel, a backdrop of forested fells that Skelgill does not recognise. The legend, hand painted on a brass nameplate, states ‘Padraig Willoughby O’More, 1878-1949’. It is Perdita’s great grandfather, a figure to whom she bears no great resemblance – except perhaps the dark eyes, which Skelgill scrutinises as if he half expects them to blink as a silent watcher lurks behind the wainscot.

  ‘So, how come you’re Irish?’

  His question suggests his musings have been clambering about in the family tree.

  ‘I’m one of those people for whom nationality is more difficult to define. My parents were English, naturally. Indeed, on the O’More side I don’t think our branch has been born Irish for ten or more generations.’ Now she grins rather impishly. ‘But my mother contrived to be staying in Dublin with a distant cousin when I put in an unscheduled appearance. So I dropped a little anchor there. To be sure, much of my childhood was in London – but at eighteen I returned to Ireland to read English literature at Trinity. I’ve lived in Dublin ever since – fifteen years altogether now, Inspector.’