It would be like Skelgill to be mulling over the respective merits of Britain and Ireland, and indeed his rejoinder confirms such.
‘What do you reckon to it over here?’
His question, however, is ambiguous, for he could refer to the entire island of Great Britain, or to the more finite estate of Crummock Hall, or to anything on a sliding scale in between – England, Cumbria, The Lake District, the Vale of Lorton – but Perdita chooses to interpret his meaning as their present locus.
‘I shudder to think of the upkeep, Inspector – but it’s a house that holds a deep attraction for me – in spite of everything.’
Skelgill nods – as if he appreciates the rider. His manner becomes sympathetic.
‘What will happen to the place now?’
‘In what respect, Inspector?’
Skelgill pauses as he chooses his words.
‘Your family solicitor told me about Sir Sean’s will.’
‘Oh – I see.’ She meets his inquiring gaze with convincing inscrutability. ‘I don’t know what will happen, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t you have to decide, as a family?’
Now she nods compliantly.
‘On Saturday at dinner there was a lively debate, Inspector. Rather too lively – we agreed to postpone proceedings until Sunday night – but then of course there was Great Uncle Declan’s death. Martius has proposed we each think about it and reconvene – in order to reach a consensus.’
‘What’s your vote?’
Skelgill’s question is to the point. Accordingly there is something guarded about the way she allows her hair to fall across her face, forming a partial veil. Her tone becomes somewhat detached.
‘It would be a shame to see the old hall go out of the family after three hundred years.’
‘What about the others?’
Now she shrugs and inhales slowly, and lets out a small sigh.
‘It’s a matter of practicality, Inspector – they’ve forged their careers, made their lives – they’re tied to London and its environs – nor has any of us been groomed, “to the manor born” – as the saying goes. It has always felt like Grandpa Sean and Great Uncle Declan would go on forever.’
Skelgill might be expected to press for her siblings’ stated preferences – but there are times when he is obstinate if it means revealing something of his hand – and perhaps for this reason he changes tack.
‘What are your plans?’
She glances at DS Jones – and for a moment her eyes linger upon the younger woman’s athletic form – and then she turns her gaze back upon Skelgill.
‘Well, to be sure, now – I was going to ask your advice, Inspector.’
‘Aye?’
‘You see, I’ve driven from Dublin – I came by car ferry to Liverpool. We’re assuming there will be a funeral for Great Uncle Declan at the end of the week. I’d no sooner get home than I’d need to come back – so I was thinking I might as well stay.’ She presses her palms together in the manner of prayer, and regards him with a supplicating stare. ‘If you feel it is safe?’
Skelgill’s posture stiffens just perceptibly. Her coyness aside, it is a challenging question: should he advise her to remain alone in this great rambling mansion where a murder has just been committed and no suspect identified?
‘You might find it more agreeable down at the inn at Buttermere – I could have a quiet word with the landlord if they’re busy with bookings – or I know folk hereabouts who’d open their B&B for you.’
Perdita responds with a gracious smile and a flicker of her lashes. It would appear to be an acceptance of his offer.
‘I should like to do something for you, Inspector.’ She sees uncertainty cloud Skelgill’s eyes and qualifies her statement. ‘For the mountain rescue – if you would recommend what would be an adequate donation for the trouble I caused – perhaps I could give you a cheque – if I could see you for a few moments before you depart?’
Skelgill is conscious of DS Jones’s gaze upon him. He sweeps back his hair with the fingers of his left and then tugs at the knees of his trousers as he rises. It seems he is ready to conclude the interview.
‘The team’s funded by the generosity of the public – they’d have my guts for garters if I don’t take your hand off.’
‘Inspector, then I shall trust your bite is not as sharp as your bark.’
6. MARTIUS
Monday 10.45am
‘Reckon I was hard on her, Jones?’
DS Jones breaks away from her examination of the clock in the late Declan Thomas O’More’s study. Such soul-searching is not a sentiment she would normally associate with Skelgill, however minor. He has his back to her as he peruses the bookshelves that line the opposite wall.
‘Perdita? Not really, Guv – I would have said the opposite – especially considering what she said about the argument – and her temper – and that she’s the only person other than the butler who admits to seeing Declan yesterday.’
Skelgill appears reluctant to turn face about. He continues to stare at the rows of books, and folds his arms. He and DS Jones have ducked under the police tape in the hallway and entered with the key obtained from the safekeeping of DS Leyton. It seems that Skelgill wanted to inspect the clock before enlightening his colleague. Now she is apprised of his conundrum: that despite the forensic photographer’s unequivocal image of the old timepiece stopped at 12 noon, when Skelgill arrived the hands (he swears) were pointing to 2 o’clock. If only he had photographed it as well as the logbook. Slowly and deliberately he places a finger on the spine of a Wainwright, as though by touching it he makes some psychic connection.
‘Fact is, Jones – we’ve got her distress call logged at 1:45 – plus we’d used a search and rescue app to get her grid reference – so the pilot knew where to drop us. If 2 o’clock is the real time of the murder, she was the best part of an hour’s yomp away – and that’s on a summer’s day.’
DS Jones regards her boss uneasily.
‘Are you certain, Guv? I mean – 2 o’clock could easily look like ten past twelve – or even just twelve at a glance.’
Now Skelgill spins on his heel. There is a wild cast in his eyes and though he glares in the direction of his colleague he seems to see straight through her.
‘Come here, Jones.’
He gestures with a cursory flick of his fingers, and then he drags the chair away from the desk and opens the journal that still lies upon the blotter. He locates the most recent entry, and taps the page. DS Jones joins him at his side, and obediently reads.
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘It’s Declan’s bird log.’ He stands back. ‘Look at the times.’
DS Jones pores over Sunday’s entry. Then she starts as the implications strike home.
‘He went bird-watching between 11.55am and 1.35pm?’
‘And he had time to write up his notes.’
DS Jones begins to leaf back through the pages.
‘This is genuine, Guv?’
‘Jones – keep going and you’ll find the birds he spotted on your birthday – and I mean birth day. It’s genuine, aye.’
She looks up at her superior.
‘So Declan couldn’t have been killed at noon?’
Skelgill’s features are a grim mask. He need not reply.
‘Guv – do you think someone changed the clock – turned it back two hours?’
‘I know someone changed the clock.’
DS Jones pushes off from the desk, rounds it and takes a few steps across the room. The carpet has been removed for forensic examination, and her heels rap on the polished wooden boards. She places her hands on her hips and considers again the clock, head tilted to one side. She is wearing a crop-cut leather jacket and matching pointed ankle boots, and stretch black jeans – an ensemble that accentuates her figure and makes her look rather less of a sensible detective sergeant and more like a sexy biker chick. Skelgill’s eyes narrow as he follows her movements.
‘Wh
y would they do that, Guv?’
Her question breaks his reverie, though he blinks several times before he can fashion a reply. And, true to type, he immediately rows back from the premise she might wish to propound.
‘Playing silly buggers.’
DS Jones spins on her heel, drawing a squeal of protest from the floorboard beneath. She is frowning – but prudently she resists the urge to gainsay him. Instead she moves on to what is the next logical question.
‘When could it have been done, Guv?’
Skelgill inhales deeply, in the manner of a reformed smoker, and pulls his gaze away from his colleague. He closes the logbook and gently pats its worn leather binding.
‘Take charge of this.’
‘Will do.’ But she waits unmoving for Skelgill’s reply.
After a moment he looks up, his features a little strained. ‘I arrived at three. I reckon I was in here for fifteen minutes. The garden door was fastened, the key blocking the lock – so there was no way in from the outside. I locked the hall door and took the key. I gave it to Leyton when the crew arrived about an hour later.’
‘So – between 3:15 and 4:15?’
‘Aye.’
‘And there’s no spare key?’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘Not according to Thwaites.’
DS Jones turns up the palms of her hands.
‘It seems unlikely, Guv.’
But Skelgill continues to scowl. He may be playing devil’s advocate – though he shows no inclination to inspect the panelled walls or the bookcases for some mysterious secret door. Now DS Jones folds her arms, her brow becoming furrowed.
‘The times in the logbook, Guv – they also mean Dr Herdwick’s assessment is wrong.’
Skelgill emits a scornful exclamation.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time he’s skimped on a Sunday. He likes his pint in The Queen’s Arms.’
‘Doesn’t he go to Evensong – I heard he was in the church choir?’
‘Aye – you and his missus.’
DS Jones raises her eyebrows – but her tone is forgiving.
‘I suppose he did say there were variables that made it difficult to be accurate – the age of the victim and the room temperature falling significantly after the fire burned down.’
Skelgill glances cursorily at the hearth; cold grey ash is all that remains of what might have been a sizeable blaze – it is something he ought to confirm with Thwaites.
‘Jones – if the murder took place at 2 p.m. Perdita is in the clear.’
DS Jones nods pensively. She inhales to speak but then she checks herself.
‘Aye?’
She half turns away and slides her hands into her midriff pockets, her elbows angular.
‘I’ve read most of her books, Guv.’
‘And?’
‘She’s a good writer.’ DS Jones looks down and reflectively kicks one sharp toe of a boot against the other. ‘The plots are a bit clichéd – beautiful downtrodden mistress of the house falls for hunk of a manservant – but they kind of draw you in and you feel like you’re there – amidst the sweat and the fear of the slaves.’
‘Sounds like our HQ.’
DS Jones chuckles.
‘She calls the setting the Venusian Islands – an archipelago in the Caribbean. Fictitious I suppose.’
Skelgill is swiftly losing interest. But now DS Jones seems to want to make the point that she had hesitated over, and he reads sufficient of her body language to offer a prompt.
‘What, Jones?’
‘It’s just that –’ She casts a tentative sideways look, as if she anticipates his disapproval. ‘You would think to meet Perdita she’s not got a bad bone in her body.’
‘Aye?’
‘But as Rowena Devlin – I’d say she’s pretty ruthless, Guv.’
Her unintended oxymoron seems to captivate Skelgill – his gaze now drifts away, to the view through the nearest of the two windows. There is little to see but snow and conifers, though he stares unblinking – until his musings are interrupted by an impatient rap upon the door. Without invitation it opens and – to Skelgill’s evident dismay – a man peremptorily enters and marches towards him. Skelgill shoots out a palm at arm’s length, like a traffic policeman warning a renegade motorist to halt.
‘Hey up, pal – this is a crime scene!’
The interloper stops dead in his tracks, but his obvious agitation only becomes compounded. He thrusts his hands onto his hips and tilts forwards at the waist. It is Martius Regulus-O’More, the man who had first admitted him to Crummock Hall yesterday.
‘Inspector – this is my... my home!’
Skelgill for a second seems to waver – a rekindled sense, perhaps, of his destiny to serve. His reply is stilted.
‘I shall have to ask you to leave the room.’
But it is plain that Martius is determined to stand his ground.
‘Look here, Inspector – this is becoming intolerable – I can’t just wait while you and your colleagues sit around drinking tea – I have an important dinner at Guildhall this evening.’
Indeed, he is wearing a camel polo coat and a pinstripe suit beneath, as though he might be due at his City of London office any minute. His unseasonal suntan apart, his features are rather nondescript, and bear little similitude with striking younger sister Perdita. His fairish hair is combed back from a receding hairline, and held by a slick of cream. Close set mid-blue eyes, rosebud mouth, small nose and weak chin – they cluster in Churchillian surroundings. It is not a face built to strike fear into an opponent – a stark contrast to Skelgill’s rugged countenance. But his inner seething boils over as a froth of spittle at the corners of his mouth.
Skelgill does not immediately reply, and in this hiatus Martius notices DS Jones, who stands a couple of yards apart. He regards her with equal hostility, but cannot conceal a sly hunger in his eyes, and his gaze lingers excessively. It sparks Skelgill’s intervention.
‘Aye – tea’s a thought. Jones – see if you can rustle up Thwaites while I have a word with Mr Regulus-O’More. Get him to take it to the drawing room. I’ll lock up here – for what it’s worth.’
Martius bridles as DS Jones nods obediently and slips quickly past them. That this uncouth officer, who barefacedly requisitions Crummock Hall’s services, exposes his covetousness serves only to stoke his ire. He appraises Skelgill’s outfit disparagingly, and his polished tone ascends to a new level of outrage.
‘Didn’t I see you at the funeral?’
His delivery might have been more fitting had he accused Skelgill of urinating into a potted plant. Skelgill’s reply is forced between gritted teeth.
‘I was representing Cumbria Constabulary – Sir Sean O’More was a supporter of our charity, Care of Police Survivors.’
Martius’s reaction is one of indifference. Skelgill has wondered if he would be recognised – not merely from the funeral, but from times long past. As the eldest of the family – in fact two years his senior – Martius would be most likely to remember him. But if he does, he shows no inclination to renew what was a tenuous acquaintance, Skelgill a mere irritant, some unwashed juvenile itinerant who had the cheek to sneak about their property and entertain his more gullible siblings with lizards and newts and birds’ eggs, or whatever else he had in his grubby pocket that particular day.
‘This is preposterous. We need to know when our great uncle can be buried. I shall complain to the relevant authority.’
His demeanour does not soften. But then neither does Skelgill’s.
‘You were the first to come into the study, sir?’
By means of the ostensibly deferential title ‘sir’ – employed for the first time – Skelgill contrives to create the impression that Martius is being questioned under caution. The man might be on home turf, but Skelgill has authority on his side. And Martius shows himself to be uneasy.
‘Yes – well, no – not before Thwaites – he found the body. And then Cassandra alerted me �
�� look, I have already provided this information to some overweight buffoon of a sergeant.’
The fingers of Skelgill’s left hand, hanging slack at his side, twitch. And perhaps his eyes measure the distance to the chin of Martius Regulus-O’More. If so, the latter cannot appreciate quite how close he is to an impromptu nap. When Perdita confessed to possessing a combustible temper, Skelgill’s ears were surely burning. In an ideal world he would offer a withering verbal riposte – but this is not his forte. Never mind that he is no match for a man for whom debating in some august hall came as part and parcel of his expensive education. By comparison, such scholarly disagreements as Skelgill experienced were settled behind rusting cycle sheds with a rather less urbane exchange of oaths and fists. Yet perhaps some inkling of this inequality is conveyed across the class divide, for Martius breaks the silence.
‘I’d jolly well like to know what you’re doing to catch this intruder – hadn’t you better unleash your bloodhounds – or whatever the heck you get up to in the sticks?’
Despite the incremental slur, Skelgill suppresses a small smirk of satisfaction.
‘There’s no evidence to suggest it was an intruder, sir.’
For a moment Martius appears confounded. Now a hint of alarm, a hunted look, even, narrows his eyes.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, man – who else could it have been? There is clearly a lunatic at large.’
Skelgill is implacable.
‘Did you move the body at all, sir?’
‘Of course not – it was plain he was stone cold dead.’
Despite his tone – which remains at once insulting and tinged with dissent – that he has answered tells he understands that cooperation is the prudent exit strategy.
‘What about ornaments, furniture – did you disturb anything?’
‘I had neither desire nor opportunity – Cassandra was half... half hysterical,’ (hysterical is evidently not the word that first came to mind), ‘And Edgar appeared looking like he’d seen a ghost – I shepherded her out and sent Edgar to phone 999.’
Skelgill gestures casually towards the garden door.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 58