Behind the lenses Edgar’s eyes widen.
‘But he was, surely?’
‘Aye – but how could you tell? It’s not uncommon for someone keel over and die from the impact injury.’
‘But – did I say attacked?’
‘When you called for assistance, you told the operator he’d been hit on the head.’
Edgar looks confused – now he stares at Skelgill with a rather pained expression. Skelgill might imagine him as a seven-year-old stuttering before a stern schoolmaster, tucked behind his back an incomplete gerbil that gasps and kicks in his tight little fist, while Brutus (with Edgar’s ‘alibi’) is nowhere to be seen.
‘Perhaps I said hit his head? Martius must have –’ He checks himself. ‘When Martius shouted to call the police they all began yelling – Cassandra and Thwaites – one of them may have given me the idea – Thwaites, I expect – he found the body. I probably put two and two together – I panicked and bolted for the telephone.’
Skelgill holds fire for a few moments. His tone, if businesslike, has been neither aggressive nor accusatory.
‘When was the last time you saw Declan alive?’
Edgar seems more comfortable with this line of inquiry.
‘As I told Sergeant Leyton – to the best of my recall, it was at the reading of the will – on Friday evening after the funeral.’
‘How was he then – how did he react?’
‘Well –’ Edgar seems perturbed – that he doesn’t know the answer to this. ‘I can’t honestly say that I noticed, Inspector. I mean – I took it for granted that he already knew – that my grandfather would have discussed it with him. It seemed the logical arrangement, since Great Uncle Declan had no heirs to confuse the situation.’
‘And what advice did you give him?’
Edgar looks bemused.
‘I’m sorry – I’m not with you, Inspector.’
‘You being an accountant – didn’t he want your opinion?’
‘Oh – I see.’ The tension in his shoulders diminishes. ‘There is a firm of land agents – based in Cockermouth – I assume they handle the estate management and the accounts.’
‘That’ll be Foulsyke & Dodd.’
Edgar does not reply. Skelgill looks pensive.
‘And what do you expect to become of the place?’
Edgar understands he refers to the terms of the will.
‘I think it’s too early to say, Inspector.’
‘I gather you had a discussion on Saturday night.’
Edgar is about to answer, and then he hesitates and makes a face of distaste. Now he chooses his words with evident care.
‘It was not constructive – and I felt disrespectful to Great Uncle Declan to be debating the future of the hall while he was still alive...’
He tails off – for of course a change in the status quo quickly came to pass. However, Skelgill remains silent and in due course Edgar continues, his tone gaining an edge of bitterness.
‘But someone will always play devil’s advocate – just for the sheer hell of it.’
Skelgill regards Edgar patiently. But it seems he has no more to add.
‘So who’s the troublemaker?’
Edgar now backtracks.
‘Oh, it was a bit of a free-for-all – I couldn’t really say – on reflection there was probably too much wine consumed for it to be taken seriously.’
‘You must have a sense of which way the wind is blowing, sir? How about yourself, for instance?’
Edgar looks patently uncomfortable.
‘I had not given it proper consideration – and now it has been overtaken by the death of Great Uncle Declan.’
This would appear a reasonable get-out – but Skelgill is gently persistent.
‘Would you not fancy being the country squire?’
Edgar glances with alarm at the papers that Skelgill casually brandishes, and then at DS Jones’s notebook – as if he suspects they have compiled some secret dossier on him.
‘I have a thriving practice in Hampstead, Inspector.’
Skelgill nods accommodatingly, but he must register that the reply skirts his question. He consults his wristwatch – the time is getting on – and perhaps he wonders if very shortly Thwaites will bang the gong, or whatever he does to signal that luncheon is served. A man must eat, and Skelgill more often than most. Additionally, he has plans that will be better served by some mode of refuelling. As he rises, a little stiffly, Edgar is watchful, and takes this cue that the interview is concluding. He mirrors Skelgill’s action and gets to his feet, and eagerly offers a palm. Skelgill grudgingly accepts, but now it is his turn to be disconcerted, for Edgar prolongs a rather limp handshake. In prematurely detaching himself, Skelgill perhaps feels obliged to offer a parting crumb.
‘Happen the coroner will release the body today – so you can tell the others – and make plans for the funeral.’
Edgar looks pleased – indeed pleased with himself: that he has been chosen to bear the news. For the first time he smiles, revealing two rows of uneven teeth – a further contrast to his beautified twin.
9. HISTORY LESSON
Monday 1pm
Of the five hundred-odd recognised fells in the Lake District, Grasmoor is arguably the single biggest solid lump of rock. Designated by Wainwright as a “monstrous monolith” its looming presence darkens the southern reaches of Lorton Vale, its western slopes sliding precipitously into the depths of Crummock Water. In one variation of a little game Skelgill sometimes plays, in which the mountains are animals and Blencathra a maned lion and Skiddaw a horned rhino, Grasmoor is a great brooding bull elephant. In fact its name – on the face of it a touch oxymoronic, that ‘grass’ and ‘moor’ can be juxtaposed – tells a tale of another creature altogether, since the prefix ‘gras’ (correctly spelled with a single ‘s’) is merely a derivative of the Old Norse word ‘grise’, which means wild boar.
Munching pensively on his packed lunch – smoked ham sandwiches as it happens – Skelgill gazes down upon the place of its origin, a smudge of grey slate rooftops ringed by shadowy conifers, fine columns of wood-smoke rising from chimney stacks: Crummock Hall. It is a remarkable day, blue and white and crystal clear, and he must reflect on his good fortune to combine occupation with the love of his locality. However, at such times there is always a feeling of the ‘busman’s holiday’ – or, at least, a peculiar inverse of it – for he ought only tread such paths as prescribed by his need, and not roam entirely at will. He has inspected the cairn shelters – where there are walkers’ tracks aplenty in the fresh snow, though nothing to excite his curiosity – and has moved a little north, off the broad plateau-like summit (“rather dull”, according to Wainwright) to obtain his current perspective.
Right now he ponders Perdita’s reported route of descent – not the most direct, nor the safest, but certainly one that provided her with tangible clues to her intended course, cleverly making use of the immediate topography to hold a bearing. Had she drifted east from the summit – the kindest gradient on the broadest slope – she might soon have found herself lost in the centre of the massif, the featureless wilderness beneath Wandope (where, down the years, Skelgill has put right many little groups of disoriented hillwalkers – sending them on their way, bemused, with the phrase “two-dopes” or “three-dopes” ringing in their ears). Perdita, however, like a dog thought to be irrevocably lost, had turned to an innate homing ability, and arrived bright-eyed if not bushy-tailed: her exploits revealing resourceful grit to complement her elfin allure.
Before his departure from Crummock Hall Skelgill had convened his lieutenants. His announcement that he was setting out on foot had barely raised an eyebrow – they are all too familiar with his idiosyncrasies in this regard. (The only surprise might have been that he had not taken down a fishing rod from one of the walls.) Conversely, their reactions to his parting instructions were more mixed.
DS Leyton was delegated to reprise with each member of the household
their movements and observations, between the time of rising and the arrival of the forensic team at 4:15 yesterday afternoon. Although a straightforward job (other than having to reach Martius via his mobile telephone), its nature rarely elicits a positive response – people tend to conclude that the police do not believe their original account. Of course, there is some truth underpinning this sentiment, for any discrepancies may be pounced upon with a Holmes-sized magnifying glass. Therefore the investigating officer can expect a prickly reception. DS Leyton, however, had maintained a stiff upper lip, and stoically acquiesced to his superior’s command.
DS Jones grew agitated as this task was handed down; and soon enough Skelgill outlined something further afield as far as she was concerned. Firstly she was to track down the allegedly disreputable Gilhooleys, and establish their whereabouts on Sunday; secondly to visit the land agents – Foulsyke & Dodd of Cockermouth – whereupon to gain an understanding of the financial position and management process of Crummock Hall estate. It was to her undisguised consternation that Skelgill had effectively chaperoned her off the premises, on the grounds he had left his trapper hat in the 4x4 she had requisitioned from the car pool, and that they could leave together. To compound her discontent, he had issued a typically vague instruction that he would be making his way to Keswick and she should rendezvous with him at a particular café (located on the upper floor of a well-known outdoor gear emporium). Skelgill had loitered beside the vehicle until she set off grim faced, staring ahead of her. Such petulance is out of character.
Before climbing the fell, Skelgill had doubled back around Crummock Hall. He made a complete circuit of the perimeter walls, finishing up outside the garden door of Declan’s study. His findings had been much as he had anticipated. The fresh snow that had fallen yesterday afternoon and overnight had smothered all fine detail. Any new tracks were of the four-legged kind, fox, badger, roe deer, and red squirrel. Certainly there was the line of disturbance he had previously noted, leading from Declan’s door into the conifers – but this could be explained by the old man’s daily bird-watching expedition, to and fro perhaps Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Skelgill guessed that beneath the snow lies a regular path. He had followed this to the edge of the shelterbelt, to a boundary wall with a stone stile of sharply protruding rocks. Immediately beyond, the snow at the foot of the wall was even more disturbed – and now there were also sheep prints and flattened patches; quite likely one or more creatures passed in search of food or suitable shelter. The marks of human trudging hugged the wall away to Skelgill’s right – presumably Declan’s usual route. He had eschewed this, opting instead for a smooth ascent of the mountainside, a curving course visible as a rim of shadow, suggestive of a well-defined path beneath the crust of white, highlighted by the low angled sunlight. In due course, panting and perspiring, he had attained his goal.
Now he finishes his sandwich and folds the greaseproof wrapper into a pocket of his jacket. He rises and turns his attention away from Crummock Hall. Keswick is seven miles due east; en route he intends to call at the hamlet of Braithwaite. It is with a glint in his eye that he sets off, for the early part of this journey takes in some rewarding landmarks. First he must cross above the deceptively named Dove Crags, and pass beneath the rocky buttress of Eel Crag to reach the watershed of Coledale Hause. Immediately there is a steep descent beside Force Crag, where the waterfall of Low Force spills down past the abandoned workings of Force Crag Mine, the last remnants of half a millennium of man’s labours on the site. Thence the character of the route changes altogether, for an arrow-straight mining track follows the contour line above Coledale Beck and guides the walker beneath the impressive slopes of Grisedale Pike (or ‘peak above the valley of the wild boar’, to translate from the Old Norse).
As Skelgill drinks in the splendid scenery and notes with appreciation the mew of a circling buzzard or the brok of a passing raven, the casual onlooker would be hard pressed to guess he is a policeman at work. Certainly he throttles back on his regular pace. Indeed it would seem a reasonable charge that, given an inch, he has taken a mile (or several) in order to admire the fells and dales, doubly spectacular in their rare coat of ermine. But he is hunting a killer – and it seems unlikely the culprit will turn himself in. Forensics may yet play their part, but Skelgill cannot afford to lean on such a cheap crutch. He must be prepared to solve the case by detective work – and perhaps already has the wherewithal to do so. Thus, if he were challenged that he wastes valuable time, his retort would come without hesitation: “How am I supposed to think in an office?”
*
‘Daniel, is that you beneath that preposterous hat?’
‘It’s bloody effective.’
‘In that case, maybe I should get one.’
Skelgill stamps snow from his boots, pulls off his trapper hat and ducks into the low-beamed stone cottage.
‘Here – you’re welcome to this one.’
His host shoulders the thick oak door against the elements.
‘It’s a kind offer – but I shouldn’t deprive you. I take it you have further to walk?’
‘Aye – but only to Keswick, like.’
‘And from where have you come?’
‘Crummock Hall – by Coledale Hause.’
‘Ah – that explains everything – I was just watching it on the television news as you knocked.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come through – it might still be on.’
The older man leads Skelgill into a small kitchen, where a portable television set of ancient lineage is playing. Skelgill darts forwards and squints at the grainy screen, as though he can’t believe his eyes. An outside broadcast team is interviewing a youngish man clad in a fur coat with a high collar; rather indecently his torso appears to be naked beneath, for a triangle of dark chest hair is visible between the broad lapels. The caption states, “Breaking News: Lakes Murder – Owain Jagger, Empty Hollow”. In the background is the distinctive snow-capped front portico of Crummock Hall, a bright-livered police Land Rover and – to amplify Skelgill’s exasperation – a distinctive stocky overcoated figure animatedly briefing two uniformed constables and repeatedly glancing in the direction of the camera and edging subtly into shot. Skelgill lets loose a string of expletives and digs for his mobile phone.
‘Excuse my French, Jim.’
He jabs at the handset and raises it to his ear. Distractedly he rakes the fingers of his other hand through his damp hair. In the little sideshow, the plainclothes detective can be seen to pull what must be a phone from his inside pocket and regard it with surprise. Rather tentatively he answers the call. Then, visibly, he jolts.
‘Leyton – get that news crew out of there! If the Chief’s watching she’ll have my guts for garters! You know what that means.’
Skelgill raises a palm to his host, in silent apology for the Anglo-Saxon adjectives that punctuate this broadside. Observant television viewers would notice the sturdy detective glance nervously about, as though he suspects he is under surveillance, then abruptly to back out of frame.
‘Er, sorry, Guv – righto, Guv – they caught us on the hop – told the constable on the gate they were pals of Brutus and that he’d invited them – blagged their way in, Guv.’
Skelgill does not waste energy in pointing out the lameness of his sergeant’s excuses.
‘You’ve got thirty seconds, Leyton.’
He terminates the call and glares at the television set. The interviewer has evidently asked Brutus some question about his family history. He is at ease before the camera, his permanent semi-smirk tempered by a creased brow to represent the correct degree of mourning. He is presently explaining that Crummock Hall has been in his family for the past three centuries, and how much it means to him, having been a “seminal backcloth” to his childhood. A disparaging retort is just forming upon Skelgill’s lips when the screen goes blank. The director reverts to the studio, where an unready anchor is caught applying lipstick. It seems a fearful DS
Leyton has obeyed orders and taken the simple expedient of yanking out a plug.
Skelgill is grinding his teeth – but now his host places two steaming mugs on the kitchen table and smiles amiably.
‘Tea, Daniel – have a seat. It is quite a celebrity cast they have up there.’ He gestures to the television set. ‘I’ll turn this off, shall I?’
‘Aye – thanks.’ Skelgill does as he is bidden. ‘It’s picking your brains I’m after, Jim.’
‘Be my guest – I have been snowed in since Friday – it is one small drawback of moving out of town – so I appreciate your company even more than usual.’
Skelgill grins. The pair are old friends. Jim Hartley, retired Professor of History at Durham University, is a contemporary of Skelgill’s elders and one-time mentor of a young Daniel Skelgill in the field of fly fishing (rapidly overtaken by the schoolboy’s prodigious obsession). They spend a few moments exchanging pleasantries, family news and bemoaning the unsuitability of the climate as far as angling is concerned. In due course Skelgill, taking a thirsty gulp of tea, cocks his head in the direction of the television set.
‘Know anything about them, Jim? What he said – three hundred-odd years they’ve been there.’
‘And a low public profile they have kept, Daniel, considering such length of tenure.’ He removes his spectacles and begins to rub the lenses with a corner of a paper napkin. ‘Although it is not without reason.’
‘Aye?’
Now the professor holds up a qualifying finger.
‘First, I should say this period is not my forte – fifth to the fifteenth century if you want anything with real authority – but of course I have an interest in all things historical, especially where there is a local connection. The O’Mores made their fortune on the back of the Triangular Trade.’
‘Come again?’
‘Rum butter, Daniel – Cumberland sausage?’
‘You’ve got me now, Jim.’
‘But you know that Whitehaven was once a great port? Even if it is hard to imagine when you see its sleepy marina today.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 61