Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What were they up to, Eric – any idea?’

  Eric Rudd removes his battered tweed trilby and retrieves a half-smoked roll-up from behind one ear. After a couple of attempts he succeeds in lighting it with a match. He inhales and then indulges in another bout of coughing and spitting. Squinting through the bluish smoke he finally addresses Skelgill’s inquiry.

  ‘Word was they’d gone fishing – leastways, his nibs. Reckon she just went along for the ride, his young lady wife.’ He takes another drag of the unfiltered smoke and exhales as he speaks. ‘Course, the Regulus gadgee – he were a townie – happen he didn’t rightly know what he was doing – panicked when they got into trouble. He couldn’t swim, neither. By all accounts she tried to save him – her scarf were wrapped round his wrist. Happen he dragged her down.’

  Skelgill is looking grim faced.

  ‘There’s plenty of decent swimmers drowned in the lakes, Eric – you know that. Once the cold shock gets to you – it’s like you’re inside a sack of taters.’

  ‘Aye, if thou go under lad, that spells trouble.’

  Now Skelgill hunches his shoulders and digs his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He takes a step towards the lake and stamps his feet. He is wearing a more conventional outfit than usual and must be cold. He gazes out across the wintry scene, its backcloth the distinctive muscular curves of Mellbreak – a mountain of “loneliness, solitude and silence” in Wainwright’s book, but a hunting leopard in Skelgill’s own little game, prone and poised to spring. Beyond the perimeter ice a drake goldeneye, resplendent in black and white, is defying the laws of nature that they presently discuss. After each dive for food it bobs back up with such buoyancy that it almost leaves the surface, its slick plumage and a little shower of droplets sparkling in the sun. Skelgill breaks out of his reverie and turns to face his old friend. It appears he feels he has gleaned all he can at this moment.

  ‘Long time since we’ve had this much ice, Eric.’

  Eric Rudd inhales viciously on the last vestige of his cigarette – it produces a pulmonary reaction like a misfiring diesel engine, and streams of smoke from the bristling twin exhausts of his nostrils.

  ‘Folk wo’ skating on it in ’63 – worst winter I can recall. Some were fishing like eskimos – cut little holes. I nivver sin owt caught, though.’

  Skelgill makes a sound of amusement.

  ‘Had any char lately, Eric?’

  ‘Aye – afore the freeze set in – couple o’ four pounders on a minnow, trollin’ like.’

  ‘Nice one. I must give it a crack some time.’

  ‘Thou should – there’s more than yan lake int’ Lake District, lad.’

  Automatically Skelgill begins to counter this statement – but then he breaks out into a grin – for Eric Rudd has cannily subverted his regular aphorism and has a mischievous glint in his eye.

  ‘An’ there’s more to life than pike, lad.’

  Skelgill chuckles and pats his elder upon the shoulder.

  ‘Right enough, Eric.’

  ‘Y’off ter see yer Ma?’

  ‘Aye, I’d better drop in later – if she gets wind I’ve been knocking about down here I’ll get my ear bent if I don’t.’

  ‘Get your timing right for dinner, lad.’

  Skelgill pulls his right hand from the warmth of a pocket and checks his wristwatch. It is approaching eleven a.m. and his mother is likely still at work. Somewhat cagily he glances at Eric Rudd.

  ‘I should get a shift on, Eric – I need to see a man about a dog.’

  The old man winks ostentatiously.

  ‘Aye – I thought thee were reet proper togged up, lad.’

  *

  ‘Your donation went down a treat – I handed your cheque to the treasurer last night – thanks very much, er –’

  ‘Inspector –’ Perdita O’More interrupts; she holds up her gloved hands, but then she checks herself and catches her breath. She takes a couple of quick paces to get ahead of Skelgill, and nimbly turns to face him, stopping him in his tracks. ‘I realise I must refer to you by your title – but, would you mind – there’s no need for Miss or Madam or Ms – just call me by my name?’

  Skelgill looks a little discomfited.

  ‘Aye – which one, then?’

  Now she purrs and swings into step with him; they walk on through the well-trodden snow of the village path.

  ‘Well now – as I told you, I mainly go by Rowena these days – and that’s how I’ve registered at the B&B.’

  ‘Rowena it is.’

  Skelgill’s features give a hint that he wrestles with some conundrum – perhaps that he is sorely tempted to reciprocate the informality – but the inner voice of protocol prevails and he maintains a semblance of professional distance. His companion, however, appears unperturbed by this one-sided state of affairs, and now she grins somewhat ruefully.

  ‘Besides, after what happened on Sunday I think ‘Perdita’ is rather tempting fate.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘It’s a Latin name – it means ‘lost one’ – or ‘despairing’ – which is even more depressing. I don’t know what possessed Mama to deviate from the Irish tradition.’

  ‘She was an actress.’

  ‘But not at the RSC, Inspector.’

  ‘Happen it was your father’s influence?’

  Perdita O’More purses her ruby lips and her dark eyes become pensive. She gazes at the ground passing beneath her feet – her sheepskin boots crunch on the ridges of frozen footprints of those who have gone before, and for a few moments it is plain that some memories have been stirred by Skelgill’s question.

  ‘I believe – that Dada had limited attention for us. He carried the great weight of the Regulus & Co merchant bank on his shoulders. No one wants to go down in the annals as the son that failed the family firm.’

  Skelgill has his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and now he gives a casual jerk of the shoulders.

  ‘He didn’t hang about – made sure he had an heir – and plenty to spare.’

  Perdita flashes him a quick sideways glance – but if she is looking for some sign that Skelgill is probing, she is met with a rather inane twisting of his features that might actually be an expression of admiration for her late father’s fecundity. It prompts the corners of her mouth to turn up.

  ‘It can’t be denied – though he ought to have stopped at Martius, so he should.’

  Chivalrous on her behalf, Skelgill makes a sound that communicates his disapproval of this notion. Notwithstanding, he takes the opportunity to develop her point.

  ‘He seems well suited to being a banker – not that I can say I’ve met too many.’

  The young woman simpers apologetically.

  ‘By that you mean brash and arrogant, Inspector?’

  Her candour takes Skelgill by surprise, and he stares ahead unblinking.

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines that you need the right background. Can’t ever imagine how I would have ended up in a job like that.’

  ‘If you are suggesting that high finance and nepotism go hand in hand, I must agree with you.’ Perdita nods reflectively. ‘But I daresay that applies to many walks of life. It’s human nature to favour one’s kin.’

  They walk on through the crisp snow, silent now. Rather wistfully Perdita casts her eyes to the larch-and-oak-clad fells that rise ahead of them, the forest bare beneath the long rollercoaster ridge that stretches from Hay Stacks to Red Pike. For once the usually striking 1300-foot vertical gash of Sourmilk Gill is indistinct, its frothing beck part-frozen, part invisible being as white as the surrounding snow.

  ‘Inspector – tell me now – how on earth do the sheep survive in these conditions?’

  Skelgill looks puzzled. She might as well be asking him why is Buttermere the name of the nearby hamlet, when it is patently the name of the lake? Some things are just the way they are. However his reply, when it comes, would prompt his colleagues to remark upon an uncharacteristically patient exp
lanation.

  ‘The likes of the Herdwicks – the main breed in these parts – to all intents and purposes they’re wild animals – they know their own heaf, it’s their territory. They can forage by instinct – beneath the snow, even – such as beside a spring where there’s warm groundwater flowing. If there’s a prolonged freeze the farmer might drag out a bale of hay with his quad. But they don’t need much of a helping hand. Come April the shepherds gather them in-bye to lamb.’

  Perdita tugs at her collar and snuggles in her new puffer jacket. Its satiny fabric is of a metallic navy hue, and sets off the shining bronzed coils that tumble almost to her waist. She skips playfully ahead of Skelgill. The jacket is cut to the hip; tight charcoal stretch jeans reveal an athletic feminine musculature that draws his gaze.

  ‘I used to adore their little black lambs – many a time I tried to convince Nanny that I had obtained permission to take one home after the Easter holidays.’

  It is a moment before he responds.

  ‘What –? Aye – they’re cute right enough – but it doesn’t last.’

  Perdita turns to face him; now her expression is doleful.

  ‘Only in death is there eternal youth, Inspector.’

  Skelgill regards her evenly.

  ‘Now that’s Shakespeare, I take it?’

  She appears a little nonplussed, her lips part. Then she looks away, and speaks softly, her Irish brogue underscoring the note of pathos that has crept into her voice.

  ‘Oh – no – I don’t think so – unless I unwittingly plagiarised the line. It was spoken by a character in one of my stories – but I was picturing Mama when it came to me.’

  She is just a yard away, and Skelgill can see the tears that well up in the dark pools of her eyes. Her gaze meets his own, and for a few seconds there is an unspoken exchange – however it is one that somehow unnerves Skelgill, for he blinks first, and takes half a pace backwards.

  ‘I’m sorry, lass – I mean – it must still be hard – for you to come back here.’

  He glances inadvertently in the direction of Crummock Water. They have crossed the outflow plain and have reached Scale Bridge, the old stone packhorse crossing with its double arch that spans Buttermere Dubs. The lake, a couple of fields hence, is visible only as a horizontal sliver of grey, but Perdita seems to understand that he looks to the site of the tragedy – ‘The Accident’.

  ‘Unfinished business, Inspector.’

  ‘Come again?’

  She smiles – but it is a wan smile and in the slanting rays of the sun Skelgill sees lines at the corners of her eyes that remind him she is not even a handful of years his junior. Her voice takes on a wistful, dreamlike quality.

  ‘When, as a child, you lose someone close to you, I believe the cut is many times deeper, for you have no meaningful intellect that will intervene to soften the blow – it is a wound that never becomes resolved – but so too the raw love is preserved.’

  Now Skelgill wheels away – he stares across the bleak pastures to Buttermere. His gaze settles upon a distant row of distempered cottages; they blend into the snowy backdrop, but for their steep slate roofs and a wraith of grey that rises like a departing spirit from one of the chimneys. He nods, swallows, combs a hand through his hair slowly and methodically, as if to draw away some notion that has possessed his mind. Then purposefully he turns back to face the young woman, and there is a hunted look in his eyes.

  ‘Do you think your parents got on okay?’

  It is a blunt question, insensitive even, given the drift of their conversation – but Perdita, rather than be offended, takes it in her stride – perhaps she is even relieved that he moves matters forwards.

  ‘The honest answer is that I don’t know – I was too young – even Martius was only nine when they died – and I don’t think my siblings wish to remember them as anything but devoted.’ She gives a little sigh – a suggestion that this is not all, that this is not the whole picture. ‘They had opposing careers that dominated their lives – allowed them precious little time together. And I’m not sure they were a match made in heaven – the analytical thinker and the impulsive artist. Consider Edgar and Brutus if you want to see the same contrast in the flesh. They wouldn’t have been the first married couple to experience difficulties, would they now?’

  ‘Who would know?’

  Slowly Perdita shakes her head, treading carefully in the snow, as if she picks her steps in the same way as she composes her reply.

  ‘That, I’m not sure. They were both only-children. For each family, Regulus and O’More, theirs is a lost generation – we have no aunts or uncles, cousins or suchlike. Of course, my grandfather would have had some insight – and my great uncle to a lesser degree. Nanny moved back to her native Argentina – to a family of British diplomats in Buenos Aires – I heard some years ago that she had retired and later passed away. Today there is just Thwaites who survives – I suppose he may recall some of my parents’ contemporaries.’

  Skelgill is pensive – but Perdita tilts her head to one side and regards him keenly.

  ‘Inspector, do you imagine some connection between their deaths and that of Great Uncle Declan?’

  Skelgill makes a sudden expiration of breath; the kind of noise that signifies such an idea would be wild conjecture on his part.

  ‘I imagine all sorts of things – but I don’t much heed my imagination – most of the time it would just dump me in trouble, and I shouldn’t be long in the job.’

  Perdita brings her angled brows together.

  ‘Inspector, I think we both know that is far from the case. Your record goes before you.’

  Skelgill finds himself conflicted between modesty and preening, and though the latter threatens to prevail, he somehow contrives to play down her praise. And in any event – how does she know about his “record”?

  ‘Happen I have my methods – if only I could work out what they were.’

  In a gesture of mock exasperation she tosses her hair until it covers her face. When she parts the veil it is to reveal a look of mischief that belies the underlying gravity of her next question.

  ‘Have your methods eliminated any of us yet, Inspector?’

  Skelgill seems to tower over her – and all of a sudden she appears small and helpless before him. Indeed, he is compelled to reach out and grip her upper arm. She does not flinch, and lifts her opposite hand to cover his. He draws her closer. His features are strained.

  ‘Rowena – I don’t reckon you ought to worry on that score.’ He licks his lips, his mouth dry – this is a breach of procedure after all – and now he sets his jaw, barring further loose talk. Yet, seemingly without volition, he raises his free hand to indicate the great snowy bulk that is Whiteless Pike, with Grasmoor beyond.

  Perdita gives an answering nod – just a small inclination of her head that shows she understands his message – and he feels the tension drain from her slender frame. He steers her gently around, rather like he is demonstrating a country-dance move, until they face in the direction whence they came.

  ‘Hey up, lass – I think we could both use a hot toddy.’

  Perdita offers no objection, and begins to walk with him, closer now, so that they bump shoulders as they negotiate the uneven frozen ground. They have rambled just a few hundred yards from the cluster of slate-and-whitewashed properties that make up Buttermere village, and in five minutes they are stamping snow off their feet in the porch of the inn. For Skelgill, for whom manners are something of a variable smorgasbord, it would not generally be convention to despatch a small, pretty young woman ahead of him into a strange hostelry – exposed to whatever hostile or salacious heads may turn her way – but for some reason he deviates from his rule and pushes open the heavy oak door to allow her to go first. She steps past him, but then hesitates.

  ‘Oh – Inspector – do you mind if we don’t?’ Now she spins around, blocking his way, and reaches to place a restraining palm on his chest. Skelgill sees the fleeting alarm i
n her eyes, before she composes herself. ‘I’ve just remembered – I must call my agent in Dublin before 12:30 – my notes and my laptop are at the guest house.’

  He tries casually to crane past her for a glance into the bar, from where emanates an inviting wave of beery warmth and woodsmoke and the hubbub of lunchtime drinkers, the occasional clink of a glass and peal of laughter. But she steps hastily out of the porch and Skelgill is obliged to let the inner door swing to in order not to lose sight of her.

  ‘Aye – no bother – I’ll run you along.’ He casts an arm towards his car, the long brown salt-stained shooting brake in which he picked her up half an hour or so earlier. ‘My next stop’s in your direction.’

  She smiles, at once sweetly and apologetically – it is an effective combination and as she backs away she draws him with her.

  ‘Some other time soon, Inspector – yes?’

  Skelgill affects enthusiasm; though it is plain he is a little crestfallen.

  ‘Aye – that’ll be grand.’

  The snow in the car park is excessively rutted and icy, and treacherous underfoot. Perdita waits for him to catch her up, and then unprompted she links arms for support – though he is wearing only ordinary leather brogues and is no better equipped than she. Self-consciously he glances behind at the building, but the windows of the inn are bereft of watchers. Perdita leans against his shoulder, her head bowed as she concentrates upon the uneven ground. But her expression is one of consternation: for what she does not mention is that, tucked into a dark corner of the old beamed bar room – with a female for company – she glimpsed her brother.

  *

  It must be that old habits die hard, for Skelgill pays a passing visit to the outdoor privy beside the coalhouse at the rear of his mother’s cottage. He has circumnavigated the terrace and entered by the rear gate, knowing the back door will be unlocked, and his mother – if she is home – most likely banging about in the kitchen. However, there is no sign of her bicycle – a decrepit boneshaker that she resolutely refuses to replace, despite continual offers from he and his brothers. These days of course there is an internal bathroom – a luxury she did accept from her offspring, part and parcel of them clubbing together to buy out the lease, a heritable estate of the most modest proportions, the freehold secured in perpetuity following the premature death of her spouse.