Skelgill enters to silence, but there is a delicious waft of lamb stew that he tracks to a pot simmering on the traditional range cooker. He lifts the lid and inhales, closing his eyes as the aroma rolls back the years. Eric Rudd would be nodding sagely, that he has timed his visit for dinner, as advised. Skelgill withdraws his hand quickly, conditioned to expect a sharp rap across the knuckles from a wooden spoon. He checks his watch – it is past 12:30 and his mother would ordinarily have returned by now – but then of course there is the snow, the roads are only partially clear, and it will have impeded her progress; though she may be engaged in a chinwag en route. He drifts across to a Welsh dresser, their sole family heirloom. Its upper shelves display photographs, and his eyes dart about, until they come to rest upon a portrait of himself – a mud-streaked sun-bleached urchin beaming precociously beneath a basin haircut, triumphantly holding aloft a trout parr hooked on a handline in the nearby beck. His age would have been seven years – about the time of ‘The Accident’. He stares pensively for a few moments, and then beats a decisive retreat upon the polished oak. He swivels on his heel and sets off in search of his mother.
He marches somewhat more sedately than his regular pace, back towards Buttermere. He passes the gateway of the B&B where Perdita may be cavorting with the characters of her latest romance – the property is hidden among trees, conifers that still carry snow in their branches. The garden bordering the lane is walled – a necessary precaution in these parts, for sheep know the meaning of self-service. Skelgill notices little movements in a trained cotoneaster – it is a flock of waxwings busy with the fruits – perhaps the same avian party that was previously feasting at Braithwaite, and subsequently Crummock Hall. Such speculation is interrupted, however, for the roar of a tractor gathers beyond the bend. As it swings wildly into sight, Skelgill is obliged to press himself against the wall. He raises a palm to the farmer – but the man seems to be on a mission, he cannot spare a hand to return Skelgill’s greeting, and instead makes a rather desperate backwards movement of the head, the whites of his eyes flashing disconcertedly. The great mechanical beast thunders past, a bouncing trailer in tow – and now Skelgill is hailed by the shriek of a passenger – for aboard, clinging gamely to the tailgate, handlebars of a bicycle protruding beside her, grey hair flapping in the wind, is an old woman, grinning and gap-toothed. As he is left marooned in their wake, she cackles gleefully and flicks a v-sign of dubious intent. It is his mother, 76-year-old Minnie Skelgill, née Graham.
12. CRUMMOCK HALL
Tuesday 1.30pm
‘Where are you, Guvnor?’
‘Crummock Hall – I’m using their landline.’
‘Right you are, Guv.’ DS Leyton sounds apprehensive – as though he anticipates an impossible question and the inevitable reprimand for his failure to know the answer.
‘I thought I dialled Jones’s extension.’
‘You did, Guv.’ DS Leyton hesitates for a second. ‘She’s on a day off.’
‘What?’
‘It’s on the holiday chart in your office, Guv – remember last week you were saying – what with the year-end coming up – use it or lose it?’
In fact Skelgill had uttered a rather less repeatable version of this statement, airing his disapproval of “layabouts” who prioritise their holiday entitlement and drop their colleagues in the proverbial. He had made particular reference to “that flash Harry” DI Alec Smart. Now he emits an exasperated gasp.
‘This is a murder inquiry, Leyton.’
‘Perhaps she had a family commitment, Guv – her old Dad’s been in and out of hospital lately. She’s not said a lot about it.’ DS Leyton does not sound happy – he suffers under the same unforgiving regime as his female colleague.
There is silence on the line while Skelgill swallows and digests his frustration. After a few moments DS Leyton finds the hiatus too unnerving and offers a suggestion.
‘Is it something I can look at, Guv?’
Skelgill begins to make an unintelligible noise – indicative of disparagement – but then he evidently undergoes a change of heart.
‘What you can do, Leyton, is dig out the coroner’s inquest report of the drowning of Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More.’
This may not be a simple task, since these records are filed manually and kept in out-storage somewhere about the county – normally the local coroner’s office requires a week to retrieve the documents. However, DS Leyton evidently sees no benefit in underlining any such hurdles.
‘No bother, Guv – are you coming in later?’
‘Who knows, Leyton.’ (There is another period of silence.) ‘What have we found by way of fingerprints in Declan’s study?’
‘Hold on, Guv – I’ve got that right here.’ DS Leyton can be heard clicking away at his computer. ‘That there bird-watching logbook, and the pendulum and the winder for the clock – all just Declan’s prints. The key to the garden door had Martius’s thumbprint on it.’
‘Aye – he admitted that.’
‘The key for the internal door – that was too messed up to get anything, same as Declan’s fountain pen. And the glass that was lying on the carpet – no prints at all, Guv.’
‘Leyton – there’s always prints on a glass. It’s the best place to look for them.’
DS Leyton makes an apologetic ahem.
‘I’m just going by this report from Forensics, Guv.’
Skelgill is in no position to object further, but this item of relative trivia seems to trouble him. Again he ruminates in silence, and again DS Leyton is obliged to make the running.
‘Had a couple of interesting leads on the O’Mores, Guv.’
‘Aye?’ But Skelgill remains distracted.
‘First thing that popped up on my screen when I searched for Edgar’s accountancy practice – he’s being sued for negligence by a bunch of his rich clients.’ (Skelgill makes no comment, but that DS Leyton can hear his breathing suggests he is at least listening.) ‘Seems he’d advised them on this great wheeze to dodge National Insurance – paying their bonuses into an offshore trust – but the taxman objected and took ’em to court. It ran for years – went all the way to the House of Lords and they ruled in favour of HMRC. The clients had to pay back all the tax they avoided, plus – and this was the killer – eight years’ compound interest at some punitive rate. So now they’ve raised a class action against Edgar’s firm for multi-million damages.’
‘He’ll have insurance, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s tone is unreasonably dismissive.
For a moment DS Leyton is a little deflated. Gamely, however, he conjures a counter argument.
‘But that don’t always help, Guv. You know what insurers are like for finding loopholes. One of our kids put a light sabre through the brand new telly a couple of months back – we’ve got accidental damage cover but the company wouldn’t have none of it – said attacking Darth Vader’s no accident.’
Now Skelgill makes a scoffing noise, as if to signify that his sergeant’s incongruous analogy proves his point. But DS Leyton is not finished.
‘There’s more, Guv – wait ’till you hear this.’ He pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect; but Skelgill sounds like he is yawning, and DS Leyton is obliged to reveal his hand. ‘The offshore trust was held in the British Virgin Islands – by none other than Regulus & Co merchant bank.’
DS Leyton makes a humming noise, redolent of self-satisfaction, but falling just short of an overt expression that he rests his case. Skelgill – as might be predicted – remains obdurate and does not comment. Eventually he asks a rather banal question.
‘So what are you proposing?’
‘I’ve had a word with a contact in City of London Police, Economic Crime Directorate – old mucker of mine – we were on the same intake, years back. He said he’d find out what he could without making any waves – so’s not to let ’em know we’re sniffing around.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Thing is, Guv – I was thinking – if Edgar
and Martius have cooked up something together – wouldn’t it make sense if I took Martius instead of Brutus?’ (Skelgill does not reply, so DS Leyton continues.) ‘Google “Owain Jagger” and a shedload of celebrity gossip comes up – he’s leading the life of Riley.’
‘So what, Leyton?’ Skelgill’s voice is rising.
‘I just thought, Guv – with Cassandra being a bit of a socialite and all – put the pair of them together and they’re right up DS Jones’s street – all this social media malarkey – it’s more her generation.’
DS Leyton is treading on eggshells – and not just in subverting his superior’s instructions.
‘Leyton – she’s twenty-six – that’s not a different generation – your bairns are a different generation. You’ll be applying to draw your slippers next, man.’
Of course, his sergeant makes a reasonable point – not least since he has unearthed a pecuniary connection between Martius and Edgar – but Skelgill is haunted by lurid fantasies that revolve around Brutus, aka Owain Jagger. And when his emotions hold sway, a logical hearing is unlikely – it takes something that appeals to his baser needs to provide an effective diversion. Unbeknown to DS Leyton this now arrives in the shape of a tray of antique silverware, Darjeeling tea and scones with jam and cream.
‘Leyton – that’s Thwaites here for me to interview.’
Skelgill peremptorily hangs up the call.
*
‘It’s just you and the staff left, Thwaites?’
Skelgill mumbles these words through a mouthful of dough, and waves the intact portion of his scone in a semi-circle to illustrate his meaning. He reposes on one of the sofas in the drawing room, and has induced Thwaites to take a seat opposite. It is the first time he has had a proper look at the butler in broad daylight, and the man’s frailty is emphasised by his faded outfit, worn at the knees and elbows, lank grey hair and pallid complexion. As the afternoon sun’s rays stream through a long mullioned window set in the south-west corner of the room, spotlighting a myriad of tiny dust motes, the old retainer resembles a Jamesian ghost, ephemeral and insubstantial. Only his dark eyes, shining like horse chestnuts newly broken out of their involucres, reveal some sense of a more vital life force within.
‘That’s correct, sir. Master Martius went yesterday before luncheon as you know, and Miss Cassandra and Master Brutus and Master Edgar took a taxi last evening to Kendal, to catch the London express from Oxenholme. Mr Mullarkey departed early this morning – his office had managed to book him on a flight from Liverpool that took off at midday. Miss Perdita has decided to lodge in the vicinity, sir. She arrived by ferry from Ireland in her motor car, and there is no point in her going home, as she would have to be back in two days for Mr Declan’s funeral.’ Now he looks a little remorseful, and perhaps his professional pride has been offended that she has moved out. He pulls himself together, however, and puts positive spin on the matter. ‘She thinks she’d be better able to write – in what you might call more homely surroundings than rattling about in this big place, sir.’
Skelgill regards the old man with a certain agonised indecision. An onlooker would presume he doubts the butler’s statement – but in fact what troubles him stems from his own sensibilities. While a career as a diplomat was never going to be his (and not just because of his station in life) – and while the culture of the Cumbrian farming community in which he is steeped is to call a spade a spade – he holds back – he plainly harbours some sympathy for the elderly retainer, a man with a modest background akin to his own, a man wounded in the service of Queen and country, and a man who has devoted his entire working life, well beyond normal retirement age, to his feudal employers. But Skelgill is Skelgill, and a policeman at that, and there are limits to his capability as regards beating about the bush.
‘I need to put it to you, Thwaites – it’s come to my attention – that concerning yourself there is an undisclosed matter – of paternity.’
The watchful brown eyes become those of a rabbit caught in the headlights, widening to reveal yellowed sclerae and bloodshot rims, and the frail figure seems to shrink within his butler’s outfit, the fingers of his off-white gloves twitching involuntarily.
‘But – why – what – w-who has been saying something, sir?’
The man’s stammer seems to disconcert Skelgill and he swivels at the waist and stares out of a window, as if some movement has caught his eye. Indeed, he rises and stalks across for a better view: there is nothing new to observe, other than that the guelder rose bushes – as foreseen by the professor – have been stripped of their fruits and abandoned by the voracious waxwings. He remains staring, however, upon the snowy scene.
‘Let’s just say a little bird told me.’
Thwaites makes no reply; he seems petrified, grey as stone, unmoving in situ. It must be plain to Skelgill that his shot in the dark has found its target – yet he seems disinclined to press home his advantage. After a few moments he turns around, but remains at the windows, leaning against the sill. He digs his hands into his pockets, and lifts one shoe and inspects its scuffed toecap; he expels a reluctant sigh.
‘Thing is, Thwaites – it was commonplace in those days – you’d be far from the first to be born the wrong side of the blanket –’
Skelgill suddenly becomes conscious of the other man’s movement – it is nothing major, but a distinctive start that is out of synch with his present demeanour. He glances up at Thwaites, contriving a sympathetic expression – but Thwaites has set his jaw and now presents a surprisingly defiant countenance.
‘But, sir – my father was an American airman.’
‘What?’
‘His name was Hal, sir – Harold O’Rourke. I’m named after him, sir. He was a nose-gunner on the Flying Fortresses. He was stationed at RAF Silloth for a time – a special assignment helping out on the Wellingtons – and that’s when he met my mother. He was shot down over the North Sea and listed missing in action. She never got to marry him, sir.’
Now it is Skelgill’s turn to be rocked. He gazes blankly at Thwaites but then turns back to look out of the window, perhaps to conceal his consternation. That his lunchtime picking of his mother’s brains might have provided him with misinformation, he had not bargained for. She is sharp as a tack, with a memory to match – however, she was just a slip of a girl, of an age with little Harold Thwaites when these events might still have retained some salacious currency in the local grapevine. Of course – Minnie Graham might not be wrong. That Mary Ann Thwaites had a less than virtuous reputation is in a sense confirmed by her fleeting liaison with the American. It need not have stopped with him. That she was provided with protected employment and an estate cottage by Padraig O’More was reasonable evidence on which to base the supposition that there had been some relationship – Padraig O’More might have believed (indeed been induced to believe) that he was the source of her out-of-wedlock ‘trouble’; and perhaps even Mary Ann did not know who was the father-to-be. But if Aerial Gunner O’Rourke downed over Doggerland was responsible, then any embryonic theory of Skelgill’s concerning Thwaites’ as-yet-unasserted claim of succession as a half-brother to Sean and Declan O’More is likewise shot down in flames.
While such thoughts assail Skelgill’s mind, his body is working to dispel any outward impression that he has been knocked off his stride. But a twitching of the shoulders is suggestive of an inner turmoil – something, perhaps a subtle aspect of Thwaites’ reaction, is telling him not to consign this idea to the trash. He swings about to find the butler watching with furrowed brow. Skelgill waves an arm in an offhand manner.
‘Not to worry Thwaites – if it turned out to be an issue – you know we can sort it with a simple DNA test. If we swabbed yourself – cross-referenced it with one of the family – that would soon clear up whether you were both related to her grandfather.’
This hypothetical prospect seems to bring on a repeat bout of Thwaites’ initial unease. He swallows, with difficulty, his prominent Adam’
s apple jumping like a trapped frog in the saggy gullet of a pelican. He inhales wheezily and now looks pleadingly at Skelgill.
‘I shouldn’t like to offend the family’s honour, sir.’
Skelgill regards him reflectively for a few moments.
‘Aye – well – like you say – doesn’t sound like there’s any need for all that palaver.’
Thwaites bows his head with excessive servility.
‘Very good, sir.’ He sounds as though he is taking an order for drinks.
Skelgill breaks away from the window and strides to the grand piano where the family photographs are arranged. Thwaites watches his progress. Skelgill beckons him to follow.
‘What you can do, Thwaites, is tell me who would have known Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More.’
Thwaites rises arthritically from the sofa; for a moment he seems in danger of toppling forwards, until of a fashion he straightens up and gains his balance. It strikes Skelgill that the old man himself could be doing with a walking stick, though it would not befit the duties of a butler. He shuffles across to where Skelgill is examining a print he has selected. It is a portrait of a group of men in tweeds, casually armed with expensive shotguns and lounging around the rear of a Land Rover Defender, labradors and working cockers milling at their feet.
‘That’s Mr Regulus there, sir.’ Thwaites indicates with a trembling gloved forefinger. ‘That would have been a shooting party – Mr Regulus used to bring his important clients up from London.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 65