Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘So these are not his friends?’

  Thwaites shakes his head doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t recall any regular friends, sir – of Mr Regulus, or of himself and Miss Shauna as a married couple. It wasn’t very often that they came here together. There was a London crowd – but they were both well known in their particular spheres and had a lot of what you might call acolytes, especially Miss Shauna, being such a public figure. And as for business associates, Mr Regulus would invite different ones each time, as a rule, sir. I should say he only visited on average twice or thrice a year, sometimes just for a weekend. Although Miss Shauna was born here she’d moved away to drama school at an early age – I don’t she think had such an affinity with Crummock Hall. And Mr Regulus was very much a city person. It was the children that stayed for longer periods, for their school holidays, sir.’

  Skelgill nods pensively. He waves a hand rather hopefully at the collection of photographs.

  ‘Is there anyone here that jogs your memory, Thwaites?’

  The butler glances jerkily from one composition to another. His expression has the pained look of an eyewitness who is desperate to help but is unable to pick out a suspect. Finally he turns his attention back to the picture that Skelgill still holds. Skelgill angles the frame so he can better see.

  ‘My memory’s not so good these days, sir.’ Nonetheless he stabs with an index finger. ‘That gentleman might be Mr Mullarkey – the elder – I think he was an uncle or great uncle of the present Mr Mullarkey – but I believe he passed away, and that was why the young Mr Mullarkey took over, sir.’

  Skelgill scrutinises the image. Thwaites refers to one of seven or eight men in the shooting party; he looks a good generation older than the rest of the laughing group, and is positioned a little to one side. And certainly he bears a small resemblance to Fergal Mullarkey – there are the round protruding ears, and the same pattern of hair loss (though it is difficult to discern any colour due to the faded nature of the photograph). Skelgill makes a doubting face, but nonetheless digs his phone from a pocket.

  ‘I’ll ask him.’

  Now Thwaites stands by obediently while Skelgill composes a photograph and hands him the original. Skelgill extracts Fergal Mullarkey’s business card from his wallet and squints to read the small print of the mobile phone number.

  ‘What is it, +353 for Ireland?’

  ‘I believe so, sir.’

  Skelgill gives a little grunt of approval. ‘Look at that – full signal.’

  He taps in a brief note and transmits it along with the image, watching his handset with scepticism until it advises him the message has gone. He puts away the phone and then takes the picture back from the butler. He checks the reverse of the frame, but there are no markings of any kind.

  ‘When do you reckon this was?’

  ‘I should say in the spring of the year of The Accident, sir – or perhaps the autumn before.’

  Now Skelgill replaces the framed original on the grand piano. For a moment the butler looks like he would wish to rearrange the positioning, for Skelgill’s work is rather slipshod. However, his training gets the better of him and he suppresses any such inclination.

  ‘On the day of the drowning, Thwaites, they went fishing. Was that usual?’

  Thwaites seems a little reluctant to answer this question; his breathing appears to be troubling him.

  ‘It was Mr Declan’s boat, sir. He’d had it made ready the night before. But Mr Regulus was the headstrong sort, if you know what I mean, sir? Mr Declan was not too pleased when he discovered they’d taken it.’

  Skelgill’s expression has darkened at this revelation.

  ‘What about when he heard what had happened?’

  Now Thwaites seems positively embarrassed on behalf of his late master.

  ‘He wasn’t one to declare his emotions, sir – especially when it came to affection. If he complained at you it was his way of showing he cared, in a funny sort of way.’ (Skelgill exhibits a flicker of recognition in response to this notion, but remains silent.) ‘It’s difficult to remember too much about the time, sir.’ He pauses for thought, as if to illustrate his dilemma. ‘I do recall the police coming with his fishing rod – asking him to identify it – he was awkward about that, because they’d wanted to keep it – as some kind of evidence, I suppose.’

  Inevitably this statement sparks Skelgill’s curiosity.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The rod floated, you see, sir – they found it long before they found the bodies.’ Thwaites looks discomfited. ‘Of course, sir – it was never used again – Sir Sean put a stop to all boating and fishing after that – but it’s hanging in the main hallway if you wanted to see it? That’s just outside, sir.’

  ‘Aye – why not.’

  It has not escaped Skelgill’s notice where there is fishing equipment displayed around the walls, and indeed he makes a beeline to the correct item. It is a traditional seven-foot split cane fly rod, with a cork grip and equipped with a brass reel stamped Hardy Bros, Alnwick. Skelgill needs no invitation to take it down from its brackets, adroitly unfastening the twisted wires that hold it in place.

  ‘They don’t make them like they used to, Thwaites.’

  ‘No, sir – I should think that applies to a good many things.’

  Skelgill weighs the rod in his hand, and turns it to examine the reel. It is set up right-handed, as most rods would be – but that does not stop Skelgill from experimentally stripping out half a dozen yards of line, the ratchet of the reel protesting like a chorus of cicadas in the great echoing hallway. He releases the fly from the hook keeper.

  ‘Thing is, Thwaites – this isn’t a boat rod.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘Best thing about split cane – it’s ideal for fishing on a beck, where’s there’s overhanging trees – tuck a short roll cast into the places where trout lie like no other material.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘Aye – watch this. See that Indian rug at the end of the hall?’

  Thwaites has no time to reply and can only lurch aside as Skelgill lifts the rod left-handed, and in a smooth movement draws it back at a low angle, avoiding the ceiling and loading the tip with line. Without interruption there is sudden swish – the rod has come alive, like a rapier in the hands of a skilled swordsman – and a curling loop of line is projected down the long hallway, the invisible leader with a final elegant flourish turning over to deposit the fly gently in the centre of the rug, some twenty feet away.

  ‘My word, sir – that’s very impressive if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  Skelgill settles for a shrug of affected modesty; now he inverts the rig so he can reel in – with a final deft flick he retracts the leader and grabs it just above the fly. He inspects the lure with interest.

  ‘Greenwell’s Glory.’ (The butler looks a little nonplussed.) ‘You don’t fish, Thwaites?’

  ‘No, sir – never, tried it sir.’

  Skelgill dangles the fly for the man to see.

  ‘It’s the name of the pattern. Invented by a vicar from County Durham in the eighteen hundreds – for trout streams. If you ask me, Declan was planning to fish the outflow of the Cocker – or Buttermere Dubs, at a push.’

  Thwaites nods obediently.

  ‘I couldn’t really say, sir. I recall he sometimes fished Bassenthwaite.’

  ‘Lake.’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  Bassenthwaite Lake. Bassenthwaite’s a settlement.’

  ‘Of course, sir – that’s right.’

  Skelgill looks like he is about to trot out his little maxim – but must realise there is a danger of the conversation drifting into an unproductive backwater.

  ‘Did Edward Regulus fish much when he came here?’

  ‘Not as I recall, sir – as I mentioned, he was a city person, you see – I think he liked the idea of country pursuits – but he didn’t have a great deal of practical experience.’

  ‘Recko
n that was the cause of the accident?’

  ‘What else could it have been, sir?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Happen they had an argument – an altercation – swamped the boat?’

  Thwaites looks troubled.

  ‘I suppose it’s possible, sir.’

  Skelgill notes that the old retainer doesn’t reject the idea out of hand.

  ‘How did they get on together?’

  ‘It could be a little combustible at times, sir. Mr Regulus was accustomed to getting his own way – and of course Miss Shauna she had what you might call a fiery temper when it came to standing up for herself – that’s in the O’Mores’ nature – young Miss Perdita being a case in point – though a proper little lady she’s turned out to be, sir, and artistic like her mother.’

  He reflects on this analysis with some satisfaction. Then suddenly he seems unnerved to find Skelgill watching him closely. He folds his hands in front of him in the servant’s pose of attention, and waits to be addressed. Skelgill duly obliges.

  ‘Still – they must have been alright if they went fishing – the last thing you do if you want to avoid someone is go out with them in a boat.’

  Thwaites is forced to accept this logic – certainly he offers no rejoinder – and his mind would not be trained to work like Skelgill’s, who could imagine half a dozen reasons why you would take someone out in a boat if you wished them ill.

  Skelgill hands over the rod for Thwaites to return to its place on the wall. For a moment the old butler apes Skelgill’s original action, and weighs the rod in his hands as though he is thinking about giving it a whirl. But he frowns when he realises something is amiss.

  ‘The winder seems to be on the wrong side for me, sir – I’m afraid I’m left-handed.’

  Skelgill grunts approvingly.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Thwaites – sign of intelligence.’

  13. HEADQUARTERS

  Wednesday 11am

  It is not every year that winter coats the countryside in such abundance – in fact on this scale it is more of a once-in-a-decade event – and Skelgill is unaccustomed to the view that greets him each morning from his office window. As the late dawn unveils the bleak beauty of the snowscape he observes a phenomenon that seems to fascinate him: that, while under ordinary conditions the rolling farmland rising to the distant Howgills is a flat and amorphous vista blending browns and greens and greys with no particular landmarks, beneath its blanket of snow it is transformed into a detailed diagram – almost a 3D map – in which every tree and brake and wall and barn is meticulously inked in black upon white; up to the naked eye’s limit, even every sheep is visible. If there is an analogy to be drawn, perhaps he wishes for some magical lycopodium powder – like that used for fingerprinting of old – that could be sprinkled about Crummock Hall to bring out the salient details of this case. But there is a complication – a fourth dimension – he has encountered a time-warp; events stretching back over decades and even centuries might hold some import and inform his rudimentary theories; thus the amorphous landscape prevails in his own mind’s eye.

  ‘Got that coroner’s report, Guv – courier just dropped it off with George at the front desk. Had it copied for us.’ DS Leyton’s tone is matter of fact; clearly he is not expecting praise for whatever heroic endeavours have circumvented the system.

  Skelgill does not respond immediately, instead he remains standing at the window, gazing out. But his sergeants have arrived in tandem, and while DS Leyton brings news DS Jones bears supplies from the canteen, and these turn his head: aromatic bacon rolls and piping hot teas. Skelgill is quick to exchange places: he regains his seat and pulls a plate and a mug from the tray, she assumes her station beneath the window, taking just a black tea. DS Leyton carefully positions a copy of the report on the desk – but not so close as to suggest that Skelgill ought actually to read it. He, too, helps himself to comestibles.

  ‘Thanks, Emma – good on you, girl.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Skelgill, already tucking in, raises an eyebrow in her direction, which may be a token acknowledgement, an obligation felt in light of DS Leyton’s more profuse thanks – however it might be deduced that he still resents her absence yesterday.

  ‘Bacon’s a bit on the streaky side this morning, Guv.’

  Though there is a certain verisimilitude in what DS Leyton says, in fact it is a conversational point (perhaps raised to snuff out the flicker of disharmony) rather than a well-founded complaint. Skelgill, ducking into a double-handed bite, looks up critically.

  ‘Leyton – if you can’t finish it, I’ll have yours.’

  Now DS Leyton clearly feels under pressure – he realises he has made a slip and must disappoint his boss – when it comes to his stomach, Skelgill ranks quantity before quality.

  ‘Ah – well, Guv – I’ll give it a chance – reckon I’ve got one notch still spare on the old belt.’

  Skelgill gives a disparaging toss of the head, and then indicates the coroner’s inquest report – meaning he wants to know what it says. DS Leyton hoists his plate onto the filing cabinet beside his regular seat, and brushes flour from his fingers before locating his own copy.

  ‘I’ve had a quick butcher’s, Guv. Top line: verdict of death by misadventure – no suspicious circumstances. Both parties drowned. No lifejackets worn – nor any found. Sir Sean Willoughby O’More gave evidence that Shauna O’More was a competent swimmer, but that he believed Edward Regulus was not. Her silk scarf was wrapped round his wrist, and it was suggested she’d tried to tow him to safety but it proved too much for her.’

  Skelgill is munching pensively, regarding his subordinate through narrowed eyes. Of course, he knows this detail, but at the moment he shows no inclination to mention it. DS Leyton continues.

  ‘It was recorded that because the boat was never recovered, it was impossible to say whether there was any third-party liability – but, after all, it belonged to Crummock Hall – it’s not like they rented it from one of these boat-hire companies.’

  ‘It belonged to Declan, Leyton.’

  ‘Straight up, Guv?’ Beneath DS Leyton’s inquisitive frown it is apparent that he is trying to guess what Skelgill expects him to make of this. He dives for cover back into the document. ‘It was also noted that they were inexperienced on water – however, the conditions were calm and the witness who raised the alarm reported that the boat hadn’t capsized – it was sinking.’ Now he scratches his head rather absently. ‘You’d think it would float even if it filled with water, Guv – then you could just hang on to the side?

  Skelgill treats his sergeant’s question as rhetorical, and does not offer a reply. But now DS Jones weighs in with a more direct inquiry.

  ‘Guv – I know this is a daft question – but how would a boat fill with water?’

  Skelgill pounces upon the opportunity to show his expertise, as long-standing skipper of a tub not dissimilar to that which went down with the Regulus-O’Mores. He holds up a quelling palm while he gulps tea to clear his throat.

  ‘Any wooden boat leaks to some degree – but usually we’re talking minor. It all depends how you’ve looked after it. See – wood swells when it’s wet – on a clinker-built boat that swelling can break the internal structures of the strakes where they’re pinned by the copper rivets. Let the boat dry out – the wood shrinks – except now it’s damaged. When it’s soaked again it can’t expand to its original size – so you get little gaps that won’t reseal.’

  DS Jones is nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘Surely it would be obvious if it leaked?’

  ‘Not if it were holed an inch above the waterline. Might have been overlooked with just Declan using it – then two folk get aboard and maybe take a load of gear – wine bottles, picnic hampers, whatever – that causes the draught to increase – now it’s holed below the waterline.’ He pauses to allow the facts of Archimedes’ Principle to sink in. ‘Water trickles down the hull and gathers beneath
the bottom boards. Be easy not to notice – especially if you’re a novice. So the draught grows by the minute. Then maybe there’s another leak, a bit higher up, and this comes into play – now you’ve got water ingress in two or more places. And if there’s no baler – she’s filling to the gunnels – what do you do?’

  His tone is ominous, and DS Leyton shudders, self-confessed landlubber that he is. But DS Jones correctly interprets the peculiar workings of Skelgill’s ego.

  ‘What would you do. Guv?’

  Skelgill gives a casual but self-important shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘If I had a non-swimmer in the boat – I’d make sure their lifejacket was inflated. Then row like the clappers towards the nearest shallows. If you must sink, may as well make it somewhere you can salvage the boat from.’

  Skelgill’s disproportionate concern for his craft does nothing to allay DS Leyton’s fears, and he remains disconcerted by the prospect.

  ‘Guv, from what the eyewitness said – sounds like they were panicking – they weren’t going nowhere – only down.’

  Skelgill does not respond – instead he becomes submersed in a brown study. He consumes the last remnants of his bacon roll in silence. There is a rather sinister question that has been threatening to bob to the surface of their discussion; now DS Leyton rather candidly dredges it up.

  ‘Reckon there’s more to it, Guv? Some connection with old Declan? Think he could have known about the condition of the boat?’

  Skelgill blinks a few times and gazes rather vacantly at his sergeant. Then he wipes his lips on his cuff.

  ‘You tell me, Leyton.’ It is a frustrating response, however he tempers it with some unexpected praise. He pats the hitherto uninspected document lying upon his desk. ‘Good job on getting this – last time I spoke to that archivist it was like drawing teeth.’

  DS Leyton looks suddenly pleased with himself – but it is a short-lived indulgence, for he realises Skelgill’s commendation is a backhanded compliment aimed at DS Jones. Now Skelgill regards her with a certain impatience – unfairly so if he alludes to her day off, when she could not be expected to work. Yet such an assumption would be to underestimate her diligence, intelligence and – not least – her speed-reading proficiency. As Skelgill inhales to speak she interjects.