Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  The perpetual winner of Skelgill’s little diversion appears to be Perdita, for after each pass his focus invariably comes to rest upon her – although perhaps it is her tendency to be most often fidgeting that draws his gaze. However, when the service concludes and the family retreats down the stone-flagged aisle, it is apparent that he intentionally makes eye contact and begins to move to intercept her. However, he finds his way blocked by his strange young-yet-old neighbour who, in picking up his coat contrives to spill a jangling assortment of car keys, coins and pipe-smoking accessories, obliging Skelgill first to wait, and then rather grudgingly to stoop down and join in the recovery process. By the time the man’s scattered property has been gleaned from the salt-bleached floorboards, it is clear they will be the last two left in the church.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector Skelgill – so kind of you.’

  His accent is a rather exaggerated English public school strain of received pronunciation, and he utters these words as Skelgill hands over the last errant pound coin – only for Skelgill to stop mid-action: the stranger knows his identity! Before Skelgill can speak he has procured a wallet from the breast pocket of his jacket and is pressing upon him an ornate business card. As Skelgill squints suspiciously at the inscription, the man narrates in the avoidance of doubt.

  ‘Tobias Vellum, Aloysius Vellum & Co, Antiquarian Books, Charing Cross Road, London.’ Skelgill is perplexed – but now he is obliged to reciprocate as the fellow shoots out his right hand. ‘Call me Toby, please, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is agitated. The door is closing behind the last of the Crummock Hall contingent. He steps forwards in a way that conveys his desire to leave – but the newcomer procrastinates, an eager expression animating his moustache.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Save shoving him in the chest or shoulder-barging him out of the way – which Skelgill looks quite inclined to do, and perhaps it is only respect for his surroundings that prevents him – this rather strained diplomacy appears to be the only avenue of escape available to him. And, certainly, Toby Vellum wastes no time in taking up Skelgill’s invitation to treat. His delivery is somewhat breathless, and perhaps this is just his normal state.

  ‘Well it would be immensely appreciated – if you could, Inspector.’ He clears his throat in a formal manner. ‘I realise it is a little unconventional – but first I ought to explain I am the latest of the Vellums – only assumed control of the family business a few months ago – pater has succumbed to cataracts – an inconvenient ailment in our line of business – and he rather struggles with the internet.’

  ‘That’s Aloysius Vellum, is it?’

  ‘Oh heavens, no – my father is Gerald. Aloysius Vellum perished at Balaclava in 1854. We’re an old established firm, nine generations – we’ve been supplying books to Declan O’More for over sixty years – my father and grandfather before me.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Rather in the way of snow to Eskimos, Skelgill has many variations of the word aye, its meaning ranging from plain “yes” to something more akin to the outright denial, “is it heck as like” – but this aye is rather more subtle, a non-committal response that might be interpreted along the lines of, “okay, so you’re just starting to make sense and I am interested but I am not going to act like I am or show that there is a gap in my knowledge, so you had better carry on with your explanation.” Such is the economy and elegance of intonation.

  It works. Not that Toby Vellum needs any encouragement.

  ‘Naturally I wanted to pay my respects on behalf of the firm, Inspector,’ (now Toby Vellum looks a little embarrassed, and pauses to catch his breath) ‘but since it is a 600-mile-plus round trip from town I was really hoping for a glimpse of Declan’s collection – in case there is any way we can be of assistance – I shouldn’t like the family to be short-changed when it comes to valuation – I have first-hand knowledge of the market value of many of the books that we have procured.’

  ‘It’s a crime scene.’

  ‘I quite understand, Inspector – I have been in touch with the Regulus-O’More family – through their representative Mr Mullarkey – and he informed me in no uncertain terms of the position.’

  There is now something of a pregnant pause. Toby Vellum is obviously hoping that Skelgill will give a little ground, but Skelgill stands firm, as if he is putting the man’s aspiration to the test.

  ‘So I wondered, Inspector – if there is any possibility that you might chaperone me – I would not need to touch anything – indeed a few judiciously taken photographs ought to provide all I should require to compile a catalogue.’

  While Skelgill’s conventional detective’s nose undoubtedly smells, if not a rat, then an ulterior motive, his unconventional detective’s mind is asking what skin is it off that same nose if Vellum & Co want their pick of the books?

  ‘Aye.’

  This aye is an altogether different one, and draws a response from Toby Vellum that is at once surprised and delighted. He gives an involuntary gasp of satisfaction – and looks like he might even be tempted to offer up a small prayer. He pops the pound coin into the slot of a collection box.

  *

  There is a somewhat low-key wake in progress when Skelgill enters Crummock Hall with Toby Vellum in tow. As they pass the drawing room guided by Thwaites it has its doors ajar and the respectful hubbub of conversation emanates from within – until, that is, a sudden shriek of hysterical laughter strikes a discordant note: an unruly duet of Brutus and Cassandra. Thwaites looks scandalised by such lack of decorum; however Toby Vellum flashes Skelgill a rather sardonic grin. Skelgill dismisses Thwaites when they reach the hall outside Declan’s study, and lifts the barrier tape for his charge to duck beneath. As a further expedient the police have fitted lock blockers – both to the internal and external doors and Skelgill first extracts the device before unfastening the lock proper with its old cast iron key. These security measures notwithstanding, he enters coiled as if in readiness to spring upon some interloper – perhaps he has not entirely dismissed the fanciful notion of there being a secret passage – despite having thoroughly checked every possible structure to satisfy himself there can be no such thing.

  ‘Ah, sandalwood.’ Toby Vellum, who has taken several paces into the centre of the room, pauses with eyes closed and head tilted back, his hands held out as if he is sampling the ether between his fingers and thumbs like it is fine quality cloth. ‘And the glorious smell of old books.’

  He turns to find Skelgill regarding him with suspicion, and he feels the need to explain.

  ‘Sorry, Inspector – for some reason I was expecting something – unnatural – you know, since the death occurred in here?’

  Skelgill’s next reply of “aye” is one that hints at distraction, and Toby Vellum wastes no time in approaching the massed ranks of shelves that line the wall ahead of them. He rocks before them in a kind of awe, like a small child that has been let loose in a Victorian sweet shop, hands clasped and eyes bulging, suffocating in the ecstatic indecision of whether to gorge upon aniseed balls or to feast upon golden toffee humbugs.

  ‘I’d appreciate if you didn’t touch anything, sir.’

  Skelgill’s tone is rather harsh – as though he expects Toby Vellum is about to lose control and pounce upon the shelves, dragging out book after book, discarding them carelessly each time he spies a better one.

  ‘Certainly, Inspector – I quite understand.’

  Indeed, he is true to his word, and begins to stoop and rise and sway rhythmically from side to side – a new incarnation – his hands now circling, his fingers fluttering, like a pianist, a virtuoso, lost in the movement of some great symphony that plays in his head. There is a good half-minute of air-piano, until finally he comes to his senses.

  ‘Just a few shots, Inspector – as I had hoped, it looks like I shall be able to capture everything I need – most of the books are easily recognisable from their spines.’

  Skelgill watches in silence
as Toby Vellum pulls out a compact digital camera from a pocket of his greatcoat and methodically sets about snapping a section at a time.

  ‘Some of these yours, were they, sir?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, Inspector – certain volumes I recognise having sourced personally in the past few years – although I imagine when I cross-reference our files I shall discover many more.’

  ‘What sort of records have you got?’

  Toby Vellum makes a sharp intake of breath, a prelude to an apology.

  ‘We are rather Dickensian I’m afraid, Inspector. When they invented computers they passed us by. All of our billing is still manual – we just have great dusty old ledgers – and paper invoices – for our bookkeeper – hah-ha!’

  Skelgill manufactures an affable grin – perhaps surprisingly he seems to find the anachronistic fellow tolerable company – and he affects to be amused by what must be a rather hackneyed joke in the trade.

  ‘When was the last time you supplied a book to Declan O’More?’

  Toby Vellum inhales in a way that indicates it involves some racking of his brains.

  ‘I should say it was in August this year – a first edition Familiar Wild Flowers, series 1 to 5 bound in a 3-volume set – published by Cassell, 1890 if I recall correctly.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘My father has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the genres in which our regular clients specialise – as you can see, in Declan’s case it was primarily natural history and the local environment – so he would contact him when something of interest came on the market. Less often Declan might get in touch with an inquiry – something he wanted us to locate.’

  Skelgill regards the shelves rather broodingly. Toby Vellum busies himself with photography, occasionally expressing an “ooh” or an “aah” as he spots some particularly edifying title, Interesting Rock Lichens of Granite Tors, perhaps.

  ‘I thought it was all going digital these days – with your e-readers and apps and whatnot?’

  ‘Thankfully, Inspector that shall never apply to antiquarian books.’ He addresses the shelves and sweeps a proprietorial arm. ‘How wonderful to be surrounded by such craftsmanship – and of course one’s book collection is one’s very own autobiography. It tells a story of a man and his life.’

  Skelgill looks like he is pondering how this notion would apply to him: his haphazardly filed though fiercely guarded compilation of field guides and maps with their squashed mosquitos, and oil-thumbed how-to manuals, and piles of dog-eared magazines, spanning his interests from fishing and fell-running to real ale and Triumph motorcycles.

  ‘What would that set of Wainwrights fetch?’

  Toby Vellum looks suddenly alert, and his face assumes a mask of professional caution.

  ‘Ah – that was more my father’s bag – I should need to consult our records and do a bit of research. Is it something you are interested in acquiring, Inspector?’

  Skelgill looks surprised – and sheepish – that his covetousness has been revealed.

  ‘I’ve got them all – mostly modern editions, like.’

  Toby Vellum nods thoughtfully.

  ‘The proof of the pudding will be in the eating – the price they command when they go to auction.’

  Skelgill now seems perplexed – that Toby Vellum apparently knows something he does not. Has he received word of a planned sale?

  ‘I thought the idea was to keep the collection together – that it’s worth more that way?’

  Toby Vellum in turn appears puzzled. And now maybe increasingly guarded.

  ‘I should be very surprised if that were the case, Inspector. As I say, collections are so personal – it would be rather like buying out the entirety of someone’s wardrobe. Unless the purchaser is looking for wallpaper – but in that case it would be far cheaper to buy books of a lesser pedigree, or faux books – they can look just as well if it’s only for décor.’ He strokes his moustache pensively. ‘No, I should say maximum value would be realised by breaking the collection down into its constituent parts, individual sets, perhaps grouped into interests – British birds for instance.’

  Skelgill does not answer, but Toby Vellum is clearly a confident chap by nature, and in possession of a sharp mind to boot.

  ‘You are not by any chance thinking that Declan’s death had something to do with his books, Inspector?’

  His expression is curious, for he looks slightly horrified – perhaps it is the realisation that his all-enveloping passion could be connected to the despicable event.

  ‘Seems it’s his only asset – and a valuable one.’

  This is a surprisingly candid admission from Skelgill, and it is hard to imagine that he makes it without some Machiavellian purpose. However, his countenance is that of a local country copper baffled by an unfathomable mystery; that flails about and clutches at this insubstantial straw. Toby Vellum lowers his camera and turns to face Skelgill; he blows out his cheeks and now looks for all the world like a pupil in a school production playing the part of a false-moustached adult who has been confronted with shocking news concerning the parson’s wife and the verger.

  ‘But, Inspector – surely that would point the finger at the beneficiary?’

  Skelgill shrugs somewhat helplessly.

  ‘Aye – except there isn’t one. At least, not as far as we know.’

  ‘Oh – well – oh dear.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Well – I was just contemplating, Inspector – I mean – this is pure speculation – and rather wishful thinking – but imagine if he had left them to us – to Aloysius Vellum & Co!’

  Now he looks entirely disconcerted.

  ‘That’s not likely, is it, sir?’

  Toby Vellum slowly scratches his head, and replies in a distracted manner.

  ‘Well – actually – no I rather think not – but I suddenly imagined that – well, say you knew that – and you’ve allowed me in here – and I’ve been jolly well swooning over his books – it wouldn’t have looked very good.’

  ‘Happen if you’d have known they were coming to your firm you might have been a bit more restrained, sir.’

  Toby Vellum thinks about this and grins rather inanely.

  ‘Yes – I believe you are right, Inspector.’

  ‘Still – I wouldn’t mind you letting us know what you reckon it’s all worth – when you’ve done your valuation.’

  ‘Why, certainly, Inspector – you shall be the first to –’

  Before he can complete his sentence there comes a sharp knock upon the study door. Skelgill scowls – it means someone has crossed the police tape in the hall – and holds up a hand to indicate that he will deal with the matter. It would appear to be neither the self-important, self-styled Martius Regulus, who last time simply burst in, nor Thwaites, who has the polite servant’s habit of making a cough and calling out “Sir?” – indeed, when Skelgill opens the door he is met by the gratuitously grinning clownish countenance of Fergal Mullarkey, who immediately begins to apologise.

  ‘Sorry to butt in, Inspector – the buffet has just been served – the family wondered if you would like to join us while it is still hot?’ He cranes to see around Skelgill into the study. ‘And young Vellum there, of course.’

  Toby Vellum grins rather self-consciously, and Skelgill is quick to note the unspoken exchange between the pair, tradesmen as they are, their firms long-standing purveyors of their respective services to the O’More clan. He might wonder if there is a little contest of pecking order – surely a solicitor would rank himself above a bookseller? – albeit that Toby Vellum’s business card boasts a string of letters after his name the equal of Fergal Mullarkey’s, in quantity if not in quality. And there might also be an element of reproach – for it occurs to Skelgill that through his good offices Toby Vellum has managed to gain access to the book collection when, for all he knows, such an opportunity has been denied by the family. However, all this is in
a fleeting moment, and Fergal Mullarkey brings with him the waft of piping hot sausage rolls (at least that would be Skelgill’s guess), and Skelgill’s stomach makes up its mind on behalf of both of them.

  ‘Aye – we’re done in here.’

  *

  If Skelgill feels like a gatecrasher at the wake he is sufficiently thick-skinned not to notice those disparaging glances cast in his direction; undaunted he forages along the trestle table that has been set up in the drawing room. His dedication wins the approval of the portly maid who serves the finger buffet, content that at least one person appreciates the efforts of the staff. Certainly the Regulus-O’Mores do not exhibit any great appetite (preferring liquid sustenance), and it is only the muttering coterie of black-clad undertakers who, in a shadowy alcove, like Skelgill have seriously availed themselves of the facility, balancing full plates with one hand and rather surreptitiously knocking back glasses of sherry with the other.

  When Skelgill turns with his own plate amply stocked he finds himself a singleton. Beside the piano a cornered Toby Vellum is on the receiving end of a lecture from Fergal Mullarkey. The family members have divided into two groups. Martius and Edgar confer beneath the portrait of their great grandfather, Padraig Willoughby O’More; Cassandra and Brutus engage in a more animated conversation upon one of the sofas by the hearth, heads together they whisper and giggle and give every impression of being liberally oiled. Perdita sits opposite them; she seems relaxed, if a little detached from their hilarious wrangling. Skelgill saunters across to gaze out of the windows. It is another cold, clear day, and the mercury has struggled to rise above freezing – certainly in the now-shaded garden all looks frosty. He is chewing pensively, staring at the border of guelder rose bushes – now merely inauspicious bare brown twigs stripped of their festive scarlet baubles – when there is a light tug upon his sleeve.