‘If only we could find that walking stick, Guv – old Declan’s shillelagh.’
Skelgill glares at his sergeant.
‘We’re not going to find it, Leyton.’
‘Why not, Guv? This snow’s got to melt eventually.’
Skelgill digs his hands into his pockets and turns to stare at the hearth. In the grate there remains the large heap of cold grey wood ash.
‘Because it went straight on the fire.’
DS Leyton glances sidelong at DS Jones, who gives a barely perceptible shake of the head to indicate this is also news to her.
‘How do you know, Guv?’
Skelgill is still contemplating the fireplace.
‘Remind me what it was made of.’
‘Sandalwood, Guv – it’s unusually dense?’
Skelgill looks like he is tempted to take up the theme of density. However, he refrains and tilts back his head.
‘Unusually scented, Leyton.’
DS Leyton begins sniffing ostentatiously. In the background, DS Jones is beginning to nod.
‘It’s faded now.’ Skelgill scowls impatiently. ‘But you couldn’t miss it at first.’
‘My hooter’s not what it used to be, Guv – plus I’ve had a stinker of a cold. The kids bring a new one home from school every Friday.’ He shakes his head ruefully. ‘Why didn’t you say, Guv? I’ve had a couple of the lads up to their armpits in snow.’
Skelgill gives the semblance of a shrug.
‘Why tell the culprit we’ve worked it out? Let them think we’re daft country coppers, Leyton.’
This is a common and oft irrational excuse of Skelgill’s, and one that in the present circumstances is unlikely to find favour with his subordinates – when they might reasonably infer it is he that is treating them as “daft country coppers”. However, DS Leyton nods obligingly, and now he bends to pick up the black case, as if this notion has reminded him of their purpose in meeting this morning. He raises the bag one handed – it does not appear to be heavy – and pats it with the other. His tone of voice becomes decidedly optimistic.
‘Well – at least we’ve got the rest of the stuff, Guv.’
Skelgill does not react immediately – but after a few seconds he nods rather reluctantly.
‘Right – start laying it out.’
While his subordinates delve into the bag, Skelgill stalks across to the hearth and takes down Declan’s tweed shooting-coat from its hook. He spreads it in a rough approximation of where Declan lay: head towards the desk, feet towards the clock. DS Leyton is more methodical: he refers to a folder of photographs, and carries the glass over towards the garden door and places it on its side – he stands back and checks the picture to confirm the accuracy of his handiwork. DS Jones has extracted Declan’s logbook and pen from polythene bags and now positions them on the desk. Skelgill distributes the pendulum and brass winder key, again from memory.
That he has opted to stage this reconstruction – albeit of such minor proportions, and an exercise that could arguably be conducted from the comfort of his office using the extensive photographic record – might be regarded as a move of desperation. It could be surmised that ‘the powers that be’ see little or no progress on his part – that he has produced no systematic analysis of the information gathered: facts, hearsay, opinions and claims (many unsubstantiated); and thus he has not acted upon the evidence to date.
But this would be to underestimate Skelgill. That he harks back to his first few moments in Crummock Hall, when he felt that this room had its story to recount – whispering, unintelligible, piecemeal – tells that his inner thoughts (gut feel, to his critics) are inviting him to appreciate the narrative that has been progressively taking shape.
His subordinates perhaps sense something of this and they silently back away towards the windows. Skelgill stalks about the room – though with little regard to the ‘clues’ they have laid out. He looks more like a sergeant major inspecting his platoon’s quarters with a mission to find fault. And in a sense that is precisely what he does. He stands facing Declan’s antique partners’ desk and glares at the arrangement of the journal and the fountain pen. Perhaps he is reminded of the parallel of Saturday evening, of Perdita’s notebook and pen, when he replaced the lid – or perhaps it is a more obscure sense of discord – but either way he is prompted to pull out his mobile phone, and broodingly he thumbs through to the photograph he took of Declan’s notebook on that first Sunday afternoon.
‘The pen was on the left.’
‘Oh – sorry, Guv.’
DS Jones starts – and swiftly moves to round the desk in order to correct her error. But Skelgill does not wait to see the adjustment – instead he strides over to pick up the brass winder key – and likewise the pendulum. He turns to DS Leyton, and hands him the two items together.
‘Leyton – wind the clock.’
‘Come again, Guv?’
‘Wind the clock – with the key.’
DS Leyton looks a little bewildered.
‘Won’t it need the pendulum, Guv?’
‘Just wind it, Leyton.’
Now Skelgill’s tone is sharp – as if his sergeant fails to act quickly the moment will be lost. DS Leyton obeys without further dissent and rather awkwardly inserts the end of the key into the round hole on the tarnished clock face. It is just a simple square head bolt fitting and he makes half a dozen turns when Skelgill lunges from behind and wrenches him by the collar and roughly pulls him to the ground where Declan’s jacket is laid.
‘Whoaa! Steady on, Guv!’
‘You’re right-handed, Leyton.’
‘Struth – I could have told you that, Guv – you didn’t have to trip me up!’
DS Leyton flounders like a turtle that has been flipped over and is unable to right itself. But Skelgill exhibits no great sympathy – in fact, none at all. His attention is taken by the positions in which the key and the pendulum – jettisoned by DS Leyton in his moment of panic – have come to rest: remarkably close to where they were first found.
‘Declan was right-handed. He used his walking stick in church right-handed. His fishing rod was set up right-handed. Clearly, he wound the clock right-handed.’
DS Leyton is still dazed by his impromptu role as the fall guy in Skelgill’s little charade.
‘So what, Guv?’
Now Skelgill turns to face the desk. He points at the repositioned pen. DS Jones – behind the desk, rather frozen to the spot – stares at Skelgill for a few moments. But she is with him – and calmly she opens the logbook and pores over the most recently completed page.
‘This is left-handed writing, Guv.’
Skelgill does not seem surprised, but DS Leyton – who has contrived to roll onto his stomach and is now heaving himself up – intervenes with a suitably voluble protest.
‘Hold on – hold on – hold your horses – what are you saying?’ He lumbers over beside Skelgill. DS Jones has now taken a seat, and is steadily examining successive pages.
‘This is all written by a left-handed person.’ She looks up into the faces of her colleagues: Skelgill keen-eyed, DS Leyton bemused. ‘We studied it on the forensics course I attended in October. It’s such a basic identifier – it’s called the sarcasm stroke. When you cross a ‘t’ you sweep the nib back towards your hand. Right-handers do it from right to left – left-handers the other way. It’s easy to spot – as the pen lifts off the line becomes finer.’
DS Leyton is looking at his right hand – as though he wants to put this to the test; DS Jones watches Skelgill apprehensively. He is nodding grimly.
‘Thwaites was left-handed.’ And now both his subordinates look at him for confirmation. ‘He told me – when we were looking at Declan’s rod.’
A short silence ensues; DS Leyton is still striving to catch up.
‘So what are we saying, Guv – that Thwaites wrote the bird book?’
Skelgill backs away and paces around – he comes to a halt in front of the clock.
‘Why not, Leyton? He was here for donkey’s years – since well before the date of the earliest entry. Look – it’s a double desk – seats one person either side – get that chair.’
DS Leyton does as he is bid, and rolls the rosewood harpist’s chair into position opposite DS Jones.
‘Thwaites sat here?’
Skelgill nods.
‘Aye – Declan sat where Jones is – all his books to hand behind him – dictated the notes to Thwaites.’
But now DS Jones looks uncomfortable.
‘Guv – the logbook was here, on this side.’ She indicates its position in front of her. ‘And the pen.’
Skelgill is unmoved by this small inconvenience. He reaches for the journal – DS Jones still has it open at the most recent entry and slides it towards him. He reads Declan’s final account – perhaps with fresh eyes, in the knowledge that this is the hand of Harold Thwaites. Then he returns the book to his colleague and wanders across to the nearest window and gazes out. The frozen backdrop is unchanging, but out of sight of his subordinates, something seems to bother him – it is a pained expression, like when he has set out to fish – his inner alarm squawks that he has forgotten something – yet he can’t for the life of him think what it is – and knows he must depart and be disappointed later.
DS Leyton, meanwhile, has pulled a file of statements from the pilot bag, and has settled upon one particular page. He carries them across to Skelgill.
‘Guv – these times you took, talking to Thwaites – and confirmed by me when I interviewed him later – we’ve got Thwaites saying he brought in Declan’s lunch at 12.15. Declan was out bird-watching. Then Thwaites came back at 2.15 to collect the tray and found Declan dead.’
‘Aye.’
Skelgill does not appear to be listening properly – but DS Jones has registered the significance of her colleague’s observation – her eyes are wide. Skelgill continues to stare out of the window.
‘Guv – it don’t stack up.’
Skelgill now swings around.
‘What?’
DS Leyton looks over his shoulder for assistance from DS Jones.
‘What time does it say Declan got back?’
She consults the page.
‘13.35 – twenty-five to two.’
‘See what I mean, Guv?’
Skelgill is nodding slowly. Plainly, if Thwaites penned the log entry, he had to be in the study soon after Declan got back – and when he was still alive. Skelgill takes the papers from DS Leyton and glares at the column of timings. DS Leyton mirrors his superior and leans in with a suitably perplexed expression. But suddenly Skelgill jolts and points a finger across towards DS Jones.
‘The waxwings!’ His sergeants gaze at him in surprise – but he has remembered what he had ‘forgotten’. ‘The last entry doesn’t mention the waxwings. Check the day before.’
DS Jones scans the journal with renewed purpose.
‘You’re right, Guv – here it is – Saturday: “Waxwing 12 – constellation feeding on guelder rose to south of property.” Plus some other sightings.’
‘A constellation of waxwings.’ Skelgill nods with satisfaction. He holds out an explanatory palm, and now pontificates. ‘Rare winter visitors – come in flocks and find a supply of berries – and stay until it’s exhausted. There’s no way Declan would have overlooked them on Sunday – and I saw them myself on Monday.’
DS Leyton looks puzzled.
‘Maybe they went off for the day, Guv – there’s no knowing what birds can get up to.’
Skelgill runs a hand through his hair and gazes off into the distance beyond the windows, as though there might be some clue to the significance of this omission. Or is it just an irrelevant anomaly? They are all three silent, and it is only when DS Jones makes a strange birdlike squeal – appropriately enough – that her male colleagues stare at her with alarm.
‘Guv – listen to this.’
She has leafed back through the logbook and has pinched together a sheaf of pages such that she can see two entries simultaneously, from different dates. She quotes aloud.
‘“Barnacle Goose c. 20 – small skein N from Buttermere. Raven 8 – unkindness W from Grasmoor End, high to Mellbreak. Fieldfare c. 30 – mutation taking haws at Lanthwaite Beck. Brambling 13 – charm amongst beech mast in copse below Cinderdale Crag.”’
Skelgill frowns.
‘Aye, I’ve just read that.’
‘Except –’ And now she pauses – it would seem for dramatic effect, were not for the genuine light of discovery in her eyes. ‘Except, Guv – you haven’t. It’s an entry from December last year – the same date. It’s been copied verbatim.’
DS Leyton strikes up.
‘Cor blimey, girl – what made you check that?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘I don’t know – I suppose it was because there were no waxwings.’ She grins a little self-consciously at Skelgill.
Skelgill looks from one to the other of his colleagues. Perhaps for each of them – he included – a penny is beginning to drop. Skelgill stalks back to the clock. The front is still open and now he pokes experimentally at the big hand with a forefinger. It is on a ratchet and moves only clockwise. He winds it twice round until it reads 2 o’clock. Then he does it ten times more, returning it to 12 o’clock. Now he stoops to retrieve the pendulum and hooks it into place. He gives it a gentle tap and it begins to swing – and then almost immediately the clock starts to chime. Quite likely they each count to twelve, and only when the last echoes have subsided does Skelgill turn to face his colleagues. His features are grim – anguished, even – like a fisherman who has waited patiently for many hours – only to reel in and find his bait has gone.
‘It’s back to the drawing board.’
20. REFLECTIONS
Wednesday 9pm
The metaphorical ‘drawing board’ for most investigating officers would comprise a lengthy session surrounded by all the evidence, poring over statements and reports, meticulous note-taking and the compiling of flow charts, lists and tables. Skelgill is sorting out his fishing tackle.
He has swept unfinished DIY projects from his garage workbench, hauled in a stack of storage crates from the back of his car, and spread before him their contents. From the unruly assortment of tins and reels and bags and cases, he has selected three containers that the angler will recognise as fly boxes. The trout fishing season closed ten weeks ago, and there is an end-of-term task that is long overdue: the overhaul of his extensive collection of artificial flies.
Deprived of the possibility actually to fish – the unrelenting freeze precluding all methods available in the neighbourhood – it could be that he regards something akin to angling as the next best thing. That is, an activity that demands a certain degree of concentration, and yet which is also sufficiently methodical and repetitive in its nature to allow his mind – if it should wish – to drift. Assuming, of course, that he has some conscious intent for the latter to occur. It is equally probable that, simply ‘fed up’, frustrated with his job, and there being no decent fishing programmes on TV this evening (or lively company in the bar of his local hostelry), he has resorted to some other suitable distraction.
Earlier in the day Skelgill was obliged to submit a report summarising the case to date. Compiled by DS Leyton, proof-checked by DS Jones – cursorily edited and signed off by Skelgill – it was no more than a one-page summary stating the salient details. Much to Skelgill’s chagrin this had then been circulated to other officers of his rank. While not an unprecedented procedure – positioned by the Chief as for the purposes of keeping her senior team informed – it was far from regular. Skelgill naturally interpreted the act as a personal slight – and a broadcasting of his failure thus far to make any substantive progress. This was compounded by the fact that among ‘officers of his rank’ is included DI Alec Smart. And the snide Mancunian had wasted no time in appearing gleefully at Skelgill’s door to tell him how it was.
DI Smart had only lingered a moment to savour Skelgill’s apparent humiliation in front of his team. He had shown them a clean pair of heels – no doubt to be the first to put this theory to their superior – a quick, neat solution; a feather in his cap and bragging rights over Skelgill. Skelgill had been obliged to quell the faint rumblings of a mutiny among his crew – for DS Leyton had the naïve temerity to ask, “What if he’s right, Guv?” – requiring a thunderous broadside from Skelgill, but one sorely lacking a logical counter argument.
Reflecting now, Skelgill is forced to concede that an outsider looking at the case would quite likely conclude that there is one outstanding candidate for the murder of Declan Thomas O’More – his long-serving butler, Harold Thwaites, as DI Smart postulates. And this is based on the broad facts alone – for Skelgill’s expurgated report was free of such intriguing nuances as Declan’s ghost-written journal, interference with the clock, or the likely combusted shillelagh. Indeed, when this extra layer of detail is admitted – that Thwaites had seemingly concocted an entirely fictitious sequence of events in relation to Declan on the day of his death – the case against the old retainer becomes even more convincing. Why else would he do this, other than to create an alibi for himself?
That Thwaites might suddenly have feared for his livelihood – with Declan inheriting charge of Crummock Hall for the foreseeable future – is a viable motive. Now that Sir Sean, Declan and Thwaites are all dead, there is no way of exploring what new dynamic Thwaites might have anticipated. Perhaps he was not only long-serving but also long-suffering, and some remark or threat from Declan – casually uttered whilst he was winding the clock, his weekly habit of a Sunday noon – prompted Thwaites to pick up the walking stick and unleash decades of pent-up frustration. The straw that broke the camel’s back. And then – and this is by no means implausible (indeed, probably less so than the faking of the log entry and the contriving of the alibi) – overcome by the gravity of what he had done – he took his own life – but in such a way as to make his death appear accidental, perhaps to minimise the shame he had brought upon the family. It fits the facts.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 75