Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  All well and good. But it doesn’t fit the feelings.

  Since Skelgill has moved amongst the actors in this rather grotesque production – a peripatetic extra – his perspective is not that of the impartial investigator looking from the outside in. He is working from inside out. And he works not with facts, but with feelings. That is not to say he ignores the facts – certainly he absorbs them, blandly, neutrally, not knowing whether they are true facts, mistakes or lies, filing them somewhere, all equal in his estimation – but he judges them against how he feels about any possible conclusions. And the possible conclusion that Thwaites murdered Declan does not have resonance. In Thwaites he did not detect the soul of a murderer. (And there may be facts as yet unrecognised by his consciousness that will back this up.) Thwaites was badly affected by the death of his master, but not in a way that suggested guilt or remorse. Moreover, there is a tide of suspicion that laps about the other players – they are too little forthcoming, they have subtly closed ranks, there is too much at stake for him to feel at ease with DI Smart’s glib explanation.

  However, in his logical deliberations – and discussions with his two sergeants – the new facts have certainly undermined his feelings. The revelation that, after all, 12 o’clock and not 2 p.m. was the likely time of Declan’s murder – that Dr Herdwick’s obstinacy was likely vindicated – came as a “curved ball from left field” (as he put it to himself, doubling up on the metaphor with belt and braces). Indeed it has shaken the foundations of a tentative belief he has been building about the case – and reminded him of the dangerous temptation offered by ‘facts’. He has been rocked.

  *

  Skelgill likes to start the trout season with three fly boxes. The first is small enough to fit into a pocket of his jacket or gilet; it will be empty. The second, also pocket-sized, will typically contain about a tenth of his collection. The third, the largest by far, houses all the rest, and slides about in the stern of the boat.

  Box number two contains all those flies on which he caught fish in the previous year. As the season progresses, ‘successful’ flies gradually migrate to box one – mainly from box two, but also some from box three, as they are speculatively tried, and prove their worth as ‘catchers’.

  One clever aspect of this system is that as box one gradually fills, it becomes a chronological record, a kind of three dimensional logbook of successful patterns as the months roll by. Some are predictable. Typically there will be a hawthorn in late April (mimicking the hairy black St Mark’s fly so voraciously gobbled by trout), mayflies in – yes – May, and a daddy longlegs in June. Such a sequence provides Skelgill with a handy reminder of what he might next dangle as the calendar advances.

  A non-fisher might ask, so what is the job to be done? Surely this year’s box two is ready to go as soon as the season is over? It is simply last year’s box one, last season’s ‘catchers’. But not so. Unlike Skelgill’s home-made pike lures, wrought from indestructible household objects such as paintbrush handles and pool cues, and fitted with terrifying treble hooks, an artificial fly is a delicate thing, almost as ephemeral as the creature it mimics. Fashioned from fur and feathers, intricately wound and tied, delicately glued and varnished, it is rare for a successful fly to emerge unscathed from the fishy jaws of victory.

  Thus Skelgill’s task in preparing for the new season is to replace battle-scarred flies – for he has reinforcements aplenty. When he ties flies he makes a dozen at a time, and these are mostly confined to their barracks, box three, until called upon. But frugal by nature – de rigueur for a man bred in these parts – where possible he resuscitates those chewed and slime-encrusted flies that respond to a little soaking in soapy water, draining on a sheet of newspaper, and a blast of the hairdryer while gripped in pliers – a kind of field hospital for wounded fishing tackle.

  It is a fiddly task, though Skelgill’s calloused palms and rough-skinned fingers are deceptively dexterous – and seated at his bench he works assiduously, content despite the chill (he has an old and somewhat ineffectual paraffin heater going, and wears two moth-eaten fleecy tops, and there is the homely hiss of a gas lamp that hangs above him). And it must be a contemplative experience; a little trip down the memory lane of last year’s success stories on lake or river, of endlessly sunny days (a funny thing, the memory), of tricky fights with unexpectedly big fish, and the outwitting of these canny wild creatures with a tiny assembly of natural materials – formed and presented by his hand alone.

  And there is another, intrinsic, pleasure in fly fishing tackle. For this is a sport that has occupied the best hunting brains down the ages – witness Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler, published in 1653. Much blood and sweat and tears have been spilled in the perfecting of the traditional patterns that have proved their worth, to be passed through generations, from father to son, angler to angler. Each fly boasts its own social history, and a flavour of this often captured in its name – the whole body of work a wonderfully evocative nomenclature that fires the imagination and fills the novice fisher with the confidence that they stand on the shoulders of giants.

  As Skelgill journeys mindfully through his season past, the flies that served him well likewise captivate him. Thus far he has admired Royal Coachman (invented by John Haily, New York City, 1878), Lunn’s Particular (developed by River Test keeper William Lunn, Hampshire, England, 1917) and Peter Ross (no hiding of his light under a bushel for the eponymous 19th century Perthshire shopkeeper).

  And of course there is Greenwell’s Glory. That Skelgill now ponders unduly long over this rather innocuous dry fly might cause the onlooker to wonder why. Perhaps he had some particular success – it mimics the Pond Olive, a common variety of mayfly, a staple of trout therefore – or maybe he is debating whether to replace his slightly ragged catchers with new stock. But there is something more profound in his expression. Though he pores over the fly, his eyes unmoving, unblinking, his focus does not fall on the bench before him. It drills back in time – though not so far back as Canon William Greenwell in 1854 – but to a generation ago, when the Reverend’s brainchild featured in another narrative. This fly was witness to ‘The Accident.’ Aye – the rod that was rigged ready to go early that morning – that fateful morning – when the foolhardy Edward Regulus rowed his beautiful young wife Shauna O’More across Crummock Water – was tied with Greenwell’s Glory. It was Declan’s fly of choice. And where the old split cane cork-handled rod survived, the boat and its occupants did not. And Declan should have been in that boat.

  21. THE HANDBOOK

  Friday, midnight

  If it’s Friday there must have been a funeral.

  For now, however, the Vale of Lorton sleeps beneath its blanket of snow. The little church of St James, Buttermere has once more served a solemn congregation. Harold Thwaites has been laid to rest. The wake has passed, a subdued affair dulled by yawning platitudes and stifled by lip service. The company, weary of travel and the repetitive strain of melancholy psalms, has retired as one to bed. Majestic in the southern heavens, Orion the Hunter shifts imperceptibly westwards. A grey tomb amidst black pines, Crummock Hall lies in shadow.

  And then a flicker of light illuminates a window of Declan’s study.

  It would seem to be the beam of a torch, and to emanate from within. Exactly how this might be the case is a small mystery in itself. While the crime scene has been officially released – and notified to the family through their solicitor – the study has been left locked (albeit the lock-stoppers removed) and the keys retained in the possession of the police. The explanation provided seems eminently sensible: given that the contents are valuable the family would presumably wish them secured. It is Skelgill’s intention to repatriate the keys in the morn – an excuse perchance casually to insinuate himself among the occupants once more. Failing that, there is always the possibility of a cooked breakfast.

  The flashlight appears to play around the room, crossing the two arched windows and the porthole of the externa
l door a couple of times, before settling internally – indeed, its movement ceases, as though it has been placed in a static position; only a faint glow now radiates. A curious watcher – were there to be such a person improbably loitering (or stationed) outside, defying the sub-zero conditions – might creep with care over crunchy snow to peer cautiously in. And there would be something to see. The door to the corridor ajar, diffuse light filtering from beyond. The torch resting upon the desk, angled across a book such that its beam illuminates the shelves beyond. And a hooded figure – wearing what could be a charcoal dressing gown – standing on the top rung of the library step. He or she – being of uncertain gender – takes down one book at a time, flicks through it, replaces it, and moves on to the next. That the room is shrouded in gloom does not seem to be an impediment – certainly reading does not appear to be their object. More likely it is looking for a bookmark – or a photograph – or a flower that has been pressed – although the inspection is perhaps even too cursory for that.

  For someone concealed inside the room – equally improbable, of course – it is the sounds that narrate the events. There is the initial scrape of a key in the lock. The library step dragged across the floor. The breathing – certainly heightened – of the newcomer; perhaps anxiety, but also perhaps the effort of balancing upon the curved step and continually reaching up; some of the tomes must weigh several pounds. And all the while in the background the steady tick of Declan’s clock – for Skelgill left it running. Indeed now it strikes twice – though this is midnight; he did not trouble to correct the time, and it was 10 a.m. when he set the hands to twelve. The putative book thief is unperturbed by this discrepancy – and works on methodically – and even seems unconcerned when the study door is pushed wider, and a slender form clad only in skimpy nightwear appears cautiously in the opening.

  ‘Who’s in there?’

  ‘Ah, Perdita.’

  ‘Oh – it’s you.’

  ‘Come inside.’

  ‘But what are you doing?’

  There is a sinister chuckle. The shadowy figure descends the library step and moves across to pick up some object from the desk; it glints as it crosses the beam of the torch.

  ‘Let’s say I couldn’t sleep – and decided to find some bedtime reading.’

  ‘But – the study was locked – by the police?’

  ‘Ah – yes – spare keys are always expedient. Come in – close the door.’

  Perdita does as she is bid – though she seems uncharacteristically apprehensive; she leaves the latch unfastened, and steps a few paces to her right in front of the clock, away from the incumbent.

  ‘I thought you were a second intruder.’

  ‘Who says there was a first? You must know the police suspect one of us.’

  ‘Someone has to guard our property.’

  ‘That is rather valiant of you – did you wake any of the others?’

  ‘I –’ Whatever Perdita is about to say, her slight hesitation gives away the truthful answer – and indeed she replies obliquely. ‘I came down to the drawing room – to get a nightcap – I couldn’t sleep, either.’

  In the murk the hooded figure reaches for the torch, and plays it illustratively upon the shelves before shining the beam directly into Perdita’s face. Her pupils constrict like those of a trespassing feline that has triggered a security light.

  ‘You know these are intended for you.’

  It is a question but the tenor sounds almost accusing.

  ‘The books?’

  ‘Declan made a will.’ Now the tone is scathing. ‘A month ago – witnessed by our esteemed Sir Sean and the trusty Thwaites.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe of Great Uncle Declan – after his last words to me.’

  ‘It is hidden – in the boathouse.’

  ‘The boathouse?’

  ‘I’ll drive you there – we’ll use the garden door – nobody will hear us. Go ahead – it is unlocked.’

  Perdita’s eyes are narrowed and her full lips register alarm. She does not move.

  ‘But – I can’t go outside dressed like this.’

  ‘But I think you can.’

  And the object picked from the desk is now raised into the beam and extended at arm’s length. It is a wartime revolver – recognisable as one kept in a display cabinet in the main hallway with its live cartridges ranged alongside.

  ‘I – I don’t understand –’

  ‘You will Perdita – oh, little lost one.’

  The voice is now harsh and menacing, and the gun is jerked to indicate the order.

  ‘The garden door – open it.’

  But this command seems to have magical properties – for the garden door swings open – and there silhouetted against the moonlit snowscape is the stocky figure of Detective Sergeant Leyton.

  ‘Police – drop the weapon.’

  And now with hardly a delay the hall door follows suit – and braced for action stands Detective Sergeant Jones.

  ‘Do as you’re told – then no one gets hurt.’

  Perdita glances anxiously from side to side – though she must be largely blinded, for both the gun and the torch remain trained upon her. And neither does their bearer move, though the voice becomes more strained.

  ‘You will notice this is a six-shooter.’

  ‘Lower the gun – you won’t get away with it.’

  ‘Really?’

  There is a quiver conveyed through the torch beam – perhaps a stiffening of the adjacent wrist as a precursor to firing. It is at moments like this when it seems ludicrous that the British police are not routinely armed. But then again, who needs firearms when you have Skelgill concealed in the log coffer. Behind the would-be shooter – and invisible to the dazzled Perdita – the freshly oiled lid of the coffin-like mule chest silently opens. In one swift movement Skelgill rises, raises a branch of convenient cricket bat proportions and brings it down with malevolent force to break the wrist and send the revolver spinning across the room. The torch falls, too; its bulb shatters. In the darkness, Leyton and Jones pounce.

  *

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  No answer. Either Fergal Mullarkey adheres to the clichéd lawyer’s maxim, “no comment” – advice that his firm must timelessly have dispensed – or he is in shock of the injury inflicted by Skelgill. His good wrist is unceremoniously handcuffed to a wooden spindle of Declan’s sturdy chair. Skelgill turns to Perdita – she is shivering, though she is wrapped in his oversized fleece top.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I have really no idea, Inspector. I only thank God that you guessed all this.’

  Skelgill frowns. That he guessed? She does have no idea. He thrusts his hands onto his hips and regards the towering library. Whatever Fergal Mullarkey sought he had a long night’s labour ahead of him. He had examined barely a hundred books – when there must be a good four or five thousand ranged wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling. That he refuses to speak suggests it is something of import. Skelgill glances again at their captive – then he addresses DS Leyton.

  ‘I’ll wake the others. Ask them.’ He makes for the door – then he hesitates. ‘Jones – you’d better come – you take Cassandra.’ He notices that Perdita sways and has to correct her balance. ‘I reckon you need that nightcap. Go to the drawing room. Chuck some wood on the fire – get comfortable. We’ll send the rest along.’

  Skelgill exits with DS Jones and they make their way through the darkened halls and corridors, switching on lights as they go. In the entrance hall they climb the main staircase, and split at the top, for the male and female chambers are segregated on either side of the central atrium. Skelgill wakes Martius first – and is impressed by his swift uptake of the situation – though he can cast no light on Mullarkey’s quest. Skelgill decides to leave him to rouse Brutus – and heads for Edgar’s room. He knocks, perhaps rather forcefully, and announces himself – though he waits a decent two or three seconds – and hears some scrabbling wit
hin. When he enters a table lamp is on and Edgar sits up blinking on the far side of the bed, the blankets raised to his chest. His expression hovers somewhere between alarm and dismay. Skelgill is about to speak when a noise behind his right shoulder disturbs him. He turns and instinctively pulls open the door of a wardrobe. Crouching inside, clutching at a pillow to preserve his modesty is a cringing Toby Vellum. At this moment DS Jones – who has finished with Cassandra and sent her downstairs (needing little encouragement for a stiffener) – appears in the doorway.

  ‘All okay, Guv?’

  She cannot see at what he stares with such disquiet. For perhaps five seconds he does not reply. Then he shuts the wardrobe door and stalks away – pushing past DS Jones and heading for the stairs.

  ‘Hunky-dory.’

  He strides through the house at a speed that obliges DS Jones to skip to keep up.

  ‘Cassandra doesn’t have any idea, Guv.’

  Skelgill speaks out of side of mouth.

  ‘I don’t reckon any of them will – but I know who might help us.’

  As they are about to pass the drawing room Skelgill indicates to DS Jones that she should remain and intercept the family as they arrive.

  ‘Keep them all here for the time being.’

  DS Jones nods her understanding. Skelgill continues briskly to the study, where the solitary DS Leyton stands sentry just inside the door. His sergeant seems relieved that he has returned. Skelgill glances briefly at Fergal Mullarkey and then spends a few moments contemplating the bookshelves once more. He takes out his phone and rests it on the desk and digs in another pocket for his wallet. From this he extracts a rather bent business card, which he places beside the handset. Squinting in the poor light, and with the mobile set to loudspeaker mode, he taps out the number. He growls with discontent as it strives to transmit.