‘One bar – come on.’
In the hush of the room the ring tone seems indecently loud – then it is answered.
‘Oh – Inspector.’
The voice is tremulous. Toby Vellum. He sounds like he anticipates a reprimand.
‘If Declan had to chose a book – the most important – which would it be?’
‘Oh – er – well –’ This inquiry momentarily wrong-foots Toby Vellum – but his confidence begins to return as the realisation dawns that perhaps he is not to be pilloried after all. ‘Well – I should say – Declan being such a dedicated bird-watcher – it would be The Handbook.’
‘The handbook?’
‘Yes, Inspector – some call it The Witherby. Witherby, Jourdain, Ticehurst & Tucker – The Handbook of British Birds, 1938 – first edition that is. Many authorities say it has never been bettered.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘It’s a five-volume set. It has a beige dustwrapper with plain black text on the spine. About nine inches high.’
‘If you could only choose one?’
‘Well – I suppose Volume 5 has the index. It holds the key.’
‘Thanks.’
Skelgill pokes at the phone and cuts off the call. He looks at DS Leyton and points to the opposite corner.
‘You start at that end – I’ll use these steps and do the top four shelves. Witherby, right?’
‘Roger, Guv.’
Purposefully – and thus wholly oblivious to the demonic expression that has possessed the features of Fergal Mullarkey – the pair set about their task, Skelgill upright, imperious and hawklike; DS Leyton, crouched, painstakingly tracing an index finger along the spines of the old books. Silence descends, but for the metronomic beat of the clock, and the sporadic grunts of DS Leyton he progressively bends and squats – when suddenly there is a strident rending of wood – and Fergal Mullarkey makes a break for freedom! Declan’s antique chair is not as robust as it looks – and with a violent jerk he wrenches the spindle from its mortises and vaults across the desk, explosively scattering the accessories stacked upon it – the lamp, the telephone, the field glasses and a small assortment of books. He gains the floor on the other side and in a swift movement stoops to grab up one particular volume and lurches for the door, slamming it shut behind him.
It takes precious seconds for the detectives to react – by the time they have the door open Fergal Mullarkey has fled – but there is an obvious route of escape to the front of the house – and Skelgill chances it. He rounds into the hallway outside the drawing room to be confronted by the sight of DS Jones – she lies crumpled – however she begins to lift her head. He straddles her torso and by the armpits heaves her into a sitting position.
‘Guv – what happened?’ She is plainly groggy – and now DS Leyton lumbers along to make an undignified landing at her side. ‘Someone whacked me from behind.’
Skelgill pats DS Leyton on the shoulder.
‘Make sure she’s okay.’
Without more ado he is gone. A dozen seconds later he reaches the entrance hall to find the front door wide open – from the darkness beyond there comes the sound of an engine turning over. He races out – a car is threatening to leave its parking space, though the wheels spin hopelessly upon the packed snow. But just when it seems the fugitive will be thwarted the tyres find some grip and the vehicle begins to rumble away. Skelgill sprints and catches a door handle – but Fergal Mullarkey twitches the steering wheel and Skelgill is left flailing. In desperation he makes a last-ditch lunge for the roof bars – and with a herculean effort swings himself onto the trunk. The car picks up speed – swerving frantically in an effort literally to shake off Skelgill. His teeth are bared, his hair trailing in the bitter wind, his knuckles like ivory as he grips for all he is worth.
Fergal Mullarkey’s driving is badly hampered by his injury – he steers one-handed and cannot operate the manual shift; the engine screams out for a higher gear. He has no headlights on and is hardly familiar with the winding route – and rounding a sharp curve he is unprepared for the t-junction. Too late, he brakes. The motor slews out of control, spins across the lane and demolishes a five-barred gate that marks the continuation of the track down to the boathouse. The sudden deceleration throws Skelgill into the field – and now the conditions are a blessing, for a soft drift cushions his fall, albeit he is temporarily buried. Righting himself, spitting snow and blinking away ice crystals, he sees the driver’s door is open – the interior light on – and the cockpit empty. But in the angled rays of the moon a line of fresh prints leads away – Fergal Mullarkey is heading for the lake.
The going underfoot is not easy – knee-deep snow with a collapsing crust – and neither hiker nor tractor has been this way to beat a path – nor is the erratic trail of fleeing footprints one upon which Skelgill may capitalise. And perhaps he is more stunned by the impact than he would like to admit. The scene beneath the moon is surreal in itself – a world in dreamlike duotone, in negative; the winter sky a great canopy of midnight blue, the snow-covered fells an undulating swathe of spectral grey. Skelgill stares at the ridge of Mellbreak; it rises steadily from north to south, a lung-busting run he has completed on countless occasions. He tells himself this is no more difficult. The track dips into a black copse of dense pines – and now from his left the ‘twit’ of a tawny owl is answered on his right by the ‘to-woo’ of its mate – and Skelgill finds himself raising a palm as if to acknowledge their coded advice.
The boathouse is in shadow, where the wood overhangs the shore. It is a simple affair, really little more than a shed that is open at both ends. The human tracks disappear into the darkness within, and Skelgill becomes more cautious as he approaches. He realises that the building is badly neglected, there are planks askew and the roof is in need of repair – but, of course, Sir Sean prohibited all boating after ‘The Accident’. The place has been abandoned for a generation. He hesitates at the entrance, stretching wide his eyes and scanning from side to side to make the best of his peripheral vision. He can’t be certain that during his flight through the corridors Fergal Mullarkey did not grab some other weapon – a cutlass or dagger from the wall. He steps inside. As his sight adjusts to the greater gloom he sees there is a deck on the left that extends as a pontoon beyond. The ice has encroached within, despite the shelter, although the first yard from the bank is unfrozen.
And now suddenly this water begins to swell – Skelgill immediately understands why – Fergal Mullarkey is on the ice – pressure waves will be radiating from beneath his feet to find their outlet wherever there is clear water at the shore. Skelgill stalks along the landing stage – and, sure enough, some dozen yards away and moving steadily further is a hunched figure, monk-like, still wearing the long dark gown, the hood again raised, his forearms cradled about his chest.
‘Stop – you’ll never make it!’
Does Fergal Mullarkey think he can reach the opposite bank? Does he not realise the ice sheet is incomplete? That it becomes thinner with every step he takes? But he pays no heed to Skelgill’s warning – other than the unexpected proximity of his pursuer shocks him into renewed vigour – he begins to run – but instantly the ice responds to the extra downforce with creaking protests – and he has taken but three loping strides before it yields to his weight.
What Skelgill witnesses now occurs in slow motion – there is a resounding crack that pierces the still night air and echoes from the wooded bank behind him – and a great slab of ice, perhaps three inches thick, tilts like a surfboard – Fergal Mullarkey the improbable rider, suspended in mid-air – until gravity prevails – and he drops. He submerges entirely, but only for a second, and comes back up gasping with the shock of the icy water. In one hand he still grips the book – and now he lunges for the ice shelf, elbows first, and thrusts his forearms onto the glistening surface – but his weight simply breaks off a new section and he goes under once more. Then he is back up – less buoyantly – trying aga
in – but to no avail.
Skelgill turns and dashes to the boatshed. There is nothing so much as an old rotted ring or rope. Instead he begins tearing at a loose plank. He bends his back and with a splintering squeal it comes away and now ferociously he rips free its neighbour – more easily since he can get proper purchase. He returns halfway along the boardwalk, to a point where the frozen surface is some three feet below. He tosses the planks onto the ice and removes his jacket. He strains to check the exact location of Fergal Mullarkey – it is a chilling sight as the choking lawyer raises his good arm and holds aloft the book he has so coveted – and slides beneath the black water in a grotesque parody of the Lady of the Lake, and Excalibur.
And then an irresistible force hits Skelgill from behind and flattens him into the snow.
‘No way, Guv – we ain’t losing you!’
A breathless DS Leyton has taken him down with a thumping rugby tackle – perhaps enjoying some small and justifiable revenge for the incident with the clock. A second later DS Jones descends upon Skelgill’s legs. He curses and writhes but their combined weight is too much for him – and perhaps there is some relief in their thwarting of his rescue instinct.
DS Jones cries out through gritted teeth.
‘Guv you can’t! You know you can’t! You’d be diving in pitch dark – the cold shock would kill you!’
Skelgill does know this. He utters a few token protests – but he gives up the struggle and his colleagues release their grip. DS Leyton rises and offers a helping hand. DS Jones retrieves her superior’s jacket and presses it upon him. Then slowly, together, they tread carefully to the end of the landing stage. The spot where Fergal Mullarkey went down is marked by broken chunks of ice that lie upon the frozen surface. In their midst is a smooth patch of clear black water, where there floats the pale dustcover of a book.
‘That’ll be Volume 5.’
*
The Regulus-O’Mores – or as they each might prefer to be called, Martius Regulus, Cassandra Goodchild, Owain Jagger, Edgar Regulus-O’More and Rowena Devlin – along with a rather self-conscious looking Tobias Vellum have strayed from the drawing room: upon their return the detectives find the group convened in the study of the late Declan Thomas O’More. But for Vellum – who is fully dressed in his fashion of the middle-aged gentleman – they all sport stylish nightwear of haut couture. There is a strained chatter – which subsides as the police enter – and Martius has his shotgun, of which he is duly (and not unwillingly) relieved.
‘Just for our protection, you understand, Inspector – we had no idea whether Mullarkey was likely to give you the slip and come back looking for us.’
Skelgill’s expression is severe.
‘He won’t be giving anyone the slip.’
For the time being, however, Skelgill is no more forthcoming, and the family can only speculate upon Fergal Mullarkey’s fate – for all they know he is in custody and speeding to jail in a black maria.
‘I swear I’ve heard the blighter prowling about before – at night.’ This is Martius again. ‘His room abuts onto mine.’
‘I’ve seen him.’ Now all eyes turn to Cassandra. She is holding a rocks glass, and she reclines in the harpist’s chair. Her legs are crossed and unconcernedly she exposes a generous stretch of naked thigh beneath her silk gown. She smiles coyly at Skelgill and tilts the glass back and forth – it seems to be a signal that she has observed Mullarkey during a nocturnal visit to the drinks trolley. ‘Prowling – either he or a ghost.’
Skelgill is visibly discomfited by her somewhat brazen manner.
‘We’ll be needing new statements from you all – in light of what we now know.’
‘I take it the matter is closed, Inspector?’ Martius’s tone is insistent. ‘The murder?’
‘I shouldn’t say closed, sir – more like blown wide open.’ Now Skelgill folds his arms, lines crease his brow. ‘We may be talking four murders.’
A small ripple of indeterminate excitement (or it could be shock) permeates the group; glances of anxiety and expectancy are exchanged – but no one now seems prepared to speak. Perdita still wears Skelgill’s fleecy over her pyjamas – it almost reaches down to the lace-trimmed hems of her satiny shorts – and as she steps forward there is a peculiar sense that she has acquired some privileged position – de facto spokesperson – by virtue of this conquest of his garment. Her strawberry blonde mane is dishevelled, and her dark oval eyes underscored by matching crescents – but there is vitality about her sylphlike form, and she rises up on her tiptoes and spreads her arms appealingly.
‘But what on earth was he looking for?’
‘Something hidden in a book. We plan to recover it.’
Though his words are intended to convey a command of the situation – and he avoids mention of the small matter of the lake – his tone cannot conceal a distinctly pessimistic note. The effect is another hiatus – however, there comes a nervous cough, the kind of ‘ahem’ that politely requests permission to speak. It is Toby Vellum. He has been standing beside the desk, his hand upon a small stack of books that he has evidently gathered up and restored to its place, perhaps the bookseller in him unable to bear them strewn so uncaringly about the floor.
‘Er – Inspector – The Handbook.’ Lightly he touches the set – incomplete, of course – four volumes (of five) with familiar beige dustcovers.
DS Leyton suddenly interjects.
‘Fancy that, Guv – there was Mullarkey and us searching the shelves – and they were on the desk all along.’
Skelgill glares sharply at his sergeant, like a schoolmaster rebuking a garrulous pupil. DS Leyton grins somewhat sheepishly. Skelgill turns back to Toby Vellum.
‘What about The Handbook?’
‘Er – well, Inspector.’ He raps a knuckle on the top copy. ‘This is the 1945 edition – reprint, strictly speaking – Vellum & Co supplied it to Declan a couple of years ago. He wanted what he called a ‘workaday’ set – to save his precious first edition from wear and tear.’
Though Skelgill’s features remain implacable, a small fire burns in his eyes.
‘Where is it?’
‘Just over here, Inspector – I’ll show you – Volume 5, wasn’t it?’
Toby Vellum seems to know exactly where to look – in the centre of the bookshelves, directly behind Declan’s damaged chair, at a convenient waist height. He slips around the furniture and extracts the book, and obediently carries it back to Skelgill. As he holds it out two-handed he gives it a little shake, as though there is something wrong with the weight – or perhaps the balance – his features register alarm, and he meets Skelgill’s gaze with a small nod of affirmation.
Skelgill opens the volume – and immediately it is plain that this is no ordinary book – a central section has been hollowed out to form a cavity in which nestles a black velvet drawstring bag. There is a collective intake of breath. Skelgill extracts the pouch and calmly passes the book to DS Jones at his side. Brutus is quick to move in – he places a hand on DS Jones’s shoulder and cranes to get a better look – and now the whole company crowds around voyeuristically as Skelgill unfastens the ties and tips out the contents. It is a single object, about the size of a walnut, and almost as great a contrast as there can be to his calloused palm – an immense diamond that sparkles even in the inadequate light of the study.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – that puts the Koh-i-Noor in the shade.’
In the stunned silence that ensues Martius clears his throat.
‘The Koh-i-Noor is valued at over a billion dollars.’
And now Perdita finds her voice again.
‘And all who own it are said to be cursed.’
22. DRAWING CONCLUSIONS
Saturday 3pm
‘Aye – aye – that’s much appreciated, Jim – tell your pal thanks very much. When I’m back in Dublin the black stuff’s on me. I’ll look forward to the email.’ Skelgill now listens into the earpiece of the antique telephone (for this morning chan
ged atmospheric conditions have precluded any mobile signal whatsoever from reaching Crummock Hall). ‘Aye – well the offer of a day on Bass Lake’s always open – just say the word – if this thaw’s permanent we could be in business next weekend – that double-figure pike’s just waiting for you.’
Skelgill ends the call to retired professor Jim Hartley and stalks across to the windows of the drawing room. The familiar view of Grasmoor is obscured by cloud, in fact nothing is visible beyond the conifers at thirty yards, and even they are hazy silhouettes against uniform grey; a fine drizzle drenches the vale – though it is yet to make any impression on the deep snow, now a uniform wash that merges seamlessly into the mist. He ponders for a few moments, and tilts his head – an evaluative gesture, indicative of some considerable surprise. He returns to the sofas beside the fire and takes his seat opposite DS Leyton and DS Jones; his female colleague reaches to top up his tea, and they both watch him expectantly. However, Skelgill bides his time – and when he does respond, it is to resume the conversation they were having prior to the call being put through.
‘Whoever moved the clock back wanted to be sure we thought the time of death was 12 noon not 2 p.m. Why?’ Now he jabs an accusing index finger towards the outdoors, and the question is rhetorical. ‘Because if it were 2 then Perdita was out there – out of the frame. And why would you want Perdita in the frame? Because she’d had a blazing row with Declan – that morning – by her own admission – she even told us the time – between 11:40 and 11:50.’ He looks at DS Jones for confirmation and she nods obligingly. ‘So who knew that?’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 77