Bruce Beckham
__________
Murder by Magic
A detective novel
LUCiUS
Text copyright 2015 Bruce Beckham
All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2015
CreateSpace edition first published by Lucius 2015
For more details and Rights enquiries contact:
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EDITOR’S NOTE
Murder by Magic is a stand-alone crime mystery, the fifth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It is set primarily in the English Lake District, although for the purposes of storytelling some minor liberties have been taken with the geography of the Langdales.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Murder in Adland
Murder in School
Murder on the Edge
Murder on the Lake
(Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)
Murder Mystery Collection
The Dune
The Sexopaths
CONTENTS
1. Yowes
2. Mr Leonard
3. Blackbeck Mines
4. Blackbeck Castle
5. Needles & Haystacks
6. Kirkstone Pass
7. Little Langdale Tarn
8. Ticker’s Nest
9. Little Langdale
10. Clutching at Straws
11. The Haven
12. Eskdale to Langdale
13. Castle & Inn
14. Lift Off
15. Kiev
16. Fixer
17. Under Cover
18. Thin Air
19. Becalmed
20. Moon Rising
21. Mayday
22. Reckoning
23. Lock-in
1. YOWES
Walking in the Lake District, it is not unusual to come across the carcass of a sheep. With an ovine population that outnumbers the human residents of the National Park by more than ten to one – put bluntly – they have to die somewhere. Desiccated by wind, bleached by sun, bones and fleece scattered by scavengers, sometimes all that remains is a skull, its empty sockets staring out from the bracken like a stranded spirit. Since early medieval times sheep have been reared in the Lakes, and breeding flocks of Herdwicks have lived – and died – upon the same ‘heaf’ for countless generations. Their husbandry is woven into the fabric of a landscape that has dry stone enclosures bent like ribs through the heather. High above, the hardy creatures speckle the open fells, scrambling down ‘in bye’ to lamb only upon the insistence of crafty dogs and their whistling masters. These shepherds still count using ancient Cumbric, a relict language that tells of a Celtic ancestry, and varies even by dale, with yaena, taena, teddera (one, two, three) in Eskdale becoming yan, tyan, tethera in neighbouring Borrowdale.
Hailing from the latter, and thus familiar with both the rhythmical pattern of life and death, and the vernacular, it is only when Skelgill’s morning tally of fellside casualties reaches tethera that he begins to take note. That, and the absence of the sheep’s head.
This particular corpse is what might be described as ‘Raven fresh’ – and, indeed, it is an unruly unkindness of these sinister corvids that calls his attention to the site of excoriation, high on the northern flank of the Scafell Pikes. “Fighting for the eyes,” is Skelgill’s muttered observation, as he hears a battering of wings and sees the jousting of great beaks. Upon his cautious approach, one by one the birds launch themselves reluctantly, their protests of brok resonant about the silent comb. He pauses to watch them glide to a crag below Round How, and crowd into a surly committee that conspires to vote him off the mountain.
Having parked his motorbike before dawn at Hope’s Farm in Borrowdale, this April Sunday sees Skelgill trailblazing a running route that packs in some of Lakeland’s most famous peaks. He is calling it ‘The Mammoth’, for its outline upon the map looks like two flapping ears and a flared trunk. In brief, it skims south over Glaramara and Allen Crags; from Esk Hause due east upon Rossett Pike and the Langdales; south to Pike of Blisco, with its epic cairn; west along the roller coaster of Crinkle Crags, Bow Fell and Esk Pike; down into Eskdale, whence to scale Sca Fell via Foxes Tarn; a hair-raising scramble to Mickledore through the boulder-choke that is the Lord’s Rake; then ‘home’ over the small matter of Scafell Pike, Broad Crag, Great End, Great Gable and Green Gable. Thirty-five miles, fifteen thousand feet of ascent, and Gladis Hope’s legendary Cumberland Fry – and make that a large one.
It is upon Broad Crag that Skelgill has encountered his third dead sheep since sunrise. The first two comprised little more than weathered remains, encrusted like lichen upon the splintered rocks, with scant form but clumps of fleece and strands of sinew. Now, as he pensively regards tethera, he might be wondering whether yan and tyan were similarly lacking in essential parts of their anatomy – for it is not just the head that is absent. Ravens might be equipped with bills capable of tearing the exposed hide of a sheep’s belly, but this animal has been savagely butchered, its thoracic cavity cleaved apart, a gaping red wound that has so aroused the winged opportunists.
Skelgill is travelling light. There was a good forecast and the weather has lived up to its billing. A cloudless dawn has given rise to a crisp and bright early morn, and only now are the first few cumuli beginning to bubble up on the south-westerly drift that bears the fresh itch of birch pollen. A water bottle and two Wainwrights (books four and seven) contribute the majority of weight to his small backpack, but there is also his mobile phone, and he employs it now to take a series of photographs of the unfortunate animal. Sheep can ordinarily be recognised by lug marks – though not this one; given the deficiency of ears Skelgill captures the coloured smit marks on the fleece, which ought to identify the owner. The image of the underbelly has him narrowing his eyes – an onlooker might say in anger – for this yowe was ready to lamb.
*
‘Aye – thon’s one o’ George Dixon’s yowes – frae ower Wasdale.’
Skelgill nods, grim faced.
‘Who’d do that, Arthur?’
The farmer is a big man; he’d seemed a giant once, when Skelgill was a boy, unofficially apprenticed on Arthur Hope’s farm, being a classmate of his son. Now his frame is bowed, by age and the dipping of ten thousand yowes – but he can still cart a vintage motorbike about his workshop that would take two ordinary folk to heft. He shakes his large head, chiselled like a boulder taken off the side of the fell that rises above the slate-built farmstead.
‘Offcomers.’
This single word conveys his feelings on the matter – no man of the fells could commit such an act.
‘You’ve not had any problems?’
‘Ourn are all in-bye since Wednesday – but we’ve lost a couple o’er the winter. Might have strayed. I’ll ’ave a word wi’ our Jud – case ’e’s sin owt.’
Skelgill takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. The air is still cool and wraithlike condensation drifts across the yard.
‘Lambing yet, Arthur?’
‘Any day, lad.’ The farmer grins, wry lips covering his teeth. ‘Thou volunteering?’
Ske
lgill, appropriately, looks sheepish.
‘As I recall, you put me on tea duty last time, Art – that’s how much use I was.’
Arthur Hope winks.
‘Jud tells me tha’s got a fighting dog.’
Skelgill grins; the farmer is ribbing him.
‘Aye – she’ll just about fight the cat for your dinner if you turn your back.’
There comes a sharp rapping on a small pane of glass, a steamed-up side window of the kitchen. It is a signal that Skelgill’s breakfast is ready.
‘Get the’sen fed, lad – I heard thee come.’
Skelgill looks a little alarmed. Earlier he had wheeled his motorbike the last hundred yards so as not to disturb the family.
‘Sorry if I woke you.’
‘I were up, lad – thought it wo’ sound o’ your bike – it’s only thee that’s touched enough to be ont’ fells int’ dark.’
Skelgill shrugs apologetically.
‘Aye, well – I like the place to myself, Arthur. How come you were awake?’
‘If t’yowes start ter lamb it’s at four int’ mornin’ – and Jud’s away for a sale – yowes and hoggs wi’ lambs at foot.’
Skelgill nods appreciatively – it is a positive sign that the farm is seeking to add to its flock. The knocking comes again, more insistently now, and Arthur Hope inclines his head towards the planked door that displays a tilted hand-lettered notice marked ‘café’.
‘Gan an get that fry, lad – afore Gladis gives it t’cur dogs.’
*
In a condition allied to drunkenness, Skelgill staggers under the burden of his Cumberland Fry, his saturated fat levels soaring like the surrounding fells. His Triumph motorcycle is parked a short distance down the farm track, and ahead of him the first swallow of the summer – though by tradition an oxymoron – dips and dives for clegs attracted by the dung. A yellow splash of Forsythia spills from a little walled-off garden, and along the lane whitebeam are budding, their clusters of leaves exploding in a display of mock Magnolia. From their midst a chiffchaff, just landed from Africa, imperfectly announces its presence. Spring has arrived in the Lakes.
Approaching Rosthwaite Skelgill has to slow for a flock of Herdwicks, perhaps two hundred that have been gathered from the fells and now are being walked up by their shepherd and two hands. There is no need for the dogs – their work done, they balance improbably on the back of a quad; the village walls provide all the necessary curbs. The ewes graze as they go, bellies swaying, eager to trim the lush verges, remembering the taste of fresh green couch after a winter of austerity. Their fleeces are stained by peat and rock and bracken, like the greatcoats of a ragtag rebel army that has been holding out in the hills, now under truce and trading grass for little black lambs. Thus, the wheel of life takes another turn.
2. MR LEONARD
‘Morning, Guvnor.’
Skelgill glances up from his computer without tempering his scowl. DS Leyton has arrived bearing mugs of tea from the canteen, but this softener has little apparent impact upon his superior’s mood. If DS Leyton were able to see the map on his screen and the scribbled calculations on his pad, he might deduce that Skelgill is dissatisfied with some aspect of his run yesterday morning. Alternatively, had he observed Skelgill’s arrival a few minutes earlier, prising himself from his car and hobbling across to the rear entrance, thence to seek out drugs from a reliable dealer in the shape of a cleaning lady, he might form another theory for the cause of his boss’s displeasure. More profound sleuthing would reveal that Skelgill had ‘dined out’ rather well on his latest exploit and, frankly – at 37 – is no longer able to treat either real ale or fell running with the casual indifference he once could. He might now be wishing he had spent his Sunday fishing, which would have avoided at least one of his present ailments.
DS Leyton, having seated himself, and given Skelgill a reasonable window in which to voice either a complaint or – less likely – an acknowledgement for his provision of the tea, and receiving neither, leans forward and places a forearm across one knee.
‘Just received a report of a missing person, Guv – young chap never came back to his B&B in Keswick last night.’
Skelgill takes a long draught of tea and regards his colleague thoughtfully across the rim of his mug.
‘We’ve probably arrested him.’
DS Leyton grins, but shakes his head.
‘I checked, Guv – nobody matching the name or description.’
Skelgill appears largely disinterested, and his gaze drifts back to his screen.
‘Landlady thinks he was hillwalking, Guv.’
The word hillwalking seems to ignite a tiny spark of interest in Skelgill’s otherwise unenthusiastic demeanour.
‘Where?’
‘She doesn’t know, Guv – want me to shoot over and have a natter?’
Skelgill swallows the remainder of his tea, seemingly inured to its incipient heat. He bangs down the mug and pushes himself to his feet by the arms of his chair, grimacing through bared teeth.
‘Pity our mob closed down that burger van, Leyton.’
*
‘Grisedale Vista’ is a tall, narrow end-of-terrace guesthouse that – despite its promising designation – overlooks the public cark park in the centre of Keswick. True, leaning on tiptoes from the loft dormer, the summit of the eponymous fell is just about visible, though this is not the most auspicious view of Grisedale Pike, and certainly does not do justice to the mountain that defines the small town’s splendid western horizon.
The entire row is given over to B&Bs and, efficient landladies having promptly fed and shooed away their overnight guests, there are vacant parking spaces outside most of the properties. The front doors are reached by a stiff climb up a zigzag of stone steps – perhaps a cunning defence against undesirable oversized suitcases – and this banked frontage is adorned in such a way that it also presents a considerable challenge to the eye. It is rather as if a local garden centre has gone bankrupt and all the unwanted stock from the fire sale has ended up here. Not only does a plethora of ‘Vacancies’ signs and Tourist Board rosettes compete for the attention of the prospective lodger, but also a battle of paraphernalia is being fought. There are birdbaths, windmills, classical sculptures with noses and fingers missing, solar-powered lanterns, pots with dwarf conifers and hanging baskets that trail ivy and withered remnants of last year’s Lobelia. Grisedale Vista appears to specialise in gnomes.
‘That one looks like you, Leyton.’
Skelgill has picked out a chubby – though cheerful – character waving a trowel and what might be a cauliflower. However, DS Leyton gives as good as he gets.
‘Well – that’s you then, Guv – with the fishing rod – and the big hooter.’
Skelgill, scaling the steps ahead of his more ponderous colleague, surreptitiously runs a finger and thumb from the bridge to the end of his nose; he scowls and reaches for the bell push. However, he hesitates for a moment as he reads a series of notices that have been taped to the inner door of the porch:
“No arrivals before 5pm.”
“No muddy walking boots or wet clothing.”
“No smoking or dogs.”
“No admission or noise after 10pm.”
“No alcohol on the premises.”
Skelgill folds his arms as he considers these directives – perhaps contemplating the futility of his ever applying here for a night’s bed and breakfast.
‘Why not keep it simple and say, “No visitors”, Guv?’
Skelgill nods as he thumbs the bell. It is the sort that keeps ringing when depressed, and he holds it down with a certain determination. He starts, however, when the figure of a woman suddenly pops up from beneath the wood-panelled lower section of the door and glares at them through the glass. She is probably in her late fifties, thin and angular, with a long pointed nose and deep-set eyes ringed by dark shadows, short mousy hair and pale skin, most notable on her bare arms, which droop limply before her. A meerkat is called
to mind. Evidently she is in the process of cleaning the hall floor, for she holds a scrubbing brush, and wears yellow rubber gloves and a faded sky-blue overall. Peeling off the gloves, and setting her jaw ominously, she unfastens the latch. Skelgill steps back and quips out of the side of his mouth.
‘Over to you, Leyton.’
DS Leyton hurriedly engages the defensive shield of his warrant card.
‘Mrs Robinson?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m DS Leyton and this is DI Skelgill, from Cumbria CID, madam – you spoke with one of our colleagues earlier – about your missing guest – Mr Leonard?’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘Yes madam – that’s why we’ve called.’
The woman glowers disapprovingly, although she is already scrutinising their shoes as if she is resigned to having to admit them.
‘We’d like to know a little bit about him for our files.’
‘Well, I don’t see how I can help.’
‘Perhaps – if we could see his room – you told the duty officer he’d left some belongings?’
‘There’s no wallet – he hasn’t paid, you know.’
The woman appears quite unabashed by her revelation of this knowledge.
‘Well – maybe if we can track him down, madam – we can get that sorted out.’
This suggestion seems to win a modicum of approval, and rather grudgingly she moves aside and allows the detectives to enter. A loud electronic alert sounds as the door closes behind them. The hallway is narrow and tiled in a chequered Victorian style; there is a smell of disinfectant, and from beneath knitted brows the woman frowns at their footprints. They pass a doorway on the right marked ‘Residents’ Lounge’ (subtitled, “Locked at 9pm”). Skelgill catches a glimpse of a firm-looking sofa that has clear plastic stretched over the seat cushions, and the shade of a table lamp with its pleated cellophane wrap still in place. Ahead on the left is a staircase, and beyond doors of what might be a breakfast room (“Wait to be seated”) and the kitchen (“Keep out”). Beneath the stairs is an austere upright chair and beside it on a stand a telephone and a gnome piggy bank – the latter labelled “Honesty box” with the word honesty underlined twice.
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 1