‘Still got it, Jim.’
The elderly man starts, and allows the line to crumple upon the lawn. However, he immediately recognises the voice of the interloper.
‘Ah – but evidently neither the hearing nor the peripheral vision I once possessed.’
‘I sneaked through the hedge. Plus you were probably miles away.’
Jim Hartley grins sympathetically.
‘Well – Derwentwater, maybe.’
He seems pleased to see Skelgill. In typical northern fashion they do not exchange handshakes or man-hugs (heaven forbid), or enter into physical contact. Though in standing a little awkwardly apart there is something missing in this regard. The professor suddenly looks alarmed.
‘Or did you mean the rod? Don’t worry – I haven’t forgotten it is earmarked for you.’
Skelgill reddens.
‘I meant your casting, Jim. The rod – aye, it’s a beauty alright.’
He seems to understand it would offend his friend to say any different, disconcerting though he finds the interaction. Then, to his relief, he notices something, and reaches to take hold of the end of the venerable split-cane artefact.
‘Looks like your tip ring’s lost its lining.’ He squints critically, angling his head back to focus. ‘I can sort this – I’ve got stuff in the car. It’s a five-minute job. What’s the diameter of the blank – about an eighth?’
The professor chuckles approvingly.
‘A man after my own heart!’ He refers to Skelgill’s use of the imperial measurement. ‘In that case, I shall see to elevenses. Come hither – through the house – it is more forgiving than the hedgerow.’
When Skelgill returns from his shooting brake grasping a small kit comprising pliers, lock knife, hot-melt glue, a cigarette lighter and a replacement rod tip guide he finds his friend seated at a garden bench in the dappled shade of a gnarled though profusely blossoming apple tree. The professor is pouring steaming tea into mugs and there is a large plate of small peculiar-looking cakes, and a stack of textbooks and papers. Skelgill, not unnaturally, finds his eye drawn by the former.
‘Rum nickies, Daniel.’ The professor pats the uppermost book of his pile. ‘I have been doing some research in the library – not food, but by happy coincidence I chanced across the recipe whilst browsing aimlessly. It seems baked like this they have been a local delicacy but a well-kept secret for some generations.’ He offers the plate. ‘What do you think?’
Skelgill needs no further encouragement; he is familiar with Cumberland rum nicky as a dish-sized pie or tart, but not as convenient bite-sized morsels. After a few moments’ work, and nods of approval, he swallows and reaches for his mug.
‘Spot on, Jim – I take it you can drive on a couple of these?’
He speaks half in jest, but refers to the alcoholic content. The professor grins wryly.
‘Oh – I think half a dozen and you should be safe – two tablespoons of Old Vatted Demerara went into this whole lot. Help yourself.’
Skelgill makes a sign that he shall, but reaches now for the fishing rod, propped carefully against an overhanging branch, and draws it down across his lap. He inclines his head towards the heap of books, the uppermost of which is entitled ‘British Birds of Prey and their Haunts’.
‘Looks like we’re on the same page, Jim.’
The professor inhales, a little sombrely.
‘Ah – I believe you refer to the Vholes.’ (Skelgill, taking his knife to the tip of the rod, glances up in accord.) ‘They did not waste any time. I hope you didn’t mind my referring them to you?’
‘Jim – I was there – on Over Water – I saw it. I went to investigate – unofficially, like – but came up against a dead end.’
The professor raises his bushy white brows – mention of Over Water plainly has piqued his curiosity – but he resists any temptation to digress.
‘I rather felt with your country credentials you are uniquely placed to deal with this kind of issue. But I had no idea you were a supplementary witness.’
Skelgill is now using the cigarette lighter to heat up the metal shaft of the rod tip guide. He concentrates as he counts under his breath and then snatches up his pliers and with a jerk removes the damaged end-piece.
‘Bingo. That doesn’t always come off so easy.’
‘Nice work.’
‘Brute force, really, Jim.’
The professor sighs.
‘It must be so satisfying to mend as one goes. It is one thing to be defeated by the fish – but always a frustration when one’s equipment is the reason to call it a day.’
Skelgill shrugs unassumingly; praise from his old mentor elicits an altogether different reaction than everyday situations, when such modesty might be more than a tad affected. He deflects the compliment with a question.
‘So what’s with the Vholes – Vholeses – whatever they call themselves?’
The professor chuckles again.
‘I think it is the former. The extended plural does not quite have the same ring as Joneses.’
There is a flicker of a reaction from Skelgill at what is a coincidental mention of his female colleague’s surname. A falling apple petal drifts past his line of sight, but he remains head bowed over his little project.
‘They are academics. Brother and sister. It seems they are relative newcomers to the area. They both have positions at the agricultural college at Caldbeck. I believe he is an environmental scientist and she is an administrator. I met them through the Nats.’
‘The gnats?’
That Skelgill is asking an altogether different question is not apparent to the professor; however, in any event his response carries the appropriate clarification.
‘Allerdale Natural History Society. “The Nats” is what the members call themselves. Of course, they are all abuzz with the harriers.’
‘Harriers? The bird?’
‘You don’t know?’
Skelgill is now concentrating hard, melting indirectly the strip of glue he has inserted into the hollow replacement tip. He deftly fits the new piece onto the end of the blank and leans back to align it by looking one-eyed down the length of rod. He grimaces as he presses and holds it in place while the glue sets.
‘No idea.’
‘Ah – we have a pair of our very own. Hen harriers. Quite a coup. Only fifteen pairs bred in England last year. They are nesting on Over Moor. By good fortune the nest site is visible from the public hide beside Over Water. That’s why the Vholes were there at such an ungodly hour. The Nats have mounted a round-the-clock watch. The Vholes were putting in a shift before church.’
There had been two cars when he arrived. A battered Ford Consul, steamed up within and externally coated in dew; without investigating Skelgill had concluded an overnight camper had found the secluded spot. There was also a nearly new Volvo; probably it belonged to the Vholes.
‘So are you involved in this?’
‘Well – I am a member, of course – but I have pleaded age and infirmity. We have plenty of robust volunteers. There is a young couple who are hardly ever out of there. However, the committee have engaged me to write an article for their newsletter, about raptor persecution. It is for press and publicity purposes – to foster public support and, not least, exert maximum pressure on the landowners.’
At this juncture he reaches to extract an old hardback from the pile. He displays the front briefly to Skelgill. Rather oddly it is entitled ‘Pesticides and Persecution’; the illustration is of a farmer astride an open-top tractor ploughing against a backdrop of chimneys and industrial smog.
‘I came across a fascinating piece of research.’ He opens the book and checks the title pages and begins to leaf through. ‘This was published in 1967 – and – let me see – yes here we are – this study was conducted in the mid 1950s.’
He holds open a page that shows, printed in black on yellowing stock, juxtaposed, two maps of Great Britain. There is detailed text below, but Skelgill stares at the ima
ges. The twin outlines of the island of GB are shaded in various degrees from light hatch to black. He realises he is expected to comment.
‘They’re a mirror image.’
‘Precisely!’ The professor sounds positively triumphant. ‘Now hear this. The map on the left represents the population density of the common buzzard per square mile.’ He looks meaningfully at his student. ‘On the right, a most unusual parameter – we have the density of gamekeepers per square mile.’
He lays the book spread out and leans back, as though he rests his case.
Skelgill, having completed his task has reverted to the rum nickies; munching, he raises his eyebrows. It is literally a graphic illustration of the point.
‘It’s going back a bit, though, Jim – the Fifties.’
‘Daniel, we might live in the age of enlightenment – but old habits die hard.’
Skelgill can hardly gainsay this point. And, notwithstanding yesterday’s incident – as his friend has alluded to – he knows more than enough of the ways of country folk and gamekeepers to appreciate that there is an entirely different prism through which the environment may be viewed. And, bluntly, it is the one he has grown up with. It is not hard to empathise with farmers and land workers, often scraping a tenuous living, who are supposed to stand by while their livelihood is pillaged by predators protected by lawmakers elected by urban voters who share little in common and have a simplistic understanding of rural life. They have seen neither a fox steal a newborn lamb or slay an entire coop of chickens, nor a buzzard devour the crimson breast meat of a live pheasant poult. Nature, red in tooth and claw.
The professor evidently detects Skelgill’s pensive weighing of the situation.
‘Frankly, Daniel, the death of a buzzard is hardly to be mourned.’ (Skelgill looks up in surprise.) ‘I have a copy in that pile of a recent study which calculated that only one in four makes it to adulthood. They are thriving to the extent that there simply aren’t sufficient territories. The majority of immature birds starve. Next time you see one on a post by the verge – remind yourself it has been driven off by its parents and is forlornly waiting for roadkill. It is the rather ironic corollary of successful conservation.’
He sees that Skelgill is still looking unconvinced.
‘Sad though it is – anthropomorphically speaking – when one of a breeding pair is killed. In the case of Bullmire Wood, the brood is unlikely to survive.’
Skelgill nods slowly.
‘But, harriers – ?’
‘Another kettle of fish entirely, Daniel. There is a widespread belief in ornithological circles that they are the victims of relentless persecution. Proof is hard to obtain, but the circumstantial evidence is compelling. In contrast to the overpopulated buzzard, a mere five per cent of suitable hen harrier territories in England are occupied.’
‘Why the difference?’
‘Well – put simply, they are a perceived threat to the red grouse.’
Skelgill nods pensively. There is serious money in grouse shooting.
The professor makes an expansive gesture with both hands.
‘Daniel, you appreciate the irony of hen harriers taking up residence on Over Moor?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘It’s a sporting estate.’ He finds himself repeating the words of the man in Bullmire Wood.
‘Well – that, too, of course – though I suppose in that case you could call it foolhardiness, if only the birds knew it. But, forgive me; I am being obtuse. Over Moor – Over Water – Overthwaite – you know the name origin?’
Skelgill frowns. Now he thinks about it, he does not.
‘It is a derivation of the Old Norse, the word ‘Orri’ – meaning grouse. And, of course, Great Cockup, onto which the moor extends – has its etymology in the Old English – cock being the blackcock. Over Moor has been prime grouse country since the Dark Ages.’
‘There’s grouse butts up there, right enough.’
He refers to the lines of stone shooting shelters that cross the fellsides.
‘I believe it is one of the most productive estates this side of the border.’
‘You said the hen harrier’s perceived to eat grouse.’
‘Therein lies the rub – in reality ninety-five per cent of the diet is small mammals – mice, voles, shrews – next come the likes of meadow pipits. True, grouse chicks would be on the menu, and even the occasional adult – but a minor component. And in eliminating rodents, the harriers remove competition for heather shoots, the primary food source for grouse. But they hunt ostentatiously over open moorland – they look all the time like they are seeking what the gamekeeper strives to protect.’
Skelgill occasionally flushes grouse while out on the fells – notably the Skiddaw range in question. And he knows that, since grouse cannot be captive-bred, the bird is a scarce commodity. It is clear that harriers would not be welcomed.
‘So, you’re saying they couldn’t have picked a much tougher spot.’
‘Well – it is certainly rather double-edged. There is no shooting in the breeding season, and the land is private so there are few walkers or dogs – one could be excused for choosing it as a nest site if one were ignorant of the Glorious Twelfth. So now you see why the Nats have set up their surveillance. And we come full circle to the Vholes’ complaint. While a single buzzard may not merit the attention of Cumbria Constabulary, given the precarious situation in which our harriers find themselves – a shot across the bows might be timely, wouldn’t you agree?’
Skelgill makes a face that signals reluctant solidarity. The professor gives a little “ahem” cough.
‘Daniel, have another rum nicky. Take two.’
3. SHUTEHAM HALL
Monday afternoon
‘It’s like a fairy glen.’
DS Jones sounds wistful as she surveys their surroundings while Skelgill’s car makes more hasty progress than the narrow winding track can comfortably accommodate. She refers to the atmospheric effect created by an unusual blend of native and non-native vegetation, at eye level exotic large-leaved shrubs and ferns and, glimpsed between them, the massive hirsute trunks of sequoias that lurk like grizzly bears and steeple skywards as if to escape the vertiginous wooded ravine in which they travel.
On their left the little valley begins to open out as they approach their destination, and the policies become more varied. A small artificial lake that has an ornate two-storey log-cabin-style boathouse, with what looks like accommodation in the upper floor, a balcony and glass doors, catches Skelgill’s eye. Down a steep rise overlooking the lake tumbles a thin waterfall; above, on a grassy plateau, a belvedere is strategically positioned, garden chairs are arranged in the shade of its domed canopy around an outdoor stove. Rather bizarrely, beyond that, gleaming like a beacon in the bright sunshine is an old red telephone box.
‘More like Alice in Wonderland. Look at that lot!’
It is DS Leyton who exclaims from the rear seat. An expanse of lawn unfolds, haphazardly populated by a fantastical array of topiary – a good two score of yews ornately sculpted, standing between ten and twenty feet high and spaced apart like they are the pieces on a giant crazy chessboard.
‘I’m expecting to see a white rabbit any minute, Guv.’
But Skelgill’s attention is drawn away, beyond the topiary garden, to the castle, which now heaves into sight. That Skelgill thinks of it as a castle, when it is called Shuteham Hall is due to its austere facade. An angular construction of uneven chequered sandstone in a range of hues from deep brick red to pale puce, with the occasional lump of charcoal, its distinguishing feature is a near absence of windows on the ground floor, and only mean apertures on the two storeys above, with occasional arrow-slits where there may be a staircase, or in a high gable. This ancient edifice was clearly erected in troubled times; a ‘hall’ one would expect to boast great windows, admitting precious daylight upon luxuriant tapestries and affording views over the grounds, designed for friendly fellow gentry, to be welcomed
and impressed, rather than foes to be doused in latrine contents and sent homeward with a spear between their legs.
Skelgill draws his car to a halt on the gravel before what appears to be the main entrance. Set in a jutting tower, it is not a grand portico, but beneath a weathered crest that might incorporate a stag and an eagle, and a stone lintel carved with the motto VIRGA GLORIAM, just a heavy door of old wood ribbed with iron bands. Now he hesitates, screwing up his features in indecision. That he is accompanied by his colleagues is not due to a sudden escalation in their taking seriously the shooting incident, but to the fact that the three are en route to attend a hearing at West Cumbria Magistrates Court in Workington; a case of burglary in which DS Jones is due to give evidence. He spies a sign affixed to a stake beside the door; it denotes “Estate Office” and points to the right. There is the suggestion that new arrivals should not trouble the main house. Skelgill acts on this deduction.
‘You pair mosey along to the office – see what you can find out. I don’t reckon his lordship will be cooperative if we barge in mob-handed.’
His subordinates seem a little crestfallen, and glance at one another – as if suspecting Skelgill of some ulterior motive; an assessment that would be correct, in as much as, by going alone, he retains maximum latitude for diplomacy, as envisaged by the professor. DS Jones is quick to perk up, however.
‘Sure, Guv. Maybe the factor will be more forthcoming than the landowner.’
They exit the car. Skelgill waits for his colleagues to round the corner of the building. The spot on which he stands, in the angle of the tower and the main frontage is quite a suntrap, and the heat of the day has accumulated in the old walls; a couple of white butterflies, one with striking carroty tips to its wings tumble in their aerial courtship dance, before settling together somewhere in a bed of yellow tulips and pale violet Camassia. Skelgill steps forward and hauls on a bell-pull; it feels connected, but he hears nothing from within. While he waits he is visited by the thought that he has not planned what he intends to say; but it is fleeting, for it is not his style. Where he might have preferred to be better prepared, however, is in knowing his adversary; in the hurry to get organised a junior officer was delegated to make an appointment – all Skelgill knows is that the landowner goes by the grand-sounding epithet of Lord Edward Bullingdon; accordingly, with the sudden clunk of a latch, he anticipates a stony-faced butler in traditional formal garb.
Murder on the Moor Page 3