Murder on the Moor

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘The car, Leyton – you donnat!’

  DS Leyton can have no idea why he should be such an idiot for not immediately understanding that the cause of his superior’s agitation is surely the most mundane aspect of the view: a small yellow hatchback that is being driven slowly along the track known as Long Shoot that comes up on the far side of the topiary lawn and passes in front of the hall to merge with their own trajectory.

  ‘It’s a VW Golf, Guv.’

  ‘Head him off!’

  Stung by one insult DS Leyton does not wait for another, despite that Skelgill’s order must seem entirely disproportionate to the circumstances. He puts his foot down and within fifteen seconds skids to an untidy halt blocking the junction of the side track with the main driveway – although the yellow car, if it were wishing to escape, could simply veer onto the lawn. However, it stops and Skelgill in short order is out of DS Leyton’s car and has wrenched open the driver’s door of the Golf.

  Perhaps it is the terrified expression on the gaunt, equine face of Julian Bullingdon – who looks like he thinks he is the victim of a kidnap attempt – that brings Skelgill to his senses – and he contrives to row back from his overly assertive approach.

  ‘Would you mind getting out, sir?’

  Julian Bullingdon, however, looks no less disconcerted – until, glancing in trepidation at the stranger’s accomplices as they emerge from the supposed getaway car, he recognises DS Jones. Taking hold of a lock of his long sun-bleached hair, rather falteringly he appeals directly to her.

  ‘Are these your – I mean – are you all detectives?’

  Skelgill might feel a tad guilty but he is still in a hurry. As the young man climbs from the driver’s seat, and straightens the peculiar rustic smock-frock that he evidently favours wearing over his baggy cotton trousers and sockless sandals, Skelgill comes straight to the point.

  ‘I need to ask you, sir – where were you last night between the hours of eleven p.m. and two a.m.?’

  ‘Cushat Copse.’ Julian Bullingdon blinks several times and gives a nervous laugh that might be interpreted as a knowingly futile attempt at defiance. ‘I’m – er – just heading up there to collect my trap. See what I’ve caught.’

  ‘Your trap?’

  ‘I set it last night and left it in place – it’s the standard procedure.’

  Skelgill swallows. He can feel the gaze of his subordinates upon him.

  ‘Could you describe this trap, sir?’

  Julian Bullingdon makes a hoop with his arms held out in front of him.

  ‘To be honest it’s rather primitive – the catching area has a diameter of about three feet – it has a suspended mercury vapour bulb powered by a small portable generator. The interior is filled with egg boxes for the Lepidoptera.’

  Skelgill is looking confounded. DS Jones steps forward.

  ‘A moth trap?’

  Julian Bullingdon’s pale blue eyes seem to light up, that she is showing interest.

  ‘That is correct, sergeant. Cushat Copse is a fragment of ancient woodland – entirely sessile oaks – formerly coppiced, of course, hence the name – it adjoins the northwest side of Over Moor. By day we have Cumbria’s only colony of high brown fritillary – and by night emblematic moths such as oak eggar – although it is a moorland species, despite its descriptor.’

  Skelgill is just recovering his bearings.

  ‘Wait a minute. So you’re saying you were out catching moths.’

  ‘Quite. I set up at dusk and remained until about one o’clock. There ought to have been sufficient fuel in the generator for it to run until just before dawn. The insects become inactive during daylight, so they should be fine. I simply need to identify and count them.’

  Skelgill can’t help stepping away and turning in a circle, gazing to the heavens as he does so, as if for divine inspiration. In the little hiatus, Julian Bullingdon seems to steel himself.

  ‘Look – what’s all this about? Is this something to do with tracking down our jewel thief?’

  The detectives regard the young man with stony-faced unanimity. Yet he returns their stares with blank ingenuousness. It would seem that news of Lawrence Melling’s death has not reached this itinerant member of the household. Skelgill makes an executive decision.

  ‘Mr Bullingdon, there has been a serious incident involving your gamekeeper, Mr Melling. It means we need to establish the whereabouts of everyone who was on the estate last night. Sergeant Jones will accompany you to collect your trap. She’ll explain the position and take some details from you.’

  Skelgill speaks with uncharacteristic tact – but his manner is firm and Julian Bullingdon shows no sign of objecting. He glances a little apprehensively at DS Jones and she nods to him reassuringly. He climbs into the car and closes the door. As DS Jones circles to enter on the passenger side Skelgill beckons her to the rear of the vehicle.

  ‘Last night – I was fishing on Over Water.’

  He flashes a stern look that is plainly intended to curb cross-examination.

  ‘Ah – the perch.’

  ‘I spoke to the Irish and the Vholes before I went out on the lake. They were all in the hide. The Irish must have got there early for their shift. I saw the Vholes go home just after ten-thirty. When I came back in – just as I was leaving – a car crossed ahead of me in the lane. It could have been coming from the moor. That was dead on one o’clock. Be aware of this – but don’t tell him we know. A yellow car.’

  DS Jones does a little double take, as though something that has been niggling her has just made sense. She looks at Skelgill with an expression that is at once quizzical, wry and possibly even amused.

  ‘Yellow car.’

  She says no more but neither does Skelgill – she nods and steps away and breaks off eye contact to open the passenger door; she slides in with a friendly “Hiya” directed at Julian Bullingdon. As the vehicle pulls away – indeed driving onto the lawn to pass DS Leyton’s car – Skelgill looks askance at his sergeant.

  ‘You can make a better job of parking than that, Leyton – you’ll be getting us a bad name. Stick it in the shade and leave the windows down by a couple of inches.’

  DS Leyton looks irked but then decides his superior is ribbing him – and there is the cocker spaniel to consider.

  ‘Two ticks, Guv.’

  While DS Leyton manoeuvres into the shadow of the castle Skelgill approaches the main entrance. He tries the blackened iron handle. Perhaps to his surprise it turns and the great oak door gives way against his shoulder. He enters – the darkness defeats him for a moment – but as his eyes become accustomed to the gloom, he sees that the mantrap is gone.

  ‘Leyton – come and see this! Oi – Leyton!’

  ‘What’s all this shouting? We’ll have no trouble here!’

  Skelgill spins on his heel to see the misshapen form of Lord Bullingdon suddenly appear in the stone archway that leads from the gate keep into the main body of the castle. It immediately strikes him that to impersonate the old man would take a lot more than to don his hat and cape. His distinctive crooked posture and shambling gait would not be easily to replicate. Though the other cloak, that of night, might offset some degree of inadequacy.

  ‘Oh – it’s you, Inspector.’

  There is displeasure in the man’s voice, but before Skelgill can reply DS Leyton lumbers in behind him, apparently unseeing in the dimly lit hallway.

  ‘Struth, Guv – it’s like the Black Hole of Calcutta in here!’

  Edward Bullingdon looks a little aghast. Skelgill opts to dispense with any formalities. In the fashion of getting in the first punch, he reaches out a hand towards an iron hook where the trap was hung.

  ‘Lord Bullingdon. Your trap – it’s gone.’

  The man shuffles closer and squints with his already narrowed leading eye. But now his response wrongfoots Skelgill.

  ‘That’s correct. I expect Melling t
ook it. I noticed its absence when I locked up last night.’

  Skelgill looks to DS Leyton – questioningly, so. His sergeant seems to know what he means and nods in confirmation.

  ‘Sir – I understand you’ve been made aware of the circumstances of Lawrence Melling’s death.’

  Edward Bullingdon gives a scoffing exclamation.

  ‘Pah – Daphne said something about him becoming caught in a trap – bled to death – am I correct?’

  Skelgill nods, his expression severe. The man does not seem in any way affected.

  ‘We’ll need you, sir – or someone who knows reliably – to identify the device. But it seems too much of a coincidence to think it isn’t the trap that was here. Can you recall when you last saw it?’

  At this the man seems to assume a deliberate air of indecision. He casts about – and loosely indicates towards the suit of armour and various of the mounted weapons.

  ‘These things have been here for decades – one becomes blind to them.’

  ‘But you noticed the trap was gone last night.’

  ‘That was because I was specifically thinking about it.’

  ‘In what way, sir?’

  Now Edward Bullingdon shifts a little uncomfortably on his feet.

  ‘I was thinking we could get it photographed – put up some signs, to deter intruders – “Beware Traps” – that kind of thing.’

  ‘But not actually to use the trap itself?’

  ‘Good grief, no – what are you thinking, man?’

  Skelgill remains grim faced.

  ‘It seems somebody had that idea, sir.’

  ‘I can only assume it was Melling, Inspector – and that he had some kind of foolish mishap while trying to set it. It’s probably a two-man job.’

  ‘But you didn’t discuss it with him?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  Skelgill pauses.

  ‘Can you explain why Lawrence Melling was wearing your cape and hat, and was carrying your thumbstick, sir?’

  ‘What!’

  The man appears dumbstruck. Skelgill is obliged to elaborate.

  ‘The items were found with his body on Over Moor, not far from the hen harriers’ nest site. The staff and hat were lying nearby – the cape he still had fastened around his shoulders.’

  ‘Good heavens – this is ridiculous, Inspector.’

  Skelgill shrugs noncommittally.

  ‘Where do you normally keep them, sir?’

  ‘In the scullery beside the back door.’

  ‘And when did you last use any of the items?’

  Now the man’s tone becomes impatient, as though he is rallying from the shock.

  ‘I couldn’t say – not in the last week, certainly.’

  ‘You didn’t notice if they were there last night, sir – when you locked up?’

  ‘What – no, of course not – one doesn’t go around checking the inventory every minute of the day and night.’

  Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.

  ‘The gun?’

  His sergeant produces his mobile phone and opens a photograph taken at the scene. He holds it out and Lord Bullingdon reluctantly peers at the screen. Skelgill continues.

  ‘Is this your gun, sir?’

  ‘Inspector – they are all my guns.’

  ‘Put it another way, sir – is this the gun that Lawrence Melling regularly used?’

  Lord Bullingdon seems discomfited, but after a moment he answers, his voice even.

  ‘No – it is not. It is a Beretta – made bespoke in Italy for my grandfather.’

  Skelgill senses that DS Leyton is shuffling his feet in a way that conveys some excitement; but he responds stolidly.

  ‘And what time did you lock up, sir?’

  ‘Two minutes to ten.’

  ‘That’s very precise.’

  ‘I always listen to The World Tonight on my bedside wireless – it starts at ten o’clock.’

  Skelgill nods, his manner accepting.

  ‘Did you see anyone, sir – from the time you were locking up – until, say two a.m.?’

  The man scowls, exaggerating his one-eyed dominance as though it is a rather preposterous question – but then he obviously has a thought.

  ‘As I locked the back door I called goodnight to Cook – she was banging pots about in the kitchen. After that – I went directly to bed – so, no, of course – I did not see a soul.’

  Skelgill detects a certain awkwardness underlying his response.

  ‘You didn’t hear any noises – or happen to get up and look out of a window?’

  ‘Not until I woke at just before six.’

  ‘What about Lady Bullingdon, sir?’

  Skelgill decides to leave the question at that, free of parameters. Lord Bullingdon growls indignantly – but perhaps, Skelgill suspects, not so much at his inquiry as the subject itself.

  ‘My wife went up to her room immediately after dinner – she said she had a headache.’

  ‘What time was that, sir?’

  ‘Around nine-fifteen.’

  ‘And – er – you didn’t see her when you went to bed?’

  ‘When I passed her door I could hear water running – the cast-iron Victorian bath – so I did not disturb her.’

  ‘Who else was in Shuteham Hall last night, sir?’

  ‘Just my wife and two children – and Cook, as I said.’

  ‘And they were all indoors when you locked up?’

  ‘Look – I don’t know what the devil you’re getting at, Inspector – I can assure you that whatever Melling was up to, none of my family were in cahoots with the man.’

  Skelgill remains outwardly forbearing.

  ‘I’m sure you appreciate, sir – we have to establish the whereabouts of those folk who might have been in the vicinity.’

  Edward Bullingdon glowers pugnaciously.

  ‘You seem to be treating us as suspects, Inspector – and here we are, victims of a theft and a member of staff gone missing. Yet we are persecuted for the dubious shooting of a buzzard. I should have you know that I am on first name terms with the Chief Constable of the county.’

  Skelgill is becoming irked, but doing his best to conceal it. He detects unease in his sergeant, who seems to be wheezing a little.

  ‘Sir – as things stand, the forensic team has been unable to confirm that Mr Melling’s death was an accident. Given that it involves an illegal mantrap, your friend the Chief Constable would expect his officers to follow the correct protocol. If we mess up, happen he’ll be the one hauled in front of the media – or, worse, the Police and Crime Commissioner. I’m sure he wouldn’t thank anyone for that.’

  ‘Yes – of course – I see that.’ Lord Bullingdon blusters incoherently for a moment or two. ‘Daphne was in the library when I retired. As for Julian – he was probably around the place somewhere.’

  ‘But you didn’t see him – at dinner for instance?’

  ‘He’s got peculiar tastes – calls himself a lacto-ovo-pescatarian or something like that – sounds like some blasted religious order.’

  Having digressed, the man offers no further elaboration – but despite such blatant obfuscation, Skelgill decides he won’t press the point. The old man’s stance seems clear enough. He might be quick to denounce his son’s incongruous habits, but he has not shopped him as far as his whereabouts are concerned. No matter – Julian Bullingdon seems to be perfectly obliging about his movements, provided he is telling the truth. Skelgill moves on to the gamekeeper.

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with Mr Melling, sir?’

  ‘What? I don’t have a relationship, as you put it, Inspector – these people are hired hands. I expect them to do their jobs. Daphne deals with their contracts – government red tape – all that confounded human resources nonsense.’

  ‘In that case, sir – how was Mr Melling doing – he was quite new, I gather?’

  Edward Bullingdon scowls.

  ‘He’d not been in place for a season �
�� it was too early to judge.’

  ‘Was he popular?’

  ‘Since when is being popular part of the job description? As far as I’m concerned it’s the last thing one looks for in a gamekeeper. And now I have to find a darned replacement. Pah!’

  ‘Maybe you could bring Mr Carlops out of retirement?’

  Edward Bullingdon glares severely at Skelgill.

  ‘Are you connected with the man?’

  ‘Never met him, sir. But word gets around these parts.’

  *

  That Daphne Bullingdon resembles the proverbial rabbit in the headlights is amplified by her congenital facial disfigurement – and doubly disconcerting to Skelgill in that when someone looks half-terrified he finds it difficult to believe they are guilty. Rather more comfortably ensconced than their standing interview with her father in the dank gloom of the gate keep, he and DS Leyton have seats in the estate office at the clients’ coffee table, and to go with it frothy cappuccinos from a machine, and inadequate Italian biscuits. It is not difficult to notice Daphne Bullingdon’s hands shaking as she dispenses the refreshments. It seems that the efficient façade met by DS Leyton earlier in the day has somewhat crumbled. It prompts Skelgill to recalibrate his intended approach. He is reminded – by the location – of the tension he observed between the woman and the late Lawrence Melling. Even in that short exposure it was evident that she regarded the man as undermining both her authority and her guiding ethos. So it is along such lines that Skelgill phrases his opening gambit; perhaps it will put her a little more at ease.

  ‘I gather you’ve been doing a spot of PR with the naturalists.’

  Daphne Bullingdon seems not to understand the question.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector?’

  ‘You organised some sort of open day – for Allerdale Natural History Society.’

  ‘Oh – yes – I see what you mean.’ She casts about rather absently, and makes a hand gesture that might be vaguely indicating out of doors. ‘Yes – it was following your suggestion, in fact. I looked on their website and saw that they have weekly field trips to various sites of local interest. I contacted their programme secretary and she was most interested – and it happened that a walk scheduled for the following week had been postponed because the designated leader had gone unexpectedly into hospital – so we were able to offer an alternative. In view of the immediacy of the situation with the hen harriers, it seemed to make sense.’