Bruce Beckham
__________
Murder at the Wake
A detective novel
LUCiUS
Text copyright 2016 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 2016
Paperback edition first published by Lucius 2016
For more details and Rights enquiries contact:
[email protected]
EDITOR’S NOTE
Murder at the Wake is a stand-alone crime mystery, the seventh in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It is set largely in the English Lake District, a National Park of 885 square miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria, and in particular in the north western area of the Vale of Lorton, home to the deceptively tranquil twin ribbon lakes of Buttermere and Crummock Water, and source of the winding River Cocker.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Murder in Adland
Murder in School
Murder on the Edge
Murder on the Lake
Murder by Magic
Murder in the Mind
Murder at the Wake
Murder in the Woods
Murder at the Flood
(Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)
Murder, Mystery Collection
The Dune
The Sexopaths
CONTENTS
1. Grasmoor – Sunday 2.50pm
2. Crummock Hall – Sunday 3pm
3. Inheritance – Sunday 5pm
4. Headquarters – Monday 9.15am
5. Perdita – Monday 10.30am
6. Martius – Monday 10.45am
7. Cassandra – Monday 11am
8. The Twins – Monday 11.15am
9. History Lesson – Monday 1pm
10. Keswick – Monday 3.45pm
11. Crummock Water – Tuesday 10.30am
12. Crummock Hall – Tuesday 1.30pm
13. Headquarters – Wednesday 11am
14. The Second Funeral – Friday 11am
15. Thwaites – Saturday 8am
16. Frozen – Saturday 1pm
17. Dublin By Night – Saturday 8.30pm
18. The Archives – Sunday 8am
19. Reconstruction – Monday 10am
20. Reflections – Wednesday 9pm
21. The Handbook – Friday, midnight
22. Drawing Conclusions – Saturday 3pm
Next in the series...
1. GRASMOOR – Sunday 2.50pm
‘Guv – we’ve got a problem.’
‘Leyton – hold your horses – I can’t hear you.’
Skelgill jams his mobile phone inside his fur-lined trapper hat and presses the flap against his ear.
‘Come again, Leyton?’
Skelgill is shouting over substantial background noise – wind and engine combined – and the sergeant now raises his voice accordingly.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – that’s some racket!’
‘I’m in the chopper – distress call from a hillwalker.’
DS Leyton hesitates – if his superior is in the midst of a live mountain rescue the last thing he needs is the news that he bears.
‘Spit it out, Leyton.’
‘What it is, Guv – you’ve heard of Crummock Hall?’
‘Aye – just flown over it.’
‘We’ve had a report of a suspicious death.’
Now Skelgill pauses.
‘How suspicious?’
‘Blow to the back of the head, Guv – sounds like it could be deliberate.’
‘Sounds like, Leyton?’
‘Guv – we can’t get anyone within three miles – the lanes are completely blocked by the snow. There’s eight-foot drifts in places.’
There is a silence – at least as far as conversation goes. Skelgill, eyes narrowed, teeth bared against the gale, grimaces at the landscape that drifts a thousand feet below, the lower slopes of Grasmoor, a pure white blanket besmirched only by the odd yellowing stain where sheep have gathered to feed at a hay bale, and creased by the occasional snow-capped dry stone wall. His mute deliberation prompts his sergeant to speak.
‘What do you reckon, Guv?’
‘Leave it with me, Leyton.’
*
Crummock Hall. Only two days before, and somewhat under duress, Skelgill had attended the funeral of its erstwhile proprietor, Sir Sean Willoughby O’More KBE. As a longstanding Lakeland landowner – a manor comprising some four thousand acres east of Crummock Water – his was a name that Skelgill had revered since boyhood. The gnarled gamekeeper in his employ was notoriously trigger-happy; a trait that extended beyond his loose definition of vermin to include pesky local urchins caught scavenging within his ambit. Thus it was with mixed feelings that Skelgill had obeyed his superior’s whip to represent the Cumbria constabulary. However, if pushed, he would confess to being less troubled by the prospect of confronting repressed traumas of peppering by buckshot, and rather more irked by the inconvenience of having to relieve one of his two presentable neckties of its duty suspending fishing rods in his garage.
The ceremony had taken place on what was a bitterly cold December Friday morning, at the little stone chapel of St James above Buttermere, a site of worship that dates back to 1507. The location was an additional, if incidental reason that Skelgill might have received the assignment, for this was his old stamping ground. Close by, his mother, a cantankerous septuagenarian still resides in the modest family cottage, whence she cycles daily over the Honister Pass to char in Borrowdale. Before the service Skelgill had kicked his heels in the cramped churchyard, debating the weather with a coterie of tenant farmers and outdoorsmen, glowering shepherds scanning the ominous skies. He was well known to them in his various capacities – police officer, mountain rescue team member, fell-runner (of note in his youth), fisherman and, not least, one of their own. Advantaged by a detailed forecast fed through his emergency services connections, Skelgill had pontificated – and they had listened grim faced.
Not that Skelgill’s gloomy prognosis was one difficult to reach. Northern Britain had been in the grip of a prolonged cold spell, a Soviet anticyclone that had extended its chill fingers across Western Europe. The ground was solid and the lakes had begun to ice over at their fringes. Such uncomfortable conditions, however, were manageable in their constancy. Lanes, once gritted, were untroubled by run-off that becomes treacherous black ice; hill flocks were easily reached by a surefooted combination of quad and dog. Country folk could get about their business. But storm Arabella was coming. Shaking her broad hips to the calypso beat, barrelling across the Atlantic, she was all set to breach the cold iron curtain that for a fortnight had cloaked Cumbria. And when moist Caribbean air meets a frozen mountainous seaboard there is only one outcome: snow. Big snow. Inadequately clad in their unfamiliar funeral wear, it was the first such flurries that finally obliged Skelgill and his cronies to seek sanctuary.
As a consequence, even within the thick walls the weather remained the pre-eminent subject of conversation, albeit in more reverent tones and with the vernacular substantially edited. In due course something of a resigned hush had descended, rather as if the flakes that fell past the long windows had a palliative effect upon the uneasy congregation. And the serenity of the surroundings surely contributed; indeed, as William Wordsworth wrote, “A
man must be very unsensible who would not be touched at the sight of the chapel of Buttermere.”
Skelgill, for his part, had stared pensively through an adjacent window, where a stone tablet in the sill commemorates Alfred Wainwright, and the outlook is of Haystacks, site of dispersal of the legendary Lakeland biographer’s ashes. This unlikely literary conjunction – Wordsworth and Wainwright – happens to reveal something of Skelgill’s true colours as regards matters spiritual. For the latter authority has many times led him to spectacular places, whereupon occasionally he has uttered in awe words penned by the former. That said, during the service he was observed to sing along respectfully if tunelessly with The Lord is My Shepherd and bow his head and state Amen at the required junctures.
The family party were late to enter the church. They had earlier swept by in a small fleet of glossy black limousines, preferring to bide their time in a private room at the local inn, where stiffeners were surely imbibed. Upon their entrance to take the front pew, there was an expectant ripple as the congregation strove surreptitiously to get a better view. And no wonder – for here was a cortege that might have graced Ascot’s Royal Enclosure. Fine bespoke outfits, regal bearing, they filed in as if accustomed to the red carpet. Skelgill had experienced a small frisson: a sudden recalibration of his own place in society; for these were people he once knew. These were the Regulus-O’Mores.
Educated without regard to cost at boarding schools in the south of England, ascending thence to Oxbridge or whatever Parisian finishing schools were deemed most apt, they had spent their childhood vacations at Crummock Hall. Of an age with Skelgill, for a few years their gilt-edged path had crossed with that of the gauche and gawky country boy who illicitly shared their ancestral domain. Come their teens, however, and visits to Cumbria gradually dwindled. But likewise had Skelgill’s own interest in trespassing diminished – or at least it became transferred to the fairer sex among his contemporaries. It was over twenty years since he had set eyes upon any of this well-heeled family.
But he was also reminded of something else: for these thirty-something adults were the five grandchildren of Sir Sean Willoughby O’More. Catastrophe had caused the dynasty to skip a generation. Their parents were dead, drowned in Crummock Water, a boating accident when the eldest child was no more than ten.
Their mother, Shauna O’More, had become a stage actress of some renown, her husband, Edward Regulus, a merchant banker in a long-established family firm. Such untimely deaths had sent shockwaves through both the City of London and its neighbouring West End. The tragic couple’s metropolitan funeral had been an altogether grander affair, the venue being St Paul’s Cathedral, no less.
In St James’s, Buttermere, however, the little procession had included someone of a former generation. Supported on the left by the arm of an elderly retainer and on the right by a walking stick rather too short to be effective, the congregation was afforded a sight as unusual as it was a contrast to the magnificent young family: the venerable personage of Declan Thomas O’More. Here was a rare public appearance of the reclusive twin of the late Sir Sean. According to local hearsay, this younger brother had spent his entire ninety-three years within the confines of the estate of Crummock Hall, give or take the odd such visit to church, or hospital. A tall, though now crooked figure, he wore an ill-fitting double-breasted suit – in pre-war style, with broad angular lapels – and shuffled unsteadily to take a seat, his lined countenance pallid, his watery eyes lacking expression.
There had been one other notable member of the funeral party, a small, dapper man in his mid-fifties whom Skelgill did not recognise. It was he alone of the group that appeared more outwardly focused, exchanging words with the Vicar, and acknowledging in a general way with a series of polite nods the inquiring gaze of those persons seated most close by. The remainder of the incoming contingent, half a dozen surly domestic and estate workers, mostly elderly and again unknown to Skelgill, had followed him. The household ‘lived in’, and did not much mingle with the local community.
*
Taken together, it was a mixed bag that Skelgill had watched enter the church. The experience had aroused both his curiosity and his sense of vocation. This notion of destiny is now recalled as he gazes down from a heavenly perspective – having pulled rank in order temporarily to divert the rescue helicopter from its original purpose. As Crummock Hall enlarges beneath his dangling feet, he ponders who among its company has fallen victim – and, indeed perhaps more pertinently, who might be the perpetrator?
2. CRUMMOCK HALL – Sunday 3pm
On his knees, Skelgill shrugs off his harness and signals the all clear to the winch-man. Another squall is arriving and the coastguard pilot wastes no time, he dips the nose of the Sikorsky S-92 and beats away to the south, the winch rope trailing like an umbilical cord that has served its purpose. Skelgill reorganises his outerwear, which has become disarranged during his descent. The mountain rescue is an organisation funded by donations, and its budgets do not stretch to suitable uniform for its team members; they must clothe themselves. Skelgill sports a typically uncoordinated ensemble of navy blue boots, maroon ski trousers, fluorescent orange cagoule, and the aforementioned fur-lined trapper hat – tartan – a recent acquisition in an after-hours pub bet over who could win a left-handed arm wrestle (Skelgill’s opponent being either unaware, or too inebriated to remember that Skelgill is in fact left-handed).
He rights himself in the midst of the circular snow-covered lawn, and casts about. The ground behind him rises quickly through ornamental conifers, a bank of midnight-green foliage laden with snow; ahead stands Crummock Hall. Believed to be one of the oldest houses in the Lake District, it has something of an ecclesiastical appearance, almost Normanesque. Grey harled walls topped by bluish slate roofs are tinged with yellowing moss and silvery lichen; many of the transoms are arched, and there is a squat, square tower with crenellations; from this centrepiece various halls and wings extend like the nave and transept of a church, and connect with other similar buildings added down the centuries. Skelgill becomes conscious of faces, vague shadows like pale ghosts beyond the diamond-paned leaded lights of the long windows; it looks the sort of place that might be haunted.
He has made something of a snow angel in his ungainly landing, and now he seems reluctant to carve a path through the perfect surface that lies before him, knee-deep and crisp and even. But fresh flakes are falling and, caught and thrown by a swirling wind into his face, prompt him to end his deliberations; he strikes a beeline for a low tiled porch that might be the principal rear entrance.
Although it is not yet dusk, at his approach a bulb comes on over the heavy oak door, and from within there is the scraping of a key in the old mortise. Skelgill can hear a male voice, its owner evidently cursing his inability to get the door open. And although the lock is turned, it seems the door is now jammed. There are more profanities and a faint tremor that suggests it is being tugged from the inside. At this point Skelgill loses patience and gives a helping hand – or, rather, foot – and slams the sole of his left boot just below the blackened cast-iron knocker. It does the trick – at least as far as the door is concerned, although it does not entirely endear him to the surprised occupant.
‘Good lord!’
The man, of about his own height and age, and attired in the casual county outfit of blue tattersall check shirt, cream corduroys and polished chestnut brogues, has recoiled against the inner door. Presumably intending to admit Skelgill as a welcome arrival – hearing the roar of the helicopter and observing Skelgill’s descent – now his expression is filled with doubt, as though he fears some kind of special forces raid is in progress. Skelgill appears oblivious to the man’s concern and, dispensing with pleasantries – or anything resembling an apology – thrusts out his warrant card.
‘DI Skelgill, Cumbria police.’
*
If the tale is true that Declan Thomas O’More lived all of his life within the bounds of Crummock Hall, then Skel
gill must reflect that its final chapter brings a certain concluding symmetry – for there can be no doubt that this is the aged man he saw taking tentative steps to his pew; indeed, the gaunt features are little altered in death. He sighs and steps back; the inert form lies on the carpeted floor of a wood-panelled study, a dark stain extending from the back of its skull. DS Leyton was right, suspicious it is.
Skelgill knows he must take care not to compromise any evidence that may come to light upon detailed forensic examination. But instinct tells him that now is equally important for what his own senses might divine. And in any event the scene is not uncontaminated: the butler – Thwaites – discovered the body; several of the family responded to his cries of distress. Some time elapsed before they heeded DS Leyton’s advice, conveyed by telephone, to vacate and lock the room.
A police photographer will record the scene in its minutiae, but certain details strike him as salient (if not yet significant). The study is of a generous size, a good fifteen feet by twenty. On the same wall as the door through which he has entered hangs a pendulum clock of considerable age. Its casement is made of light oak, and its hinged front is wide open. He squints at the silvery face; it is pitted, and scored with circular markings that might reflect decades of adjustment of the hands, which read two o’clock. However, there is no tick and Skelgill realises the pendulum is missing. He glances about and sees it is lying in the nearest corner of the room, protruding from beneath an antique wainscot chair. Further scrutiny reveals a brass winder key, generally tarnished but shiny like a new penny on one wing, cast upon the rug a yard from the corpse. Was he attending to the clock when he was struck?
Murder at Dead Crags Page 1