Right now he ponders Perdita’s reported route of descent – not the most direct, nor the safest, but certainly one that provided her with tangible clues to her intended course, cleverly making use of the immediate topography to hold a bearing. Had she drifted east from the summit – the kindest gradient on the broadest slope – she might soon have found herself lost in the centre of the massif, the featureless wilderness beneath Wandope (where, down the years, Skelgill has put right many little groups of disoriented hillwalkers – sending them on their way, bemused, with the phrase “two-dopes” or “three-dopes” ringing in their ears). Perdita, however, like a dog thought to be irrevocably lost, had turned to an innate homing ability, and arrived bright-eyed if not bushy-tailed: her exploits revealing resourceful grit to complement her elfin allure.
Before his departure from Crummock Hall Skelgill had convened his lieutenants. His announcement that he was setting out on foot had barely raised an eyebrow – they are all too familiar with his idiosyncrasies in this regard. (The only surprise might have been that he had not taken down a fishing rod from one of the walls.) Conversely, their reactions to his parting instructions were more mixed.
DS Leyton was delegated to reprise with each member of the household their movements and observations, between the time of rising and the arrival of the forensic team at 4:15 yesterday afternoon. Although a straightforward job (other than having to reach Martius via his mobile telephone), its nature rarely elicits a positive response – people tend to conclude that the police do not believe their original account. Of course, there is some truth underpinning this sentiment, for any discrepancies may be pounced upon with a Holmes-sized magnifying glass. Therefore the investigating officer can expect a prickly reception. DS Leyton, however, had maintained a stiff upper lip, and stoically acquiesced to his superior’s command.
DS Jones grew agitated as this task was handed down; and soon enough Skelgill outlined something further afield as far as she was concerned. Firstly she was to track down the allegedly disreputable Gilhooleys, and establish their whereabouts on Sunday; secondly to visit the land agents – Foulsyke & Dodd of Cockermouth – whereupon to gain an understanding of the financial position and management process of Crummock Hall estate. It was to her undisguised consternation that Skelgill had effectively chaperoned her off the premises, on the grounds he had left his trapper hat in the 4x4 she had requisitioned from the car pool, and that they could leave together. To compound her discontent, he had issued a typically vague instruction that he would be making his way to Keswick and she should rendezvous with him at a particular café (located on upper floor of a well-known outdoor gear emporium). Skelgill had loitered beside the vehicle until she set off grim faced, staring ahead of her. Such petulance is out of character.
Before climbing the fell, Skelgill had doubled back around Crummock Hall. He made a complete circuit of the perimeter walls, finishing up outside the garden door of Declan’s study. His findings had been much as he had anticipated. The fresh snow that had fallen yesterday afternoon and overnight had smothered all fine detail. Any new tracks were of the four-legged kind, fox, badger, roe deer, and red squirrel. Certainly there was the line of disturbance he had previously noted, leading from Declan’s door into the conifers – but this could be explained by the old man’s daily bird-watching expedition, to and fro perhaps Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Skelgill guessed that beneath the snow lies a regular path. He had followed this to the edge of the shelterbelt, to a boundary wall with a stone stile of sharply protruding rocks. Immediately beyond, the snow at the foot of the wall was even more disturbed – and now there were also sheep prints and flattened patches; quite likely one or more creatures passed in search of food or suitable shelter. The marks of human trudging hugged the wall away to Skelgill’s right – presumably Declan’s usual route. He had eschewed this, opting instead for a smooth ascent of the mountainside, a curving course visible as a rim of shadow, suggestive of a well-defined path beneath the crust of white, highlighted by the low angled sunlight. In due course, panting and perspiring, he had attained his goal.
Now he finishes his sandwich and folds the greaseproof wrapper into a pocket of his jacket. He rises and turns his attention away from Crummock Hall. Keswick is seven miles due east; en route he intends to call at the hamlet of Braithwaite. It is with a glint in his eye that he sets off, for the early part of this journey takes in some rewarding landmarks. First he must cross above the deceptively named Dove Crags, and pass beneath the rocky buttress of Eel Crag to reach the watershed of Coledale Hause. Immediately there is a steep descent beside Force Crag, where the waterfall of Low Force spills down past the abandoned workings of Force Crag Mine, the last remnants of half a millennium of man’s labours on the site. Thence the character of the route changes altogether, for an arrow-straight mining track follows the contour line above Coledale Beck and guides the walker beneath the impressive slopes of Grisedale Pike (or ‘peak above the valley of the wild boar’, to translate from the Old Norse).
As Skelgill drinks in the splendid scenery and notes with appreciation the mew of a circling buzzard or the brok of a passing raven, the casual onlooker would be hard pressed to guess he is a policeman at work. Certainly he throttles back on his regular pace. Indeed it would seem a reasonable charge that, given an inch, he has taken a mile (or several) in order to admire the fells and dales, doubly spectacular in their rare coat of ermine. But he is hunting a killer – and it seems unlikely the culprit will turn himself in. Forensics may yet play their part, but Skelgill cannot afford to lean on such a cheap crutch. He must be prepared to solve the case by detective work – and perhaps already has the wherewithal to do so. Thus, if he were challenged that he wastes valuable time, his retort would come without hesitation: “How am I supposed to think in an office?”
*
‘Daniel, is that you beneath that preposterous hat?’
‘It’s bloody effective.’
‘In that case, maybe I should get one.’
Skelgill stamps snow from his boots, pulls off his trapper hat and ducks into the low-beamed stone cottage.
‘Here – you’re welcome to this one.’
His host shoulders the thick oak door against the elements.
‘It’s a kind offer – but I shouldn’t deprive you. I take it you have further to walk?’
‘Aye – but only to Keswick, like.’
‘And from where have you come?’
‘Crummock Hall – by Coledale Hause.’
‘Ah – that explains everything – I was just watching it on the television news as you knocked.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come through – it might still be on.’
The older man leads Skelgill into a small kitchen, where a portable television set of ancient lineage is playing. Skelgill darts forwards and squints at the grainy screen, as though he can’t believe his eyes. An outside broadcast team is interviewing a youngish man clad in a fur coat with a high collar; rather indecently his torso appears to be naked beneath, for a triangle of dark chest hair is visible between the broad lapels. The caption states, “Breaking News: Lakes Murder – Owain Jagger, Empty Hollow”. In the background is the distinctive snow-capped front portico of Crummock Hall, a bright-livered police Land Rover and – to amplify Skelgill’s exasperation – a distinctive stocky overcoated figure animatedly briefing two uniformed constables and repeatedly glancing in the direction of the camera and edging subtly into shot. Skelgill lets loose a string of expletives and digs for his mobile phone.
‘Excuse my French, Jim.’
He jabs at the handset and raises it to his ear. Distractedly he rakes the fingers of his other hand through his damp hair. In the little sideshow, the plainclothes detective can be seen to pull what must be a phone from his inside pocket and regard it with surprise. Rather tentatively he answers the call. Then, visibly, he jolts.
‘Leyton – get that news crew out of there! If the Chief’s watching she’ll have my guts
for garters! You know what that means.’
Skelgill raises a palm to his host, in silent apology for the Anglo-Saxon adjectives that punctuate this broadside. Observant television viewers would notice the sturdy detective glance nervously about, as though he suspects he is under surveillance, then abruptly to back out of frame.
‘Er, sorry, Guv – righto, Guv – they caught us on the hop – told the constable on the gate they were pals of Brutus and that he’d invited them – blagged their way in, Guv.’
Skelgill does not waste energy in pointing out the lameness of his sergeant’s excuses.
‘You’ve got thirty seconds, Leyton.’
He terminates the call and glares at the television set. The interviewer has evidently asked Brutus some question about his family history. He is at ease before the camera, his permanent semi-smirk tempered by a creased brow to represent the correct degree of mourning. He is presently explaining that Crummock Hall has been in his family for the past three centuries, and how much it means to him, having been a “seminal backcloth” to his childhood. A disparaging retort is just forming upon Skelgill’s lips when the screen goes blank. The director reverts to the studio, where an unready anchor is caught applying lipstick. It seems a fearful DS Leyton has obeyed orders and taken the simple expedient of yanking out a plug.
Skelgill is grinding his teeth – but now his host places two steaming mugs on the kitchen table and smiles amiably.
‘Tea, Daniel – have a seat. It is quite a celebrity cast they have up there.’ He gestures to the television set. ‘I’ll turn this off, shall I?’
‘Aye – thanks.’ Skelgill does as he is bidden. ‘It’s picking your brains I’m after, Jim.’
‘Be my guest – I have been snowed in since Friday – it is one small drawback of moving out of town – so I appreciate your company even more than usual.’
Skelgill grins. The pair are old friends. Jim Hartley, retired Professor of History at Durham University, is a contemporary of Skelgill’s elders and one-time mentor of a young Daniel Skelgill in the field of fly fishing (rapidly overtaken by the schoolboy’s prodigious obsession). They spend a few moments exchanging pleasantries, family news and bemoaning the unsuitability of the climate as far as angling is concerned. In due course Skelgill, taking a thirsty gulp of tea, cocks his head in the direction of the television set.
‘Know anything about them, Jim? What he said – three hundred-odd years they’ve been there.’
‘And a low public profile they have kept, Daniel, considering such length of tenure.’ He removes his spectacles and begins to rub the lenses with a corner of a paper napkin. ‘Although it is not without reason.’
‘Aye?’
Now the professor holds up a qualifying finger.
‘First, I should say this period is not my forte – fifth to the fifteenth century if you want anything with real authority – but of course I have an interest in all things historical, especially where there is a local connection. The O’Mores made their fortune on the back of the Triangular Trade.’
‘Come again?’
‘Rum butter, Daniel – Cumberland sausage?’
‘You’ve got me now, Jim.’
‘But you know that Whitehaven was once a great port? Even if it is hard to imagine when you see its sleepy marina today.’
Skelgill rubs the stubble on his chin reflectively. ‘There’s a big enough harbour and fortifications.’
‘Ah – that was to defend us when we came under attack from the dastardly Americans, Daniel – a little later during the War of Independence – but in the early 1700s Whitehaven enjoyed its heyday. Great cargoes of rum and sugar and spices were landed. So we owe some of our local culinary tradition to that era – rum being the ideal way to preserve dairy products – and where would Cumberland sausage be without its pepper, mace and nutmeg?’
Skelgill downs his tea and glances at the cooker, where a pot of soup or stew simmers. The professor grins and gets up for the teapot; he returns also with a plate of chocolate digestives, which he slides across to Skelgill.
‘So what, Jim – the O’Mores were importers?’
The professor indicates that Skelgill should help himself.
‘Well, of course, that may be the sanitised version that they and their fellow merchants would wish to promulgate.’
Skelgill, now munching, remains puzzled.
‘Hold on a second, will you, Daniel – let me show you something.’
The older man rises and leaves the kitchen. Skelgill gets up, too. There is a bird feeder outside the window. What he thinks is a great tit and a nuthatch are doing battle, while a red squirrel hops about beneath, gathering any spoils. There is an identification chart pinned on the wall and Skelgill seems pleased as he confirms his supposition. The professor returns and spreads out a large old book on the table.
‘Now, look at this.’
Skelgill leans over. The text is set in an antiquated typeface. Most of the double-page spread is given over to a series of precise hand-drawn diagrams. The subject appears to be a ship, its hold revealed in cross section from above, the starboard side, and the stern. Almost the entire surface area of each image is filled with hundreds of tiny elongated black shapes, arrayed in neat rows and fans, and from the side elevation stacked on what might be shelves. The professor waits patiently while Skelgill strives to understand the pattern before his eyes.
‘What is it, fish?’
‘Human beings, Daniel.’
Skelgill stares in silence but for a hiss of breath between his parted lips.
‘Unbelievable.’
He realises – this is a sales brochure for a slave ship – its ‘cargo’ arranged for maximum stowage. On closer inspection the tiny charcoal figures are meticulously drawn, and clearly human, packed so close as to be touching, their arms necessarily folded over their torsos. Skelgill’s teeth become bared as he reads that the space allocated to each man is 6 feet by 1 foot 4 inches (and less for women and children), and that this layout accommodates 470 people, but that 609 are actually carried by the slave merchants. Skelgill pulls himself upright, swallowing with distaste. But his eyes are compelled to return to the illustrations – what thoughts must have entered the mind of the draughtsman that spent his comfortable days at a desk devising such a despicable plan?
The professor is watching Skelgill’s reaction closely – he seems to take a certain satisfaction in his shocked demeanour.
‘To prevent insurrection the men were kept in irons for the entire passage – it could take two months. There was negligible sanitation. Those that died were tossed overboard to the sharks. Some of the women were taken above decks for the pleasure of the crew.’
Skelgill has a half-eaten biscuit in one hand and now he looks at it as though he has lost his appetite. But his instincts get the better of him and he dunks it in his tea and swallows it with difficulty, washing it down with another gulp, his features contorted in a bitter grimace. His expression is pained as he looks at the professor.
‘So how does this all fit together, Jim?’
Tentatively the man pats the book with the flat of his palm, like a steelworker might check a plate for its heat,
‘In a sense, Daniel, the Triangular Trade grew up out of a freak of nature – the cycle of winds and currents in the North Atlantic during the age of sail. We were an advanced economy – the most advanced economy – our merchant fleet and navy was the greatest on the seas. We produced manufactured goods such as textiles and weapons that were bartered for slaves in West Africa. They were shipped to the New World, carried by the trade winds – and sold to the sugar planters and tobacco growers. The profits were used to buy sugar and tobacco, rum and spices, and the fully laden ships returned to Western Europe on the Gulf Stream. More profits were made, and the wheel of misery was turned again. The merchants never got their hands dirty – indeed it was a fashionable investment among much of higher society.’
Skelgill is shaking his head. His expression mi
ght replicate his face as a boy, under the professor’s tutelage, the first time he got a precious fly-rod into his hands, inspired by the strange weightless device: that of awe tinged with fear.
‘Jim – why did it have to be people?’
The professor inhales over a sip of tea, and then sighs before he makes a reply.
‘Daniel – it has always been thus. Do you think Rome was built by paying the Living Wage? Do you know how many thousands of our own antecedents were snatched from our shores by Barbary pirates and sold into slavery in North Africa and the Ottoman Empire?’
Skelgill remains pensive and does not reply. The professor continues.
‘The O’Mores were originally Dublin merchants. As they and their business expanded branches of the family tree took root in British trading ports.’
‘Whitehaven being one?’
‘As I said, Daniel – you might find it impossible to believe, but Whitehaven was once the third largest port in the United Kingdom – in the 1700s it was up there with Bristol and Liverpool and Glasgow. There was a time when it supplied 80% of Ireland’s coal.’
Skelgill is nodding grimly. What he learns now corresponds to his dialogue with Fergal Mullarkey. And – of course – to some degree with what Perdita related about Declan’s warning. It is on this point that he speaks.
‘Among the celebrities – as you put it, Jim – there’s the youngest of the five children, Perdita.’
‘Rowena Devlin.’ There is something sheepish about the sidelong glance that the professor flashes at his guest. ‘I must confess to reading the occasional one of her novels. She writes well if simplistically. And her facts are thoroughly researched.’
Skelgill smiles respectfully.
Murder at Dead Crags Page 10