‘It can’t be denied – though he ought to have stopped at Martius, so he should.’
Chivalrous on her behalf, Skelgill makes a sound that communicates his disapproval of this notion. Notwithstanding, he takes the opportunity to develop her point.
‘He seems well suited to being a banker – not that I can say I’ve met too many.’
The young woman simpers apologetically.
‘By that you mean brash and arrogant, Inspector?’
Her candour takes Skelgill by surprise, and he stares ahead unblinking.
‘I was thinking more along the lines that you need the right background. Can’t ever imagine how I would have ended up in a job like that.’
‘If you are suggesting that high finance and nepotism go hand in hand, I must agree with you.’ Perdita nods reflectively. ‘But I daresay that applies to many walks of life. It’s human nature to favour one’s kin.’
They walk on through the crisp snow, silent now. Rather wistfully Perdita casts her eyes to the larch-and-oak-clad fells that rise ahead of them, the forest bare beneath the long rollercoaster ridge that stretches from Hay Stacks to Red Pike. For once the usually striking 1300-foot vertical gash of Sourmilk Gill is indistinct, its frothing beck part-frozen, part invisible being as white as the surrounding snow.
‘Inspector – tell me now – how on earth do the sheep survive in these conditions?’
Skelgill looks puzzled. She might as well be asking him why is Buttermere the name of the nearby hamlet, when it is patently the name of the lake? Some things are just the way they are. However his reply, when it comes, would prompt his colleagues to remark upon an uncharacteristically patient explanation.
‘The likes of the Herdwicks – the main breed in these parts – to all intents and purposes they’re wild animals – they know their own heaf, it’s their territory. They can forage by instinct – beneath the snow, even – such as beside a spring where there’s warm groundwater flowing. If there’s a prolonged freeze the farmer might drag out a bale of hay with his quad. But they don’t need much of a helping hand. Come April the shepherds gather them in-bye to lamb.’
Perdita tugs at her collar and snuggles in her new puffer jacket. Its satiny fabric is of a metallic navy hue, and sets off the shining bronzed coils that tumble almost to her waist. She skips playfully ahead of Skelgill. The jacket is cut to the hip; tight charcoal stretch jeans reveal an athletic feminine musculature that draws his gaze.
‘I used to adore their little black lambs – many a time I tried to convince Nanny that I had obtained permission to take one home after the Easter holidays.’
It is a moment before he responds.
‘What –? Aye – they’re cute right enough – but it doesn’t last.’
Perdita turns to face him; now her expression is doleful.
‘Only in death is there eternal youth, Inspector.’
Skelgill regards her evenly.
‘Now that’s Shakespeare, I take it?’
She appears a little nonplussed, her lips part. Then she looks away, and speaks softly, her Irish brogue underscoring the note of pathos that has crept into her voice.
‘Oh – no – I don’t think so – unless I unwittingly plagiarised the line. It was spoken by a character in one of my stories – but I was picturing Mama when it came to me.’
She is just a yard away, and Skelgill can see the tears that well up in the dark pools of her eyes. Her gaze meets his own, and for a few seconds there is an unspoken exchange – however it is one that somehow unnerves Skelgill, for he blinks first, and takes half a pace backwards.
‘I’m sorry, lass – I mean – it must still be hard – for you to come back here.’
He glances inadvertently in the direction of Crummock Water. They have crossed the outflow plain and have reached Scale Bridge, the old stone packhorse crossing with its double arch that spans Buttermere Dubs. The lake, a couple of fields hence, is visible only as a horizontal sliver of grey, but Perdita seems to understand that he looks to the site of the tragedy – ‘The Accident’.
‘Unfinished business, Inspector.’
‘Come again?’
She smiles – but it is a wan smile and in the slanting rays of the sun Skelgill sees lines at the corners of her eyes that remind him she is not even a handful of years his junior. Her voice takes on a wistful, dreamlike quality.
‘When, as a child, you lose someone close to you, I believe the cut is many times deeper, for you have no meaningful intellect that will intervene to soften the blow – it is a wound that never becomes resolved – but so too the raw love is preserved.’
Now Skelgill wheels away – he stares across the bleak pastures to Buttermere. His gaze settles upon a distant row of distempered cottages; they blend into the snowy backdrop, but for their steep slate roofs and a wraith of grey that rises like a departing spirit from one of the chimneys. He nods, swallows, combs a hand through his hair slowly and methodically, as if to draw away some notion that has possessed his mind. Then purposefully he turns back to face the young woman, and there is a hunted look in his eyes.
‘Do you think your parents got on okay?’
It is a blunt question, insensitive even, given the drift of their conversation – but Perdita, rather than be offended, takes it in her stride – perhaps she is even relieved that he moves matters forwards.
‘The honest answer is that I don’t know – I was too young – even Martius was only nine when they died – and I don’t think my siblings wish to remember them as anything but devoted.’ She gives a little sigh – a suggestion that this is not all, that this is not the whole picture. ‘They had opposing careers that dominated their lives – allowed them precious little time together. And I’m not sure they were a match made in heaven – the analytical thinker and the impulsive artist. Consider Edgar and Brutus if you want to see the same contrast in the flesh. They wouldn’t have been the first married couple to experience difficulties, would they now?’
‘Who would know?’
Slowly Perdita shakes her head, treading carefully in the snow, as if she picks her steps in the same way as she composes her reply.
‘That, I’m not sure. They were both only-children. For each family, Regulus and O’More, theirs is a lost generation – we have no aunts or uncles, cousins or suchlike. Of course, my grandfather would have had some insight – and my great uncle to a lesser degree. Nanny moved back to her native Argentina – to a family of British diplomats in Buenos Aires – I heard some years ago that she had retired and later passed away. Today there is just Thwaites who survives – I suppose he may recall some of my parents’ contemporaries.’
Skelgill is pensive – but Perdita tilts her head to one side and regards him keenly.
‘Inspector, do you imagine some connection between their deaths and that of Great Uncle Declan?’
Skelgill makes a sudden expiration of breath; the kind of noise that signifies such an idea would be wild conjecture on his part.
‘I imagine all sorts of things – but I don’t much heed my imagination – most of the time it would just dump me in trouble, and I shouldn’t be long in the job.’
Perdita brings her angled brows together.
‘Inspector, I think we both know that is far from the case. Your record goes before you.’
Skelgill finds himself conflicted between modesty and preening, and though the latter threatens to prevail, he somehow contrives to play down her praise. And in any event – how does she know about his “record”?
‘Happen I have my methods – if only I could work out what they were.’
In a gesture of mock exasperation she tosses her hair until it covers her face. When she parts the veil it is to reveal a look of mischief that belies the underlying gravity of her next question.
‘Have your methods eliminated any of us yet, Inspector?’
Skelgill seems to tower over her – and all of a sudden she appears small and helpless before him. Indeed, he is compell
ed to reach out and grip her upper arm. She does not flinch, and lifts her opposite hand to cover his. He draws her closer. His features are strained.
‘Rowena – I don’t reckon you ought to worry on that score.’ He licks his lips, his mouth dry – this is a breach of procedure after all – and now he sets his jaw, barring further loose talk. Yet, seemingly without volition, he raises his free hand to indicate the great snowy bulk that is Whiteless Pike, with Grasmoor beyond.
Perdita gives an answering nod – just a small inclination of her head that shows she understands his message – and he feels the tension drain from her slender frame. He steers her gently around, rather like he is demonstrating a country-dance move, until they face in the direction whence they came.
‘Hey up, lass – I think we could both use a hot toddy.’
Perdita offers no objection, and begins to walk with him, closer now, so that they bump shoulders as they negotiate the uneven frozen ground. They have rambled just a few hundred yards from the cluster of slate-and-whitewashed properties that make up Buttermere village, and in five minutes they are stamping snow off their feet in the porch of the inn. For Skelgill, for whom manners are something of a variable smorgasbord, it would not generally be convention to despatch a small, pretty young woman ahead of him into a strange hostelry – exposed to whatever hostile or salacious heads may turn her way – but for some reason he deviates from his rule and pushes open the heavy oak door to allow her to go first. She steps past him, but then hesitates.
‘Oh – Inspector – do you mind if we don’t?’ Now she spins around, blocking his way, and reaches to place a restraining palm on his chest. Skelgill sees the fleeting alarm in her eyes, before she composes herself. ‘I’ve just remembered – I must call my agent in Dublin before 12:30 – my notes and my laptop are at the guest house.’
He tries casually to crane past her for a glance into the bar, from where emanates an inviting wave of beery warmth and woodsmoke and the hubbub of lunchtime drinkers, the occasional clink of a glass and peal of laughter. But she steps hastily out of the porch and Skelgill is obliged to let the inner door swing to in order not to lose sight of her.
‘Aye – no bother – I’ll run you along.’ He casts an arm towards his car, the long brown salt-stained shooting brake in which he picked her up half an hour or so earlier. ‘My next stop’s in your direction.’
She smiles, at once sweetly and apologetically – it is an effective combination and as she backs away she draws him with her.
‘Some other time soon, Inspector – yes?’
Skelgill affects enthusiasm; though it is plain he is a little crestfallen.
‘Aye – that’ll be grand.’
The snow in the car park is excessively rutted and icy, and treacherous underfoot. Perdita waits for him to catch her up, and then unprompted she links arms for support – though he is wearing only ordinary leather brogues and is no better equipped than she. Self-consciously he glances behind at the building, but the windows of the inn are bereft of watchers. Perdita leans against his shoulder, her head bowed as she concentrates upon the uneven ground. But her expression is one of consternation: for what she does not mention is that, tucked into a dark corner of the old beamed bar room – with a female for company – she glimpsed her brother.
*
It must be that old habits die hard, for Skelgill pays a passing visit to the outdoor privy beside the coalhouse at the rear of his mother’s cottage. He has circumnavigated the terrace and entered by the rear gate, knowing the back door will be unlocked, and his mother – if she is home – most likely banging about in the kitchen. However, there is no sign of her bicycle – a decrepit boneshaker that she resolutely refuses to replace, despite continual offers from he and his brothers. These days of course there is an internal bathroom – a luxury she did accept from her offspring, part and parcel of them clubbing together to buy out the lease, a heritable estate of the most modest proportions, the freehold secured in perpetuity following the premature death of her spouse.
Skelgill enters to silence, but there is a delicious waft of lamb stew that he tracks to a pot simmering on the traditional range cooker. He lifts the lid and inhales, closing his eyes as the aroma rolls back the years. Eric Rudd would be nodding sagely, that he has timed his visit for dinner, as advised. Skelgill withdraws his hand quickly, conditioned to expect a sharp rap across the knuckles from a wooden spoon. He checks his watch – it is past 12:30 and his mother would ordinarily have returned by now – but then of course there is the snow, the roads are only partially clear, and it will have impeded her progress; though she may be engaged in a chinwag en route. He drifts across to a Welsh dresser, their sole family heirloom. Its upper shelves display photographs, and his eyes dart about, until they come to rest upon a portrait of himself – a mud-streaked sun-bleached urchin beaming precociously beneath a basin haircut, triumphantly holding aloft a trout parr hooked on a handline in the nearby beck. His age would have been seven years – about the time of ‘The Accident’. He stares pensively for a few moments, and then beats a decisive retreat upon the polished oak. He swivels on his heel and sets off in search of his mother.
He marches somewhat more sedately than his regular pace, back towards Buttermere. He passes the gateway of the B&B where Perdita may be cavorting with the characters of her latest romance – the property is hidden among trees, conifers that still carry snow in their branches. The garden bordering the lane is walled – a necessary precaution in these parts, for sheep know the meaning of self-service. Skelgill notices little movements in a trained cotoneaster – it is a flock of waxwings busy with the fruits – perhaps the same avian party that was previously feasting at Braithwaite, and subsequently Crummock Hall. Such speculation is interrupted, however, for the roar of a tractor gathers beyond the bend. As it swings wildly into sight, Skelgill is obliged to press himself against the wall. He raises a palm to the farmer – but the man seems to be on a mission, he cannot spare a hand to return Skelgill’s greeting, and instead makes a rather desperate backwards movement of the head, the whites of his eyes flashing disconcertedly. The great mechanical beast thunders past, a bouncing trailer in tow – and now Skelgill is hailed by the shriek of a passenger – for aboard, clinging gamely to the tailgate, handlebars of a bicycle protruding beside her, grey hair flapping in the wind, is an old woman, grinning and gap-toothed. As he is left marooned in their wake, she cackles gleefully and flicks a v-sign of dubious intent. It is his mother, 76-year-old Minnie Skelgill, née Graham.
12. CRUMMOCK HALL – Tuesday 1.30pm
‘Where are you, Guvnor?’
‘Crummock Hall – I’m using their landline.’
‘Right you are, Guv.’ DS Leyton sounds apprehensive – as though he anticipates an impossible question and the inevitable reprimand for his failure to know the answer.
‘I thought I dialled Jones’s extension.’
‘You did, Guv.’ DS Leyton hesitates for a second. ‘She’s on a day off.’
‘What?’
‘It’s on the holiday chart in your office, Guv – remember last week you were saying – what with the year-end coming up – use it or lose it?’
In fact Skelgill had uttered a rather less repeatable version of this statement, airing his disapproval of “layabouts” who prioritise their holiday entitlement and drop their colleagues in the proverbial. He had made particular reference to “that flash Harry” DI Alec Smart. Now he emits an exasperated gasp.
‘This is a murder inquiry, Leyton.’
‘Perhaps she had a family commitment, Guv – her old Dad’s been in and out of hospital lately. She’s not said a lot about it.’ DS Leyton does not sound happy – he suffers under the same unforgiving regime as his female colleague.
There is silence on the line while Skelgill swallows and digests his frustration. After a few moments DS Leyton finds the hiatus too unnerving and offers a suggestion.
‘Is it something I can look at, Guv?’
Skelgill begins to make an unintelligible noise – indicative of disparagement – but then he evidently undergoes a change of heart.
‘What you can do, Leyton, is dig out the coroner’s inquest report of the drowning of Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More.’
This may not be a simple task, since these records are filed manually and kept in out-storage somewhere about the county – normally the local coroner’s office requires a week to retrieve the documents. However, DS Leyton evidently sees no benefit in underlining any such hurdles.
‘No bother, Guv – are you coming in later?’
‘Who knows, Leyton.’ (There is another period of silence.) ‘What have we found by way of fingerprints in Declan’s study?’
‘Hold on, Guv – I’ve got that right here.’ DS Leyton can be heard clicking away at his computer. ‘That there bird-watching logbook, and the pendulum and the winder for the clock – all just Declan’s prints. The key to the garden door had Martius’s thumbprint on it.’
‘Aye – he admitted that.’
‘The key for the internal door – that was too messed up to get anything, same as Declan’s fountain pen. And the glass that was lying on the carpet – no prints at all, Guv.’
‘Leyton – there’s always prints on a glass. It’s the best place to look for them.’
DS Leyton makes an apologetic ahem.
‘I’m just going by this report from Forensics, Guv.’
Skelgill is in no position to object further, but this item of relative trivia seems to trouble him. Again he ruminates in silence, and again DS Leyton is obliged to make the running.
‘Had a couple of interesting leads on the O’Mores, Guv.’
‘Aye?’ But Skelgill remains distracted.
‘First thing that popped up on my screen when I searched for Edgar’s accountancy practice – he’s being sued for negligence by a bunch of his rich clients.’ (Skelgill makes no comment, but that DS Leyton can hear his breathing suggests he is at least listening.) ‘Seems he’d advised them on this great wheeze to dodge National Insurance – paying their bonuses into an offshore trust – but the taxman objected and took ’em to court. It ran for years – went all the way to the House of Lords and they ruled in favour of HMRC. The clients had to pay back all the tax they avoided, plus – and this was the killer – eight years’ compound interest at some punitive rate. So now they’ve raised a class action against Edgar’s firm for multi-million damages.’
Murder at Dead Crags Page 13