He winks again – this time at the angry-looking Skelgill – but as he turns to depart he leers at DS Jones and taps the side of his nose, palpably compounding her discomfort. With a click of his heels he is gone, leaving the door open and only the sound of his footsteps diminishing down the corridor. True to form, he has bested Skelgill in the verbal exchange; rather like a rogue hyena that inveigles himself into a rival clan to plunder their resources, disorient the males and impregnate the females, he retreats cackling before the incumbents can muster a counter-attack and drive him off. DS Leyton, who has been ignored throughout the whole episode, reaches from his seat and slaps shut the door. Skelgill thumps a fist down upon his desk, causing the tray to rattle and his mug to jump alarmingly.
‘Divvy.’
Naturally he employs a somewhat more graphic version of this Cumbrian slight, with a clutch of Anglo-Saxon adjectives thrown in for good measure. His belated retort is meant to restore his wounded pride in the eyes of his tribe. His colleagues have their eyes lowered sheepishly, and there is an awkward silence before DS Leyton eventually moves himself to speak.
‘I meant to warn you DI Smart was sniffing around, Guv – he was going about yesterday afternoon like a cat with the cream.’ He rubs the top of his head rather absently. ‘Think he’s right, Guv – that Brutus didn’t go back to London?’
Skelgill gapes at his sergeant – disapproving of his disloyalty in attaching credence to DI Alec Smart’s teasing morsel. However, his expression becomes somewhat introspective; he pauses to examine his rough-skinned fisherman’s hands, tilting his palms to reflect the light, in the pose that an angler displays his catch for a souvenir photograph. He glances briefly at DS Jones, as though he seeks her confirmation. There is a residual blush around her sculpted cheekbones and trepidation in her dark eyes. She looks like she wishes he would not question her – and in the event this comes to pass. Skelgill intertwines all but his index fingers and makes a little church, or maybe a pistol.
‘He mentioned staying in the area – I didn’t take him seriously. Thwaites confirmed that the three of them left together last night by taxi – Cassandra, Edgar and Brutus. But that doesn’t prove he took the train with the others.’ Now Skelgill turns to DS Leyton. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’
DS Leyton shifts somewhat uncomfortably in his seat, but his reply is accommodating.
‘I’m onto it, Guvnor.’
Now DS Jones clears her throat, and uncrosses her legs and leans forwards. Her movement attracts the attention of her colleagues.
‘Guv – I have a friend – I shared a flat with her at Uni – she stayed in London and went into journalism. I spoke with her yesterday – she’s a junior features editor on Celebz.’
Skelgill regards her cynically – but it is a look she recognises that he employs when he is concealing a deficit in his knowledge. For some reason she pauses, as if to put him to the test – but now DS Leyton chips in.
‘Celebz – the missus gets that delivered – she’s a right old sucker for gossip – likes to know who’s knocking up who.’
In fact he uses a rather more crude expression, but his artless manner causes DS Jones to giggle rather than take offence. Skelgill, however, is dismayed that there can be a whole industry devoted to the promulgation of celebrity couplings, and – worse – an audience with an insatiable appetite for such inane trivia. DS Jones hurries on with her story.
‘My contact is sending links for various articles – some not published – they’ve got masses on “Owain Jagger”’ (she makes the parentheses around Brutus O’More’s stage name with her fingertips) ‘but also references to Cassandra – and Martius – where he’s appeared at VIP charity dinners, that sort of thing. She’s also on good terms with one of their top reporters – it struck me that if we wanted some questions asked it might be a way to get under the radar.’
Skelgill is now regarding her broodingly – but DS Leyton seems enthused by this notion.
‘Right enough, girl – people clam up the second you say you’re a copper – but if they think they’re going to be in a magazine or on the telly there’s no stopping ’em.’
Now Skelgill is quick to interject.
‘Aye – you’d know all about that, Leyton.’
Skelgill refers, of course, to DS Leyton’s own minor aberration in this regard, with the camera crew outside Crummock Hall. His sergeant squirms with what might be both intentional and comic irony – for the paradox proves his point. Skelgill disregards his protest and addresses DS Jones.
‘See what comes of it – pass anything about Brutus to Leyton.’ DS Jones begins to remonstrate, but Skelgill speaks over her. ‘You didn’t mention Perdita.’
DS Jones takes a moment to reply.
‘I asked about her, Guv – but it seems she keeps to herself in Dublin. Celebz is restricted to the London scene. I could try again – see if they’ve got an Irish correspondent?’
Now Skelgill folds his arms and hunches his shoulders as though he is suddenly feeling the cold.
‘She’s the least of our worries, Jones.’
14. THE SECOND FUNERAL – Friday 11am
Skelgill acknowledges Perdita as she passes. None of the rest of the family party has noticed him, despite their entrance to St James’ Buttermere being an altogether less choreographed affair than a week ago. Their attire lacks the formal precision displayed for Sir Sean’s funeral – most have opted for the practical expedient of warm overcoats and sensible boots, perhaps a mutually agreed decision to dumb down. (However Skelgill recognises Brutus’s rather effeminately styled fur, worn for his TV interview in which DS Leyton infamously appeared as ‘Columbo’.) Nor is there the packed congregation of starched-shirt dignitaries representing the various trusts and charities of which Sir Sean was a benefactor, nor dutiful tenant farmers from the estate, nor star-struck locals hoping for another glimpse of their gentry in absentia. Perhaps it is that the funeral has not been announced, or perhaps it is the weather – or perhaps it is just superstition, mutterings in the village over carefully nursed pints and elbow-smoothed shop counters, and between shepherds conferring upon their crooks across snow-capped stone walls. Although on reflection Skelgill might imagine that murder is a reason folk would come. He counts just seven other attendees, whom he knows as elderly locals – two batty – who have scant connection to Declan that he can think of, but probably little else to do on a frozen snowy Friday morn in December. There is no trace of the Gilhooleys.
Perdita flashes him a wry grin – though before he caught her eye she appeared troubled, and the smile fades as she proceeds up the narrow nave in company with her siblings; they walk in single file in descending age order – a long-standing habit of theirs, perhaps? Behind them comes the small coterie of estate staff, led by Thwaites; Skelgill notes they move with a little more alacrity than before, when Declan, assisted by a combination of Thwaites on one side and his walking stick on the other, determined the speed of the procession and in fact rendered a pace with an appropriate degree of solemnity. Finally, like a loyal sheepdog that hangs back to nip any strays, the lawyer Fergal Mullarkey brings up the rear of the cortege.
Now the organ heaves into life and Skelgill starts. His ‘regular’ pew beside Wainwright’s window is at the very back of the small church and the two-centuries-old instrument with its dark carved oak surround and gilt-painted pipes is crammed into the corner directly behind him. The tune is Crimond and its haunting melody envelops him – almost literally – and perhaps together with the un-sung words of the Shepherd’s Psalm transports him to a mystical Arcadia. After a short while, however, his gaze begins to wander – for one marvellous contemporary feature of this most modest place of worship is its collection of intricately stitched hassocks that hang neatly on the back of the pews, a humbling labour of love that captures in its meticulous detail characteristic aspects of the locality, along with associated Christian imagery, each and every one sewn with magnificently understated grace. Skelgill notes
a nativity scene; and three angels like paper-chain dollies; a stunning facsimile of the arched stained glass windows of Mary and Martha; there is the church itself, viewed from a little higher up the lane to Newlands Hause, with Blea Crag for a backdrop; a remarkably lifelike Herdwick tup and another portrait of a noble Blackface of uncertain gender (since both sexes are horned); for his part – for his own hassock – Skelgill has a snowy upland landscape that he can’t identify, but it holds his attention for he realises it features a team of four or five roped figures marching through the snow, bearing a stretcher in their midst: the mountain rescue. He grins ruefully – perhaps it is the coincidence (he had not noticed this hassock on his visit a week ago), or it could be their standard-issue outfits of smart red cagoules, black over-trousers and white helmets – if only!
Subconsciously he reaches for his trapper hat that rests on the bench beside him, and begins to turn it over in his hands, like a worshipper with rosaries – but his musing is abruptly interrupted when at the end of the short pew there suddenly appears a man, who regards him inquisitively and slides into the seat. In return Skelgill engages in surreptitious sidelong surveillance. The fellow is a little breathless, as if he might have jogged up the hill from the village. Youngish – certainly younger than he, maybe around the thirty mark – there are, however, aspects of his appearance that cry out “middle-age” – indeed middle age in a bygone era. He is below average height, and slight of frame; his brown hair is neatly trimmed and side-parted, and thoroughly combed into place. There is a military moustache – of the handlebar type – and small dark eyes set among regular and not unpleasant features. Beneath an oversized greatcoat (out of which he now struggles) is a traditional ensemble of navy blazer, black trousers and brogues, and a white shirt buttoned at the collar and worn with a hastily knotted old school tie. All in all, it is the impression of a pukka chap one might meet by invitation for lunch at his Pall Mall club.
He catches Skelgill looking at him, and nods politely and makes a grimace of apology, though this would appear to be in relation to his lateness rather than any invasion of Skelgill’s personal space (which may be a reasonable complaint of Skelgill’s, given there are so many unoccupied pews from which to choose). Skelgill responds with a rather cursory nod of his own and edges a couple of inches closer to the window, which is indeed suggestive that he would rather have the stall to himself.
While the service for the recently departed Declan follows a similar pattern to that of his identical twin only a week earlier, it is by necessity a more brief affair, not least for the lack of any real substance that the family have been able to provide for the eulogy. The vicar does his best to make a decent fist of the task, but it proves thin on facts and heavy on hyperbole, clichés and platitudes. Indeed phrases such as “greatly missed” and “dearly beloved” contrive to combine all three figures of speech. Certainly Skelgill’s attention wavers, and one by one he repeatedly scrutinises the family party, as though he is occupying himself with a peculiar game of eeny, meeny, miny, mo.
Not that there is a great deal to see. Unlike his perspiring neighbour they are hunched in their coats – the church is little warmer than the freezing outdoors – and if Skelgill were performing a comparison he is restricted to the backs of their heads, as they are ranged across the first two rows of pews. There is Martius, fair, with his Sandhurst officer’s cut, and beside him Cassandra, the closest match in colour, her shoulder-length hair tinted with bronze and gold. Then the contrasting identical twins, Brutus with his full head of dark, wavy locks, casual yet no doubt skilfully coiffured, Edgar mousy and utilitarian short back and sides. Next and most striking is Perdita’s unruly abundance of strawberry blonde ringlets, which from time to time she draws back from her face. Behind the family are the servants – Fergal Mullarkey perhaps excepted from this class definition, he instantly recognisable by his bald crown ringed by its band of ginger – and Thwaites with his lank grey hair combed and plastered in place with macassar or some other such oil.
The perpetual winner of Skelgill’s little diversion appears to be Perdita, for after each pass his focus invariably comes to rest upon her – although perhaps it is her tendency to be most often fidgeting that draws his gaze. However, when the service concludes and the family retreats down the stone-flagged aisle, it is apparent that he intentionally makes eye contact and begins to move to intercept her. However, he finds his way blocked by his strange young-yet-old neighbour who, in picking up his coat contrives to spill a jangling assortment of car keys, coins and pipe-smoking accessories, obliging Skelgill first to wait, and then rather grudgingly to stoop down and join in the recovery process. By the time the man’s scattered property has been gleaned from the salt-bleached floorboards, it is clear they will be the last two left in the church.
‘Thank you, Inspector Skelgill – so kind of you.’
His accent is a rather exaggerated English public school strain of received pronunciation, and he utters these words as Skelgill hands over the last errant pound coin – only for Skelgill to stop mid-action: the stranger knows his identity! Before Skelgill can speak he has procured a wallet from the breast pocket of his jacket and is pressing upon him an ornate business card. As Skelgill squints suspiciously at the inscription, the man narrates in the avoidance of doubt.
‘Tobias Vellum, Aloysius Vellum & Co, Antiquarian Books, Charing Cross Road, London.’ Skelgill is perplexed – but now he is obliged to reciprocate as the fellow shoots out his right hand. ‘Call me Toby, please, Inspector.’
Skelgill is agitated. The door is closing behind the last of the Crummock Hall contingent. He steps forwards in a way that conveys his desire to leave – but the newcomer procrastinates, an eager expression animating his moustache.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Save shoving him in the chest or shoulder-barging him out of the way – which Skelgill looks quite inclined to do, and perhaps it is only respect for his surroundings that prevents him – this rather strained diplomacy appears to be the only avenue of escape available to him. And, certainly, Toby Vellum wastes no time in taking up Skelgill’s invitation to treat. His delivery is somewhat breathless, and perhaps this is just his normal state.
‘Well it would be immensely appreciated – if you could, Inspector.’ He clears his throat in a formal manner. ‘I realise it is a little unconventional – but first I ought to explain I am the latest of the Vellums – only assumed control of the family business a few months ago – pater has succumbed to cataracts – an inconvenient ailment in our line of business – and he rather struggles with the internet.’
‘That’s Aloysius Vellum, is it?’
‘Oh heavens, no – my father is Gerald. Aloysius Vellum perished at Balaclava in 1854. We’re an old established firm, nine generations – we’ve been supplying books to Declan O’More for over sixty years – my father and grandfather before me.’
‘Aye.’
Rather in the way of snow to Eskimos, Skelgill has many variations of the word aye, its meaning ranging from plain “yes” to something more akin to the outright denial, “is it heck as like” – but this aye is rather more subtle, a non-committal response that might be interpreted along the lines of, “okay, so you’re just starting to make sense and I am interested but I am not going to act like I am or show that there is a gap in my knowledge, so you had better carry on with your explanation.” Such is the economy and elegance of intonation.
It works. Not that Toby Vellum needs any encouragement.
‘Naturally I wanted to pay my respects on behalf of the firm, Inspector,’ (now Toby Vellum looks a little embarrassed, and pauses to catch his breath) ‘but since it is a 600-mile-plus round trip from town I was really hoping for a glimpse of Declan’s collection – in case there is any way we can be of assistance – I shouldn’t like the family to be short-changed when it comes to valuation – I have first-hand knowledge of the market value of many of the books that we have procured.’
‘It’s a c
rime scene.’
‘I quite understand, Inspector – I have been in touch with the Regulus-O’More family – through their representative Mr Mullarkey – and he informed me in no uncertain terms of the position.’
There is now something of a pregnant pause. Toby Vellum is obviously hoping that Skelgill will give a little ground, but Skelgill stands firm, as if he is putting the man’s aspiration to the test.
‘So I wondered, Inspector – if there is any possibility that you might chaperone me – I would not need to touch anything – indeed a few judiciously taken photographs ought to provide all I should require to compile a catalogue.’
While Skelgill’s conventional detective’s nose undoubtedly smells, if not a rat, then an ulterior motive, his unconventional detective’s mind is asking what skin is it off that same nose if Vellum & Co want their pick of the books?
‘Aye.’
This aye is an altogether different one, and draws a response from Toby Vellum that is at once surprised and delighted. He gives an involuntary gasp of satisfaction – and looks like he might even be tempted to offer up a small prayer. He pops the pound coin into the slot of a collection box.
*
There is a somewhat low-key wake in progress when Skelgill enters Crummock Hall with Toby Vellum in tow. As they pass the drawing room guided by Thwaites it has its doors ajar and the respectful hubbub of conversation emanates from within – until, that is, a sudden shriek of hysterical laughter strikes a discordant note: an unruly duet of Brutus and Cassandra. Thwaites looks scandalised by such lack of decorum; however Toby Vellum flashes Skelgill a rather sardonic grin. Skelgill dismisses Thwaites when they reach the hall outside Declan’s study, and lifts the barrier tape for his charge to duck beneath. As a further expedient the police have fitted lock blockers – both to the internal and external doors and Skelgill first extracts the device before unfastening the lock proper with its old cast iron key. These security measures notwithstanding, he enters coiled as if in readiness to spring upon some interloper – perhaps he has not entirely dismissed the fanciful notion of there being a secret passage – despite having thoroughly checked every possible structure to satisfy himself there can be no such thing.
Murder at Dead Crags Page 16