Murder at Dead Crags

by Bruce Beckham

‘Enough to spoil your Saturday morning, eh, lad? I might just go and join that lot in a brandy. Decent stuff they keep, these toffs.’

  Skelgill flashes a wry grin and presses himself against the bannister to allow his well-padded colleague to descend. As they squeeze past one another, the doctor holds up a little device – it is a portable detector.

  ‘Safe in there now.’

  He departs with a chuckle, and seems to Skelgill to be muttering something about “hair of the dog”.

  *

  The first thing that strikes Skelgill about the little bed-sitting room is the extreme cold that enfolds him as he cautiously pushes open the door. Although the time is past eight a.m. the sun has not yet risen; the sash window has been flung up – presumably by the doctor – and an empty black rectangle admits freezing air. Somewhere beyond a robin regales him with its mournful winter song. He fumbles for the light, and finds a Bakelite toggle switch that activates a naked bulb dangling from the cracked ceiling. To his immediate right is a plain oak wardrobe, warped and standing a little askew, beneath the window a modest dresser with a few unremarkable accessories, and directly ahead the brick hearth. The single bed with its nightstand and shaded table lamp is on the left behind the door. At the end of the bed Thwaites’ threadbare butler’s outfit is neatly arranged upon a valet stand, a hollow ghost watching over the old retainer.

  Skelgill is sniffing extravagantly – though he knows carbon monoxide has no odour – and all he can detect is the faint hint of soot from the grate, where the fire is apparently extinguished. But first he turns his attention to the bed. Dr Herdwick has pulled the top-sheet over the old man, and Skelgill hesitates before inspecting the corpse, perhaps debating whether he need do this at all. It would seem to be his duty – and is not a task from which he ordinarily shies away; however on this occasion it is with a pained countenance that he lifts the covers.

  If a dead man can be reassuring, however, then Skelgill seems to take some solace from what he sees. The elderly butler lies at peace, his long years of service now over, his travails at an end. His usually pallid complexion is rosy – healthy, even – and Skelgill recalls a little ditty from his mountain rescue first-aid training (for carbon monoxide poisoning threatens campers and cavers alike, who use their burners in enclosed surroundings). It refers to one of the classic symptoms, “when you’re cherry red – you’re dead.”

  He replaces the coverlet and turns with an expiration of breath to inspect the room. He shivers, and pulls his jacket about his torso, and then decides to close the window. He notes that the casement is fitted with self-adhesive foam draught strip; it is yellowed with age, and partially compressed, but nonetheless forms a tight seal: the sash, once lowered, does not rattle, despite his best efforts. The glass still bears some condensation, perhaps Thwaites’ last breath intermingled; the paintwork is flaky and stained with black mould where such droplets have drained over the years.

  He checks the door. It too is taped for draughts, both jambs and the head, but there is a good three-quarter inch gap at the foot: it would afford ample ventilation provided there was a half-decent draw on the fire. However he notices pushed against the side of the wardrobe a traditional tapestry door draught stopper, washed-out silk embroidered with a bird pattern. He prods it with his toe; it feels sand-filled and must have been swept aside by the maid, when she came to wake the ostensibly oversleeping butler. Skelgill stares broodingly at the object: the faded flocking birds appear to be corvids.

  Now he crosses the room to the small hearth and stoops down before it. A pair of antique brass firedogs guard the grate, and across them rest matching irons. Skelgill lifts the poker and stabs at the fused mass of cinders; it shatters to reveal no glowing embers – indeed there is fresh glistening anthracite, matching that in the copper scuttle. It is a further indication of the incomplete combustion that produced deadly carbon monoxide, when much-maligned CO2 would have been a blessing. He replaces the poker and rises with a little groan. Still facing the hearth he flexes his ever-troublesome spine. Then he realises he is looking into a tarnished mirror, and some fresh pain has him pressing his temples. He does not approve of what he sees, and with a grimace he turns and departs, taking the key from inside and locking the door behind him.

  *

  ‘They’re all packing, Guv – this one’s really spooked ’em – they’re like rats leaving a sinking ship.’

  Skelgill scowls somewhat disparagingly but does not comment. Together with his sergeants he has temporarily commandeered the kitchen; traditionally laid out with its long work table, great hearth where a wood fire smoulders, and a log-fired range, it is by far the warmest room in the house at this time of the morning. The cynic might suggest Skelgill has chosen the location for other reasons – and indeed he has prevailed upon the cook to provide them with appropriate sustenance before dismissing her. Now both he and DS Jones watch DS Leyton, who continues.

  ‘Can’t blame ’em, I suppose, Guv – and we’ve got no cause to detain anyone.’

  ‘Have we not?’

  Skelgill casts a look upon his subordinates that is at once expectant and censorious. It is DS Leyton that responds first.

  ‘They were supposed to have their meeting about Sir Sean’s will last night, Guv – but it turns out Perdita went AWOL so they couldn’t do it.’

  Skelgill raises a hand in reflex, but then he merely rubs at one eye with his fingers.

  ‘She’s been lodging down at Buttermere, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton looks suddenly deflated – as if in Perdita’s hitherto unexplained absence there was cause for suspicion. DS Jones, on the other hand, is curiously animated – though at first she represses her response, until the words seem to escape of their own volition, together with an almost hysterical laugh.

  ‘She’s never here when they die, Guv.’

  ‘Happen she had nowt to do wi’ eet.’ Skelgill’s retort is snappy, doubly emphasised by his lapse into the vernacular.

  But now DS Leyton seems to realise he might be operating on a different wavelength, and determines that he must tune in to the conflict that troubles his colleagues.

  ‘Guv – what are you pair saying? That there’s something suspicious about Thwaites’ death? I thought Dr Herdwick insists it’s accidental.’

  ‘Aye – and he reckons Declan died when we know he was out bird-watching.’

  Skelgill glares at DS Leyton, who folds his arms and frowns with consternation. For a while they all three sit in brooding silence. It seems the invisible tensions that bind them also pull in disparate directions, and hinder any coherent progress. In the end it is DS Jones who speaks.

  ‘Why didn’t he die every night?’

  Taken literally, her words are nonsensical, but from Skelgill’s reaction it is apparent she makes a profound point. He watches her, his eyes unblinking through narrowed lids. After a moment she shrugs in the manner of one resting their case, and Skelgill turns his gaze upon DS Leyton.

  ‘Let’s get that maid back.’

  DS Leyton nods and rises and jerks a thumb behind him.

  ‘Won’t be tick, Guv – reckon she’s in the scullery.’

  True to his word DS Leyton returns within a minute followed by the stout woman Skelgill had last set eyes upon stoically serving the buffet. He indicates a chair opposite.

  ‘It’s Betty isn’t it?’

  The woman nods once rather apprehensively.

  ‘I’d rather stand if it’s all the same, sir.’

  Skelgill makes what he probably considers a sympathetic face, although by most people’s standards it is a less-than-endearing expression.

  ‘We shan’t keep you long, Betty.’ It looks for a second that he is searching for a diplomatic form of words, but if so these elude him and he reverts to blunt type. ‘Mr Thwaites died of poisoning from carbon monoxide – caused by his coal fire and the lack of ventilation.’

  Again the woman gives a single nod, and her own expression remains fixed, suggestive of her ha
ving already heard this information. But she offers no comment.

  ‘What we can’t understand, Betty – is why it happened last night – why not before? He was a man of habit, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was that, sir.’

  ‘Do you clean his room?’

  There is now a fleeting look of alarm in her eyes.

  ‘I clean everywhere, sir – the whole of Crummock Hall, including the servants’ quarters. There’s only me that does, sir.’

  Skelgill nods encouragingly.

  ‘So you’d notice anything different?’

  She remains anxious.

  ‘I don’t know, sir – I don’t know what you mean.’

  Skelgill suddenly rises and indicates to his colleagues to do the same.

  ‘We’d just like you to take a look for us, Betty – we can get up these back stairs, can we?’

  He leads the way and the woman automatically begins to follow him – although her discomfort is apparent; understandably she is reluctant to return to the room. DS Jones places a kindly hand on her shoulder and guides her by the elbow as they mount the staircase.

  Skelgill unlocks the door of Thwaites’ room and flicks on the light switch, although it is ineffectual now that insipid northern daylight prevails and shows the modest quarters to be even more austere than before. He crosses the floor to stand beside the hearth. The maid has slowed almost to a stop and shuffles to one side of the door, her back against the wardrobe. Considerately, DS Jones and DS Leyton range themselves in front of the bed, so as to block her view as best they can of the human form beneath the covers. Skelgill meanwhile indicates with a circular movement of one hand the arrangement around the grate.

  ‘He normally burned coal, did he?’

  The woman seems a little relieved by this question – that she is not in fact going to face some sort of impossible third degree – but actually be questioned on facts with which she is familiar.

  ‘We use coal in all the bedrooms, sir – the fireplaces are too small for logs – happen they don’t give out a deal of heat, or last so long.’

  Skelgill nods encouragingly.

  ‘Did he light a fire every night?’

  ‘He’s been complaining something terrible about his chilblains, sir – since this cold snap set in. I’ve had to clean out his grate every morning for the last three or four weeks, sir.’

  Skelgill inclines his head in the direction of the window.

  ‘I take it he kept the window closed?’

  ‘Yes, sir – at least, I’ve never come in to find it open in the morning.’

  Skelgill begins to look like he is struggling for something else to say, then he realises he is turning over the key with the fingers of his left hand. He holds it up for inspection.

  ‘What about locking his door – what did he usually do?’

  Now the maid shakes her head with some determination.

  ‘He never locked it as far as I know, sir – perhaps when he were getting dressed. There’s no reason for anyone to lock their rooms –’

  She stops abruptly.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Least – not until – Mr Declan, sir.’

  Skelgill nods, understanding her point.

  ‘So the door was unlocked this morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Was it like him to sleep in?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir – we thought he must be ill – he’s had a bad chest lately, sir. And the cook, she sent me to check on him – and I found him – but he weren’t –’

  Now for the first time she glances briefly at the bed, but quickly averts her eyes, and looks back at Skelgill. She begins to shift her weight from one foot to the other, a sign that she would like to leave.

  ‘Anything else, Betty – that you notice?’

  She makes a cursory sweep of the room, now avoiding the bed. Too quickly, her gaze returns to Skelgill. She shakes her head. Skelgill glances at his subordinates, but they are both watching the woman, and appear to have nothing to add or ask.

  ‘Aye – well, thanks, Betty – we’ll let you go.’

  The woman now turns, with more alacrity than she has demonstrated thus far – but in doing so she catches her left foot on the sand-filled draught stopper and gives a little shriek. She begins to put a hand to her mouth, but then for some reason she resists the urge and makes to continue on her way.

  ‘What is it, Betty?’

  Now she turns rather hesitantly. She cannot very well deny the cause of her concern.

  ‘The snake.’

  ‘The snake?’

  She points to the embroidered object, with its faded pattern of Hitchcockian birds rising against an ominous sky.

  ‘To block the draught – it belongs in Mr Declan’s room.’

  Skelgill digs his hands into his pockets; he gives the impression of being a little disinterested, but that he is indulging the woman’s concern.

  ‘It wouldn’t be needed.’

  However the maid seems perplexed – that a long-standing domestic arrangement has been violated.

  ‘I noticed it were gone yesterday evening, sir – I had to get some extra blankets from the press in Mr Declan’s room – Miss Cassandra and Master Brutus were wanting them because they weren’t warm enough the weekend before. I thought it was one of the family took it – I never imagined Mr Thwaites would have it for himself.’

  ‘Maybe he borrowed it earlier in the week – when there was no one else here?’

  Now she shakes her head decisively.

  ‘I’m sure I would have seen it when I came in to vacuum yesterday, sir.’

  Skelgill does not reply – but he nods in a way that seems to indicate he is certain she is right – and the matter is now explained.

  ‘What was his state of mind, Betty?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘How’s he been lately? His behaviour. Was he much affected by the deaths of Sir Sean and Declan?’

  ‘Naturally, sir – we all were.’ (She makes it sound like she has already got over it.) ‘Mr Thwaites didn’t seem too bad after Sir Sean went – we all knew it was coming, I suppose. But he’d not been himself since Mr Declan died – which is the other way round to what you’d have expected – Mr Declan being what they call the cantankerous sort, sir.’

  ‘Why do you think that was, Betty?’

  She ponders blankly for a moment and then glances past DS Jones and DS Leyton to the bed.

  ‘It must have been – finding the body, sir – that’s enough to disturb any soul.’

  She visibly shudders, and Skelgill holds up a palm, akin to a gesture of farewell.

  ‘Well, thanks, Betty – that’s helpful to know.’

  Paradoxically, now she regards him expectantly, as though she anticipates sympathy for her own plight, but he simply waits until her long years of servitude kick in and she performs a little curtsey and removes herself. As her steps fade away Skelgill gently closes the door and manoeuvres the draught stopper into position. He steps back to admire his handiwork. Now DS Leyton pipes up.

  ‘Think that was the final nail in the coffin, Guv?’

  Skelgill looks askance at his sergeant – that he would employ such a turn of phrase in the company of the deceased.

  ‘Steady on, Leyton.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv – what with that bird pattern an’ all – murder of crows they call ’em, don’t they?’

  ‘They’re not crows, Leyton – they’re jackdaws.’

  ‘Hang about, Guv – they’re all the same thing aren’t they? Crows, rooks, ravens, jackdaws – all black and strung up on farmers’ fences whenever I see ’em.’

  Skelgill is suddenly pensive, and he seems unmoved by his sergeant’s loose speculation. Then he turns to DS Jones.

  ‘Can you make your phone into a torch?’

  She looks surprised and gives a little start, having been largely an onlooker since they arrived in Thwaites’ room. However she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Sure
, Guv – what for?’

  ‘For one – I haven’t worked out how to do it on mine.’ Skelgill takes the handset now that she has activated the light setting. ‘For two – no Leyton – they’re not all the same.’

  And with that he ducks into the hearth and, with scant concern for his attire, jams one elbow in the grate and thrusts his hand that holds the torch up into the flue. Almost immediately he makes a little gasp of discovery. Now he braces himself against the back of the hearth and reaches up with his other hand. There follow a couple of contortions and accompanying grunts and snorts, and then suddenly he slides down and pitches forwards onto the hearthrug. DS Jones darts in to rescue her phone – just as Skelgill deposits before him a tangled mass of twigs, straw, string, tufts of sheep’s wool, strands of horsehair, pieces of tinfoil, shiny crisp packets, strips of coloured polythene and lengths of frayed blue baler twine.

  ‘Struth, Guv – what is that?’ DS Leyton’s jaw falls agape.

  Skelgill brushes off his hands and then runs his fingers through his hair – to questionable effect – for they are stained with soot and smeared with oily grime.

  ‘See Leyton – only jackdaws nest in chimneys.’

  The three of them crowd around for a close-up view. The semi-disintegrated structure does not much resemble a bird’s nest – but nonetheless Skelgill’s analysis seems convincing, with authenticity provided by the dried fragments of guano that are stuck to many of the components. There are even some flakes of eggshell, very pale blue and speckled with chocolate brown and grey. Now DS Jones is the first to speak.

  ‘It was blocking the flue, Guv?’

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill shoots her a sharp glance. ‘Must have been dislodged by a clod of snow that’s fallen down the chimney.’

  DS Jones nods pensively, while DS Leyton glances across at the form lying cold beneath the bedcovers.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – it’s like that draught stopper brought bad luck.’

  Skelgill nods slowly.

  ‘It’s one way of looking at it, Leyton.’

  16. FROZEN – Saturday 1pm

  Skelgill stamps his feet and rubs his hands together; he seems fogged by indecision, wreathed as he is by the clouds of his breath that hang in the air. He hovers beside his car outside the B&B at Buttermere. Like her siblings, Perdita has flown the nest – in her case, according to the landlady of his acquaintance, to return to Dublin. He digs his hands into his trouser pockets and slowly rotates on his heel, surveying the scene around him, a frozen landscape so still it could be a panoramic Christmas card. Through a gap in a belt of pines he has a view of Crummock Water, the shaded eastern fellside of Mellbreak rising beyond. Despite the clear skies the sun this time of year is no Sugar Ray, packing a punch too weak, steadily outpointed by the earthly elements. If the freeze continues for much longer the creeping ice might bridge the neck of water between Low Ling Crag and Hause Point – permitting him to walk out to the spot where the long-lost rowing boat decays 140 feet down. He stares broodingly; in ordinary circumstances this Saturday afternoon would most likely have found him upon his beloved Bass Lake, aboard his own craft, straining his sinews to winkle a winter pike out of its lair. But the weather – along with events at Crummock Hall – conspire to thwart him and he has not fished now for over a fortnight; his boat immobilised by pack ice at Peel Wyke harbour. Of course, the rivers on the whole keep flowing, for the ground water that produces them runs at a few degrees above freezing – but most species that he would covet are now out of season until the spring; he might have to lift down his cobwebbed beachcaster and head for the coast.