‘Do you have reason to believe otherwise, sir?’
‘If this were a detective novel I most certainly would.’ The man chuckles at his own joke. ‘I’m no criminal lawyer, Inspector – inheritance and taxes are my bag – but I know enough that you’ll need to eliminate everyone, myself included – provided of course it turns out to be foul play and not just an accident.’
Skelgill cranes around inquiringly.
‘Did you see the body, sir?’
‘I did not.’ The man shakes his head, closing his eyes as he does so. ‘As a matter of fact I was in my room. By the time Martius came knocking to tell me what had happened they’d already telephoned your good selves. It seemed sensible to follow the officer’s instruction to keep out of Declan’s study.’
Skelgill nods and Fergal Mullarkey deems this is an opportune moment to provide his alibi without being pressed.
‘There are some complex issues – where English tax law differs from the Irish – I was working on these from after breakfast until noon, when I came down to the buffet in the dining room – after a short while I took a cold platter back up to my room and stayed there until the alarm was raised, as I said.’
‘Did you see Perdita – at lunchtime?’
The lawyer nods.
‘She looked all set to go out – at least that’s one small crumb of comfort – that she’s home safe. Two deaths in a week are enough for any family to take, estranged or not.’
Skelgill furrows his brow.
‘So how come you handle their affairs – from a foreign country?’
Skelgill’s blunt diplomacy brings a rueful smile to the Irishman’s lips.
‘I suppose you could say we were all part of the same country when my firm first represented the family – at least we had shares in King Charles.’
Skelgill stares rather blankly at his Celtic cousin; it is evident that this genealogical marker does little to enlighten him. He opts for silence.
‘Naturally we have offices in the UK – Glasgow, Liverpool, Bristol – places with strong historical Irish connections. There was a time when we even had a branch in Whitehaven. So I can call upon expert assistance on local law when I require it.’ He makes a gesture with his hands to indicate his immediate surroundings. ‘But as far as the family goes, old habits die hard. They say a man’s more likely to change his wife than his lawyer, Inspector.’
Skelgill narrows his eyes.
‘If the lawyer’s any good a man might find himself changing them both.’
Fergal Mullarkey gives Skelgill a knowing look; it sounds like a pearl of wisdom that stems from bitter experience. However, Skelgill’s hardened countenance deters him from further inquiry; instead he elucidates as far as his own clients are concerned.
‘We’ve served the O’Mores since the seventeenth century; they were successful merchants from Dublin. Among other British ports they traded through Whitehaven, and bought Crummock Hall in 1720. A branch of the family has lived here ever since. These young folk are the twelfth generation.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘As regards inheritance, Inspector?’
‘Thwaites mentioned Martius is now head of the household.’
The lawyer visibly baulks at this suggestion.
‘Ah, Inspector – it is not so simple as that – this is not a titled estate – we’re not talking Downton Abbey.’
‘That’s not in Cumbria.’
‘Yorkshire, I understand, Inspector?’
Skelgill scowls.
‘Never heard of it.’
Again the man grins, though he is clearly unsure if Skelgill is being flippant.
‘No matter, Inspector – my point is that ordinary rules of inheritance apply – not primogeniture. There is no such requirement or right under English law – or Irish, come to that. Indeed in Ireland there was a time when it was positively prohibited if you were a Catholic family – though I digress. Suffice to say Sir Sean was at liberty to leave his property to whomsoever he wished.’
‘So who did he leave it to?’
At this juncture there is a tentative knock on the door, and a familiar clearing of the throat: Thwaites. If he were hovering, eavesdropping even, then he has declined the opportunity to loiter longer and learn something he presumably does not know. Instead he enters bearing a large silver tray and fresh supplies. Fergal Mullarkey hops briskly to his aid; there is only room on the bureau for one tray at a time – he removes the original and waits and hands it to Thwaites, who bows several times as he backs away. Skelgill espies sandwiches and swiftly makes himself acquainted with their fillings while the lawyer pours tea. Armed according to their wants they resume their seats.
‘You were saying, sir – about the will?’
In fact the lawyer has not used the word, and a flicker of doubt crosses his eyes.
‘To answer your question, Inspector, I should perhaps take a moment to explain the family tree?’
Skelgill indicates his agreement.
‘Padraig Willoughby O’More died shortly after the second war, 1949 if I recall correctly. He bequeathed the estate to his son, Sir Sean. I don’t know the reasoning, but he was the elder twin. Declan received an index-linked income. In turn Sir Sean’s linear successor was his daughter Shauna O’More. Sadly she died together with her husband Edward Regulus in a boating accident when their own five children were very young.’
Skelgill is nodding, but he refrains from revealing his extreme local provenance. The lawyer continues.
‘Sir Sean’s last will and testament decreed that the estate should continue intact while his brother survived – to be held in trust until Declan’s demise. This has of course come to pass – so soon as to obviate the need for a trust to be established. The succeeding provision is that the family are to decide – the five grandchildren are each allocated one vote. They can chose to maintain the estate, to appoint one person as nominal head – or even to cede the estate to that person and their descendants. Or they can sell it – and the proceeds are to be split into five equal parts. Their decision must be in a simple majority, at least three votes to two.’
Skelgill hesitates as he digests this information.
‘What would it be worth – a fifth?’
The Irishman turns out his bottom lip; now he looks like a sad clown.
‘I shouldn’t imagine a person would need to work again, Inspector. The equivalent of a generous lottery win.’
Skelgill sighs, perhaps thinking of his own bad luck as far as raffles and sweepstakes go.
‘When did the family find out about this arrangement?’
‘On Friday evening – after the funeral. I convened a meeting – it was the secondary purpose of my trip, Inspector. The primary being to pay my respects on behalf of the firm.’
Skelgill nods amenably.
‘Could they – or any of them – have known about the will beforehand?’
‘Of course, Inspector, it is possible that Sir Sean – or indeed Declan if he knew – told one or more of them, but –’
The man shakes his head, gainsaying his words with his actions.
‘Aye?’
‘I have read a good number of wills to expectant families, Inspector – and I would say that Friday’s reading was no different. Universally the reaction was one of innocent surprise. If someone knew, they concealed their feelings.’ He brushes a palm over his shiny crown. ‘And, in any event, it is not as though Sir Sean’s last wishes were contentious – unusual, perhaps – but certainly not controversial. They provide for a fair allocation of the inheritance.’
‘Is that how Declan saw it?’
‘He seemed quite content in that respect. After all, he leaves no heirs.’
Skelgill takes a bite of a sandwich followed rather too swiftly by a swallow of tea.
‘You went to see him in his study on Saturday afternoon – what was that about?’
The lawyer momentarily looks like he feels Skelgill has done the dirty on him
– going easy, but now suddenly throwing in a curved ball. He takes a measured drink of his tea, perhaps to buy a little time in order to compose his rejoinder.
‘He wished to be reassured that his own position would be unaffected during the remainder of his lifetime.’ And now Fergal Mullarkey sends one back to Skelgill. ‘He also wanted to make a will.’
Perhaps intentionally, Skelgill looks unimpressed.
‘There can’t be much in that, sir?’
‘There is no heritable property, of course, Inspector – no real estate – but his moveable property has a value that is more than inconsequential.’
‘His books.’
The lawyer is nodding.
‘A lifetime’s work – a collection that he did not wish to see dispersed.’
Skelgill is frowning.
‘That sounds more like sentimental value. What about a museum, a library, a university?’
Fergal Mullarkey shifts in his seat; perhaps he is wondering if he should discuss this confidential matter.
‘I made a similar suggestion – and in fact there is what you might call a back-stop provision in place, if I may use such a crude term.’
Skelgill now grins.
‘A back-stop to me is what you need when you’ve got a dodgy wicketkeeper. If you don’t want to embarrass him you call it fine leg.’
This is a cricketing analogy, and though Fergal Mullarkey is Irish, where the game has no great tradition, he probably has the proper schooling.
‘Quite, Inspector. In this case we have a comparably ancient library in our Dublin offices – mainly books of law, of course – some years ago Declan entrusted us via a legal instrument with guardianship during any emergency, or period of abeyance or deadlock over the fate of the collection.’
‘What’s it worth?’
‘It is nothing on the scale of the entire Crummock Hall estate – but certainly a small fortune – and I say that literally, Inspector. There must be several thousand books – some of them are worth over a hundred pounds apiece – let alone the complete sets. We’re certainly talking six figures.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow; perhaps he considers this a conservative estimate.
‘What did he decide?’
The lawyer puts down his cup and saucer and turns to look at Skelgill.
‘He said he would make a draft and hand it to me. I have received no such draft.’ He spreads his palms in an imploring gesture. ‘You may know better than I if there is such a thing, Inspector.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘We haven’t searched the study with that in mind, sir.’
The lawyer nods.
‘He may not have got around to it – he may not even have reached a decision.’
‘What else was he considering – who else?’
‘The family, naturally – his great nephews and nieces.’
‘Did he have one of them in mind?’
‘He confessed to knowing them little. Their lives were led in London and abroad. It is more than twenty years since they last spent their summer holidays here. And then – he was something of a recluse. He asked my opinion.’
‘What did you say, sir?’
The Irishman inhales and lets out the breath in a sigh.
‘I find myself equally in the dark, Inspector. Until now, during my working life – my entire lifetime – the estate has been under the stewardship of Sir Sean Willoughby O’More. I have had no cause to deal with any of the younger generation.’
Skelgill remains pensive. If he suspects the lawyer of being economical in his answer he chooses not to press the matter.
‘What about their parents – did you know them, sir?’
Fergal Mullarkey shakes his head.
‘I was little more than a trainee at the time of the accident. My uncle – one of our partners – the O’Mores were his client at that time.’
Skelgill glares into the fire, as if he is dissatisfied with some aspect of its combustion.
‘If Declan did write a draft – would that be legal, sir?’
The man nods with a modicum of enthusiasm.
‘It is quite possible – provided it were signed by two witnesses.’ He regards Skelgill closely, as if he is trying to read his reaction. ‘Of course, Inspector, a witness cannot benefit from a will.’
This statement appears to provide some food for thought for Skelgill, and it is half a minute before he raises another question.
‘What will happen to Thwaites – and the other members of staff?’
The lawyer relaxes into the high wingback chair; perhaps he was expecting a more challenging line of enquiry.
‘If the estate is maintained as a going concern then their positions may be unaffected – even were it to be sold to a third party. If it became a hotel, for example, there would be many more jobs created. However, there is a provision for Thwaites to have use of the gatehouse, a liferent as the Scots aptly call it – a continuing legacy from the will of Padraig Willoughby O’More. And I believe Thwaites has a war pension along with his state entitlement and therefore could live comfortably whether he works or not.’
Skelgill’s features are cast with a degree of scepticism – but he rouses himself and stands up, flexing his spine and yawning simultaneously; it seems the interview is drawing to a close.
‘And what about you, sir – your travel plans?’
The lawyer seems in no hurry to leave.
‘I have a hire car which I must return to John Lennon.’ He refers to Liverpool airport, but chuckles. ‘Now there’s an Irish name if ever there were one. I imagine I shall need my secretary to reschedule my flight – heaven knows when I’ll get safely through the snowdrifts.’
‘It isn’t hard to do, sir – we’ll be keeping the back lanes clear through to the A66 – you’ll be fine in the morning.’
The lawyer grins.
‘So we shan’t have the pleasure of you for dinner, Inspector? Having dropped in as you did, I thought you might be staying the night.’
Skelgill affects a degree of dutiful modesty.
‘I shall be heading down to Buttermere – there’s an old lady I need to check on.’
4. HEADQUARTERS – Monday 9.15am
‘Shanks’s pony, Guv – all the way to Buttermere?’
‘Aye, why not?’
‘How far was that?’
‘Couple of miles, Leyton – stroll in the park.’
‘The park in the dark, Guv – never mind the snow. How did you find your way?’
Skelgill takes a gulp of his tea and pulls a disapproving face.
‘Safe enough on the road – I wasn’t going to get run over, was I?’
DS Leyton shrugs resignedly. His superior has arrived late looking distinctly hung over, unshaven and wearing the same outdoor clothes as last night. That he had abruptly disappeared from Crummock Hall, passing an ambiguous message via Thwaites inferring a visit to his elderly mother, had not entirely convinced the sergeant. The knowledge that Skelgill’s mountain rescue cronies were likely bunking down for the night at the inn in Buttermere suggested an alternative scenario. It had all the makings of the classic lock-in: impassable country roads and the police joining the party. Skelgill now claims to have obtained a lift back to Penrith in the team’s Defender, tailgating a snowplough over the Newlands Pass. But DS Leyton knows better than to question the mysterious movements of his boss.
‘DS Jones should be up with the lab report and photographs any minute, Guv. She’s briefed on what we know. I’ve printed out the statements, so I can run through them if you like?’
He leans over from his regular seat beside Skelgill’s token filing cabinet and slides a single sheet of paper across his superior’s desk. Skelgill glances somewhat disparagingly at the item, and sinks back against his headrest and folds his arms.
‘Give it a minute, Leyton. Wait for Jones – no point wasting time if Herdwick’s come up with some innocent explanation.’
‘Don’t seem very likely, Guv –
going by what he reckoned last night.’
But Skelgill already has his eyes closed, and does not reply. A silence descends. DS Leyton watches his boss with growing consternation – or it might be exasperation, for eventually he begins to pull faces of simulated annoyance – and is caught in the act by the arrival of the soft-soled DS Jones. She can’t help herself from breaking out into a giggle – and this rouses Skelgill from whatever trancelike state he had entered. He jerks forward in a rather ungainly fashion.
‘Jones – what’ve you got?’
‘Morning, Guv.’
She beams endearingly, unperturbed by his dishevelled appearance and abrupt reception. She bears a tray with fresh drinks from the canteen, and deposits this upon his desk. Skelgill greedily lurches for the nearest mug. DS Jones lifts up a manila folder and settles in her seat beside the window. Skelgill takes a couple of slurps, inhaling loudly over the piping hot liquid. His attention is restored.
‘Well?’
She glances at her papers.
‘There’s no doubt he was attacked, Guv – a severe blow from behind at a rising angle of about 30 degrees – some sort of club with a rounded end – possibly a baseball bat.’
Skelgill scowls over the rim of his mug.
‘That lot wouldn’t know a baseball bat if it smacked them between the eyes. Croquet mallet, aye.’
His sergeants simper amenably. With a kick of one boot Skelgill rotates his chair away from them in order to scrutinise the map of the Lake District pinned upon the wall behind his desk. DS Jones glances at DS Leyton, who grins encouragingly; she continues.
‘The provisional tests suggest a time of death around twelve noon – but with the falling temperature of the room and the considerable age of the victim, there could be an hour’s margin of error either side. However, the midpoint does correspond to the time that the clock stopped – so he could have been struck from behind while he was winding it.’
Skelgill is silent – but it is apparent that his posture has markedly stiffened. After a moment, still facing the map, he speaks in a strained voice.
‘What do you mean – the time the clock stopped?’
Murder at the Wake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 7) Page 4