Again DS Jones glances at her fellow sergeant – though now with heightened apprehension. Having not attended the scene, she is less sure of her ground, and she detects some discontinuity is afoot. DS Leyton, longer-serving by a decade, is more inured to Skelgill’s capriciousness. He extends an arm and signals with a flicking of his fingers that she should pass him the file.
‘There’s a bunch of photos taken by SOCO – one of them shows the clock face stopped at twelve.’ He leafs through the papers. ‘Here we go, Guv.’
Skelgill spins around. He takes the proffered colour copy and stares at it, alarmed. His features grow increasingly severe, as though a storm is brewing behind his troubled brow. There is only so much to see – the rectangular casement clock on the wood-panelled wall, its front open, the pendulum missing, the hands neatly aligned, pointing to twelve – but Skelgill takes a good half-minute before he returns the picture to DS Leyton.
‘The study’s secured, right?’
‘Both doors, Guv – I’ve got the key for the internal door and SOCO still have the external one for prints – I said we’d drop down for it before we go back over. Plus we’ve taped off the hallway and PC Dodd’s on duty. According to the butler there’s only one key for each door in the whole place.’
Skelgill glowers unreasonably.
‘Happen the horse has already bolted, Leyton.’
Both DS Leyton and DS Jones wait in anticipation – but in characteristic Skelgill fashion, it appears he is not about to divulge the source of his contradiction, and to what metaphorical equine he refers. Of course, the informed fly on the wall would see the paradox: the facts of the photograph tell him twelve noon, while his senses, his memory – albeit dulled by little sleep and no little beer – scream out that twelve noon cannot be right. It is an impasse compounded by the nature of Skelgill, a man who does not like to admit he is wrong, or – worse – to look a fool.
‘We’ll get over to Crummock Hall as soon as we’ve finished here.’ He fixes DS Jones with a stare. ‘What else from Herdwick and his crew?’
She gazes rather helplessly at the file held by DS Leyton. She seems unnerved by Skelgill’s erratic manner.
‘That was really all from the lab at the moment, Guv.’ But then she gathers her wits as she recalls a point. ‘Oh – they did say there’s no evident blood spatter from the primary blow. The bloodstain on the carpet came from a secondary wound – probably when he toppled back and hit his head – he would have already been unconscious. Death occurred within two or three minutes as a result of massive internal haemorrhaging.’
Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.
‘Run me through what you know. Start with security.’
DS Leyton nods. He glances at DS Jones to indicate he includes her in his address.
‘I found no signs of a forced entry, Guv – the place is a rabbit warren – but all the ground-floor doors were locked – except the main one at the front – but of course we came in there.’
‘Who let you in?’
‘It was the butler, Guv - Thwaites.’
‘What did he say about it?’
‘Said he couldn’t remember, Guv – he was upset by what had happened – but he reckons it’s not normally locked during the daytime – and especially with some of the guests having their motors parked out there.’
‘What about tracks?’
‘Crikey, Guv – there were plenty at the front – some of them were ours though – but all mixed up – it was as much as I could see in the dark, and what with more snow falling. We might find something leading away if we have a proper butcher’s in the daylight.’
‘Other doors?’
‘There’s about a dozen, counting French windows. I checked outside them all – mostly no disturbance. You know about the study. The kitchen door leads onto a yard with storerooms round about it. There were footprints there – but the cook said she and the maid had been out for supplies every so often. Plus the gamekeeper and gardener who’ve got cottages in the grounds use that as the tradesmen’s entrance – seems they’d both been in for their breakfasts. Then there’s a cellar where they keep fuel – that’s got a door up some steps leading to the woodsheds. Quite a lot of tracks there – Thwaites said that would be him as they’ve been getting through stacks of logs.’ Skelgill is looking unimpressed, and DS Leyton’s features become increasingly strained. However, it seems he has saved his most promising item until last. ‘But there’s this, Guv – at the back of the main part of the house there’s a kind of porch, like a church. There was a single line of tracks coming from across the lawn out of the darkness – definitely some geezer with big feet walking right up to the door.’
Skelgill pulls a sour face.
‘That was me, Leyton, you donnat.’
DS Leyton looks somewhat crestfallen – but he is naturally thick-skinned (a necessary qualification for working with Skelgill) and doubly protected by his limited understanding of the Cumbrian dialect.
‘Oh, righto, Guv.’
Skelgill clicks his fingers.
‘The family.’
Now DS Leyton wavers.
‘I know you said to concentrate on the hour before the finding of the body, Guv – but I asked what they each did from the time they got up in the morning.’
He is clearly expecting a rebuke – but the photograph of the clock has dislocated Skelgill’s picture of events, and none is forthcoming. DS Leyton gestures to the untouched notes on Skelgill’s desk. He slips another copy from his file and passes it to DS Jones. He glances hopefully at Skelgill, but his superior resolutely ignores the paper.
‘Chop chop, Leyton.’
DS Leyton realises he must orate. He is about to begin when it strikes him that DS Jones will not be fully informed. He tilts his notes towards her.
‘These are the grandchildren of Sir Sean Willoughby O’More, who died a week ago of natural causes. Declan – full name Declan Thomas O’More – was his twin, and their great uncle. They were orphaned when their parents died in the eighties. There’s five of them.’ Now he closes a fist and sticks out a thumb and successive fingers as he begins to count. ‘An older brother – next a sister. Then twin brothers. And then the youngest sister – the writer who was missing in the hills. She got back safely, but I didn’t speak to her.’
DS Jones nods in appreciation.
‘Twins run in families – expressed through the females.’
DS Leyton widens his eyes. Skelgill appears disinterested.
‘How do you know that, girl?’
‘Remember I was on a forensics course at the University of York in October? There was a module on identical twins – there are historical cases where offenders have escaped justice because there was insufficient proof of which twin committed the crime. There are new developments in DNA profiling that can overcome that.’
‘Cor blimey. How come –’ But DS Leyton must suddenly sense Skelgill’s disapproval. He lifts up his paper and mutters under his breath. ‘Well – let’s hope it were the butler and not one of the twins.’
‘They’ll all be escaping scot-free if you don’t get on with it, Leyton.’
DS Leyton squints dutifully at his notes.
‘Martius Regulus-O’More first then, Guv. Age 39. Resident of Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent. Married. Two children at private school. Occupation merchant banker. Arrived on his Jack Jones by car on Thursday for the funeral on Friday. Had intended to travel home on Saturday. On Sunday went down for breakfast as soon as it was called at 8am. Saw his brother Edgar and the younger sister Perdita. Returned to his room and worked there on documents he’d brought with him until lunch at 12 noon. At lunch he saw Mr Mullarkey – the family solicitor,’ (he adds this qualification for the benefit of DS Jones) ‘as well as Cassandra, Edgar and Perdita – the missing one being the other twin, Brutus.’
He pauses now, and looks from one to the other of his colleagues. His expression is rather belligerent – as if he expects to be accused of making up these extra
vagant names. Certainly they are idiosyncratic, traditionally Irish among the older generations, more latterly classical. DS Jones, however, seems to appreciate his disquiet.
‘It sounds like a Shakespearean tragedy.’
Now Skelgill intervenes tersely.
‘Their mother was an actress.’
Compliantly they nod – let this be the explanation.
‘Martius went back to his room after lunch and continued to work there. At about 2:15pm his sister Cassandra came hammering on his door and that’s when they rushed to the study. Moving on to her, Cassandra – next eldest, age 37. Resident of Knightsbridge, London. Divorced, no children. Occupation party planner.’
DS Leyton now pauses, as though he anticipates an objection from Skelgill – however it is restricted to a doubting glower, to which the sergeant responds accordingly.
‘I asked her twice, Guv – and she insisted. I thought it was the gin talking – but give the lady her due she seemed most affected by the death, and what with seeing the body and all – so I just got on with finding out what her movements were. Claimed she never made it to breakfast and couldn’t remember for certain being at lunch – despite Martius saying he saw her. She was complaining that one day merged into the next, what with them being trapped indoors by the snow since Friday afternoon.’
‘But she raised the alarm, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s retort is thick with indignation.
‘I pointed that out, Guv. She heard Thwaites calling – she said she might have been in the drawing room. I notice that’s where they keep a drinks trolley.’
Now he shrugs and exhales rather wheezily. The actions serve to punctuate entries on his report.
‘Edgar. Eldest of the two twins. Age 35. Resident of Hampstead, London. Occupation chartered accountant. Single. Quietly spoken – polite – a bit stiff, know what I mean?’ DS Leyton’s intonation suggests that such humility is not a trait shared by the entire family. ‘He was at breakfast and lunch, and who he saw there corresponds to the others’ statements. He’d brought work with him, too – said he’d set up a makeshift office in a room at the top of the tower – reckoned he could get a weak signal every so often to do his emails. Said he’d worked there either side of breakfast and lunch – heard the commotion just after 2:15pm and ran down to see what it was all about. Martius and Cassandra were already in the study with Thwaites. It was Edgar that called 999 – and a bit later I had a phone conversation with him about locking up until we could get there. We’ve got those calls recorded, Guv. He sounded quite unemotional.’
‘You said it yourself, Leyton – he’s an accountant.’
DS Leyton nods in deference to Skelgill’s omniscience.
‘Finally, his twin brother – Brutus.’ DS Leyton stares at his notes and makes a sudden gurning expression, as though he is reminded of some unpleasant experience. ‘Chalk and cheese, considering they’re twins. Resident of Covent Garden, London – although if you ask me, Charing Cross Road is Soho. Arrived by train and taxi with Cassandra and Edgar on Thursday evening. Occupation actor. Didn’t recognise him, myself – Brutus Regulus-O’More – you think you’d remember that one if you heard it.’ Now he gives a small introspective shake of the head. ‘Anyway – he’s another one who slept in – missed breakfast and lunch – said he wandered down to the drawing room in his dressing gown about 2:30pm – claimed that was the first he knew of it.’
DS Leyton looks up to find Skelgill is glaring at him.
‘There’s someone missing, Leyton.’
‘But, Guv – I thought you said we’d interview the youngest sister this morning?’
‘I’m not talking about her, Leyton – what about Declan? Who saw him, and when?’
DS Leyton rocks back and flaps his sheet of paper.
‘Ah, Guv – no, I mean, yes – I was saving that to the end.’ Now he brings the page forward and jabs at it with a sturdy forefinger. ‘All four gave me the same answer on that one. No one saw Declan on Sunday or went anywhere near his study before the alarm was raised. The only person who admits to any contact with him is Thwaites.’
Skelgill springs up and retrieves his jacket, earlier discarded in a corner.
‘Leyton – get a pool car – a 4x4 – go ahead of me and interview the other staff – same thing – their movements – who saw Declan – who saw anyone near his study – anything unusual – anyone seen walking in the grounds. And get Thwaites to have a good look around the study – stay with him – see if he can identify anything that’s missing.’
‘Righto, Guv.’
DS Leyton rises more circumspectly; he nods to DS Jones and departs the office. Skelgill meanwhile is punching a fist into his jacket.
‘Get your coat, Jones. I need a driver.’
5. PERDITA – Monday 10.30am
‘Aye, best part of thirty years ago it happened.’
DS Jones shakes her head sadly. She is holding a framed photograph that she has lifted from the lid of a grand piano in the bright drawing room. Although it is printed in colour, it is faded almost to sepia and this effect, combined with the traditional dress of its subjects, could give the impression of a 1920s Pimm’s party. Raising their glasses at the centre of a laughing coterie are the late couple, Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More; milling in the background are wearers of striped blazers and boaters, and bearers of tennis racquets and whites, and beyond a rising skyline that Skelgill recognises as Mellbreak, and – more ominously – a horizontal sliver of bluish grey that is Crummock Water.
‘I’ve never heard of the accident, Guv. Do you remember it?’
Skelgill’s brow is furrowed. Slowly he shakes his head.
‘I were just a kid – folk seemed to drown in the Lakes every year back then. I reckon it made a bit of a splash in the London press.’
DS Jones glances sharply at him, but he appears to have used the metaphor in all innocence, since he continues without seeking her approbation for his wit as he might habitually do.
‘I knew this lot, though.’
Now he points to a photograph of the children, of a comparable vintage. They are lined up in descending age order, left to right, in wellingtons, waving fishing nets and proudly dangling jam jars crammed with tadpoles. Martius, the eldest has a face of noble triumph. Cassandra, blonde and pouting, is the tallest – a girl’s growth spurt, perhaps. The twins Edgar and Brutus with their crewcuts are very near identical – except that one is serious, while the other sticks out his tongue and makes a two-fingered hand gesture. Perdita, just a toddler, grasps the shorts of the joker and looks up to him with laughing admiration.
‘What do you mean, Guv – when you say you knew them?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘I used to knock about here – birds’ nesting, fishing, exploring.’ He grins. ‘Trespassing, in their gamekeeper’s book. They used to come for their summer holidays.’
‘Even after their parents died?’
‘Aye, well after.’
DS Jones remains thoughtful for a moment.
‘Do they recognise you?’
Skelgill throws back his head scornfully.
‘A peasant like me – what do you think?’
He digs his hands into his trouser pockets and saunters rather aimlessly over to the windows that give on to the Christmas cake lawn of his landing yesterday. His mood of urgency seems to have dissipated since their arrival at Crummock Hall, and now he calmly surveys the south-facing scene. There is a clear blue sky, though the winter sun is screened by the bulk of Grasmoor, which towers like a great white pyramid above the shelterbelt of conifers. He squints as he tries to determine the topography, but the flat light defies his efforts to spy familiar crags and gullies, and the blanket snow conceals the natural contour bands of first bracken, then heather, and finally rocky scree. His gaze falls closer to home as a movement in a shrub border catches his eye. He realises a flock of birds is busily plundering berries of guelder rose. He watches as they compete to gobble the glistening ruby globules, almost
too big to be a beak-full; yet they vanish in the way that a magician folds a foam ball into a palm. Though he is no ornithologist, he has a vague idea that these are waxwings – surely a sighting to have pleased Declan, who would no doubt know their collective noun.
‘So sorry to keep you waiting, officers – nobody told me you had arrived, now.’
Simultaneously the detectives swing around – the soft Irish accent might almost emanate from hidden speakers.
‘Good morning to you – I’m Perdita.’
The young woman has slipped unobtrusively into the carpeted drawing room; now she stops a couple of yards short of them. She links her hands behind her back and makes the tiniest bending movement at the knees, like a maidservant presenting herself for inspection. She is of below medium height and slight of frame and she wears a fitted short-sleeved dress in viridian that accentuates her narrow waist. She has a pale complexion and long strawberry blonde hair, parted rather mischievously to reveal fine upcurving brows; equally striking are high cheekbones and full pink lips, elegantly sculpted and set within a diamond face. And where green Irish eyes might be expected, dark brown irises merge with black pupils to produce an expression of dilated awe.
Skelgill is plainly swayed by her striking presence – though he might be thinking she is not the hearty hillwalker he anticipated. She detects his dubiety and smiles quizzically. Rather awkwardly he gestures that they should be seated – a matching pair of large country sofas are arranged perpendicular to the hearth, a low table between them, and they take opposing sides, DS Jones (who exchanges polite nods but whom Skelgill fails to introduce) settling undemonstratively beside her superior.
‘We were looking for a Rowena Devlin.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector?’
‘Yesterday – out on the fell.’
Skelgill’s contrary opening gambit seems designed to shift his disharmony back upon her. Perdita takes an anxious breath, her pale skin flushing at the cheeks. She raises finely boned hands in an apologetic gesture.
‘I had no idea my call would bring out the mountain rescue team – let alone a helicopter.’ She regards him from behind long fluttering lashes, and bites her lower lip in a signal of self-reproach. ‘And then I understand you abseiled into Crummock Hall. You’re something of a Local Hero.’
Murder at the Wake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 7) Page 5