Skelgill smiles respectfully.
‘She didn’t sound all that clued up on this Triangular Trade business – least not as far as the O’More family is concerned. She reckoned her Great Uncle Declan had spun her some yarn about a curse put on them by an African witch doctor.’
‘Daniel, I suspect the mantle of disrepute is something the O’Mores have been trying to cast off since the abolition of slavery in 1833. That they might deny any such connection in family circles would not really be surprising. And of course this particular cohort is more detached than most – losing their parents so young – and growing up in the distant Home Counties. In any event, it is unreasonable to tar today’s generation with the bloody brush of their forebears.’
Skelgill nods ruefully. As a descendent on his mother’s side of the notorious Border reivers, Clan Graham, he would almost certainly be taken into custody this very minute if historical misdemeanours were heritable. And the Skelgills – of Viking blood – were probably little better. Notwithstanding, his next remark reveals that some flicker of injustice still burns within him.
‘But they live well on the back of it.’
The professor turns out his bottom lip.
‘Well – that is true, Daniel. But how many great estates – and even more modest family fortunes – were built on the shoulders of such iniquitous toil? Throughout our great cities and towns – not just our countryside – there are many people today who owe their fortunate lifestyles to the inhuman compliance of their forefathers. But who is going to set the record straight?’
Skelgill folds his arms and rests his elbows on the table.
‘What you say about avoiding the family association might be right, Jim. First off – they’ve none of them got Irish Christian names like the older generation. I guess that started with their mother. Then Martius calls himself Martius Regulus. Cassandra goes by one of her married names, Goodchild. You’ve got Owain Jagger and Rowena Devlin. Only Edgar has kept O’More in his surname.’
‘You make a convincing case, Daniel – although it is curious that the young authoress has chosen the plantations as the setting for her successful series.’ The professor taps the tips of his fingers together several times, reflecting his cogitations, stopping when he reaches a conclusion. ‘Perhaps she assuages her feelings of guilt – for her plots usually see an immoral master receive his come-uppance – albeit that the slaves can rarely prevail, and at best receive their freedom.’
Skelgill allows a small grin to crease his features. His host is plainly more of a fan of Rowena Devlin’s work than he would like to admit.
‘There doesn’t happen to be a story where the estate owner gets whacked on the back of the head by one of his slaves?’
Though Skelgill’s remark is facetious, the professor regards him quizzically.
‘I rather imagined you had in mind one of the family, Daniel?’
Skelgill makes a face of resignation and dunks another biscuit in his tea. He leaves it almost too long and has to duck for it as it begins to collapse.
‘I wish I knew what I had got in mind, Jim.’
‘Presumably they are the main beneficiaries?’
Skelgill scratches his head and then makes an attempt to comb some order into his hair, which has suffered beneath the trapper hat.
‘It’s not so straightforward. They can vote to sell or to keep the place running. They knew that before Declan’s murder. If they keep it on, no one gets any money. So there was no guarantee a killer would benefit.’
‘Unless he – or she – was confident of the outcome of the vote.’
‘If they’re being straight, it’s still up in the air. They’re meeting next weekend to discuss it.’
The professor now folds his hands together and rests his chin upon the bridge he forms.
‘Far be it for me to tell you your job, Daniel – I assume you have no clear leads outwith the motive of inheritance?’
Skelgill shrugs with frustration.
‘The staff stand to lose their jobs if Crummock Hall is sold. It’s hard to see why any of them would do it. They’re all long-servers – if it were a grudge, why wait until now?’
‘A fair point, Daniel.’
‘There’s no sign of a break-in or theft. We can’t rule that out, but it looks like Declan was struck from behind with his own walking stick while he was winding the clock in his study. You wouldn’t turn your back on someone you considered a threat.’
‘So where does that leave you, Daniel?’
Skelgill makes a sarcastic scoffing exclamation.
‘I’m coming round to the O’More family curse.’
The professor chuckles.
‘That sounds like we are back in Rowena Devlin territory.’
Skelgill nods reluctantly.
‘Seems Declan called her in to see him – warned her she was stirring up trouble – as far as we know she was the last person to see him alive.’
‘So he did not approve of her subject matter.’
‘Aye, looks that way. He’s got this tidy collection of old books – not a lot of fiction, by the look of it.’
The professor’s antennae twitch at this revelation.
‘Perhaps there is some clue hidden away there, Daniel.’ He hesitates and makes a tentative cough. ‘If at some point – you wanted me to cast an eye over them – I should be pleased to assist.’
Skelgill nods willingly.
‘I might take you up on that, Jim. The lawyer they’ve got – Mullarkey – is talking about taking the collection over to Dublin – for safekeeping. Declan died without making a will and it’s just about his only asset. Mullarkey’s worried if it’s left to fester in the house it’ll get picked apart and lose its value.’
‘That seems a reasonable assumption. You know how one’s books once lent are invariably considered to be the property of the borrower.’
At this statement Skelgill looks perplexed. As a man of not many books – a small but no less precious collection of field guides, manuals and maps – the idea of letting someone get their hands on, say, one of his precious Wainwrights is anathema.
‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’
The professor raises an amused eyebrow at the vehemence of Skelgill’s remark.
‘You know your Shakespeare, Daniel – Polonius, from Hamlet.’
‘I’d have said it was my old Ma.’
The professor chuckles willingly.
‘Ah – always a wise lady – and how is she these days – not suffering from the weather?’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘It’d take more than a drop of snow to knock her off her stride. Happen she’ll have the bike out this morning if they’ve ploughed the Honister.’
Now the professor shakes his head of white hair in admiration.
‘As you have demonstrated in your intrepid arrival, Daniel – it takes a lot to stop a Skelgill.’
Skelgill grins a little abashedly. He begins to rise.
‘Aye. Even though they don’t always know where they’re going. But I’d better make tracks or my sergeant’ll be putting a curse on me. Thanks for the tea, Jim – and I might just take you up on what you said about the books.’
‘You are most welcome, Daniel – it is a pleasure to see you any time – we must talk fishing when the conditions become more inclement.’
Skelgill is nodding, but as he turns a blue tit alights on the windowsill and catches his eye.
‘Jim – you’re a bit of a twitcher, aren’t you?’
Now the professor makes a face of mock disapproval.
‘Daniel – I prefer the term ornithologist, or bird-watcher. Birder at a push. The twitchers are another genus altogether. The storm troopers of the fraternity.’
Skelgill grins.
‘Aye – well I reckon I saw some waxwings this morning, at Crummock Hall – little flock of them feeding on a border of guelder rose. Is that likely? Pretty rare, aren’t they?’
The professor raises
his hands in the air, the gesture perhaps a throwback to his lecturing days.
‘Ah – they are indeed – and what a fascinating coincidence.’ He nods in the direction of his garden. ‘I had a flock here until Friday. Twelve birds. They spent three days stripping my ornamental rowans. Bombycilla garrulus, the Bohemian waxwing. They sweep across Britain from Russia and Scandinavia when the berry crop fails. The twitchers like them, because once they find a food source, they remain on site until it is exhausted – typically several days. There’s a good chance that the party you found was mine. Well done on the identification!’
Skelgill looks pleased with himself – but then a thought must strike him.
‘Aye – if only there were an Observer’s book of crooks, Jim.’
10. KESWICK – Monday 3.45pm
Skelgill lurks behind a rack of the latest hi-tech lightweight cagoules. The crackling gossamer shells are advertised as “100% waterproof” – which is perhaps just as well, for his face looks like thunder. Certainly it is an expression that deters any shop assistant from approaching – they would conclude that the hefty price tags have offended his sensibilities. In fact he is eavesdropping.
Nearby, DS Leyton confers with DS Jones. Upon completing his work at Crummock Hall and passing this way, feeling sympathy for her lonely vigil he has taken it upon himself to provide some company – knowing he can brief Skelgill upon his eventual arrival. In fact his findings have been rather mundane, and the present conversation revolves around the more titillating aspect of the case.
‘The missus saw me on the box. She reckoned I looked a bit like Columbo.’ DS Leyton is tickled by his minor taste of fame. ‘Until I got an earful and had to turf the news crew out.’
DS Jones chuckles.
‘They’ll be back – it’s not often we have A-listers around here.’
DS Leyton looks rather browbeaten.
‘Next thing – she was giving me grief about getting a selfie – wants to show off Owain Jagger to all her pals on Facebook.’
DS Jones leans towards her colleague conspiratorially.
‘You’re welcome to this one.’ She spins her mobile phone on the table surface.
DS Leyton grunts as he bends forwards. His eyes widen.
‘Cor blimey – looks like you’re well in there, girl!’
DS Jones smiles coyly.
‘I wasn’t expecting him to plant a kiss.’
This proves to be the final straw for Skelgill, who breaks cover and storms across the carpeted shop floor. However there is a small flight of wooden steps leading up to the raised café area, and his boots clump a warning. They see him coming, and DS Jones slides her handset from sight – though she cannot hide the telltale blush of her cheeks. His sergeants both rise but Skelgill ignores them and slumps down into one of two vacant chairs, his features grim. DS Leyton, correctly assessing the scale if not the source of his boss’s discontent, reverts to a tried-and-trusted tactic.
‘There you go, Guv – just got you these. Still nice and hot.’
Two-handed he pushes across the table a chocolate-sprinkled cappuccino and an appetising-looking toasted sandwich. Skelgill glares suspiciously at the offering.
‘Where’s yours?’
DS Leyton consults his wristwatch.
‘If I eat now, Guv – I’ll never manage my tea – then the missus’ll have a right old Darby and Joan.’
Skelgill stares at his subordinate for a couple of seconds – as though he doesn’t believe his explanation. (Or his doubt might just be that such a minor snack could possibly ruin one’s appetite.) Then decisively he tucks into the sandwich.
‘News.’
His question comes as a surly demand.
DS Leyton retrieves his notebook from his overcoat and thumbs cumbersomely through pages of surprisingly neat printing.
‘Top line, Guv – I wouldn’t call it news – but since when did turkeys vote for Christmas?’
DS Jones smirks, but Skelgill quashes her with a sharp glance. DS Leyton winces supportively and continues.
‘In a nutshell, Guv, it’s what we’ve already been told – most of Sunday we’ve only got their word for where they were. That’s apart from Perdita – who we know was missing between 12:30 and five o’clock – and Cassandra and Brutus – they’re sticking to their guns about bunking off to her bedroom for the afternoon. As things stand, Guv – creeping around in a great old place like that – any one of them could have sneaked off and done the murder.’
DS Jones is rather apprehensively watching Skelgill. Preoccupied with the toastie, he appears not to be paying attention. As far as she knows, he has not yet apprised DS Leyton of all the facts. It is not unlike Skelgill to leave his subordinates in the dark. Some might say this is typical of his sheer bloody-mindedness, but Skelgill would argue that if you tell a person what to look for, they will find it – at the expense of a potentially more important clue. He will happily investigate any number of byways and seemingly obvious blind alleys, and yet resist arriving at a tangible destination. It is a method that suggests a lacks of a coherency in his thinking – but Skelgill is neither a great thinker nor a man who cares particularly how others regard him. Peremptorily, he contradicts DS Leyton.
‘Not Perdita, it couldn’t.’
DS Leyton is no stranger to this situation. He also knows that Skelgill’s irritation could be entirely irrational, and may stem from anything ranging from the present lack of available fishing, to England’s ever-diminishing chances of winning a World Cup, in any sport. But nonetheless he struggles to find a suitable reply. It falls to DS Jones to break the impasse.
‘Guv – about the problem of timing – while I was waiting I called Dr Herdwick and explained your findings.’
Skelgill pauses mid-bite.
‘Aye?’
‘He’s digging his heels in.’
She retrieves her mobile phone and carefully manipulates the screen. She holds it so that Skelgill can see, but he gestures dismissively, meaning that she should read aloud.
‘He’s gone into quite a lot of detail, Guv. He repeats the caveats – but there’s this bit: “the progression of all key indicators, livor mortis, rigor mortis and algor mortis correspond to a prediction centred upon noon – an estimate to which a good degree of confidence can be attached since the examination took place within a few hours of death occurring.”’
Skelgill looks unimpressed. He finishes the sandwich and swallows down some coffee. He wipes froth from his lips with each hand and then rubs his palms on his thighs. However, he does not offer a rejoinder, and after a short while DS Jones feels sufficiently empowered to mention what is something of an elephant in the room.
‘Could you have been mistaken about the clock, Guv?’
Now Skelgill glares at her.
‘Have you got the logbook?’
‘In my bag.’ She reaches to pat an attaché case at her side.
‘Could you be mistaken about the entry?’
Skelgill’s tone is harsh. Meanwhile DS Leyton is looking increasingly perplexed.
‘What is this, Guv? Am I missing something?’
Skelgill folds his arms and assumes a rather weary pose.
‘Leyton – when I first went into the study the clock was stopped at 2pm. The pendulum was lying on the carpet. There was no way it could work. Then the study was locked for an hour before you arrived. But in that time the clock was changed to 12 noon.’ Skelgill gestures loosely at DS Jones. ‘Show him the book.’
DS Jones extracts Declan’s timeworn journal carefully from her bag and lays it on the table. The relevant page is marked with a slip of paper. With the delicately manicured nail of a slender index finger she indicates the most recent entry.
‘He went bird-watching between eleven fifty-five and one thirty-five. And he had time to write up his notes.’
DS Leyton shakes his head slowly and makes a ‘that’s-put-the-cat-among-the-pigeons’ face. Then he grins.
‘What about a ghost w
riter, Guv? They say the old place is haunted!’
Skelgill scowls and sinks back into his chair. He gazes across at the display counter, as though he might be assessing what to eat next. He seems reluctant to be drawn by his irrepressible sergeant’s banter – but, while his tone remains bleak, perhaps he sees an opportunity to shed the ill temper that has possessed him since his arrival.
‘That’s it, Leyton – you’ve cracked it. I’ll email the Chief right now. It’s the O’More family curse. A poltergeist walloped Declan with his walking stick, and now it’s playing tricks on us by changing the clocks.’
Sensing Skelgill’s brightening mood, his subordinates humour him with excessive laughter; he is obliged to accept the credit for his wit. And now DS Leyton takes the opportunity to impart another small snippet – one that perhaps will not entirely be to Skelgill’s satisfaction.
‘Talk of the walking stick, Guv. I spoke again to Thwaites – asked him if Declan was in the habit of leaving it anywhere else. He said not, but – you know what, Guv – he reckons it sinks in water – that sandalwood, it’s so dense. If some geezer did lob it in the lake, it would likely go under.’
Skelgill is still scowling, but it is now more out of curiosity than annoyance.
‘Leyton – the lake’s half frozen – you’d need a good arm to scop it out beyond the ice.’
DS Leyton makes an expression of agreement. He seems reassured that Skelgill has lapsed into the vernacular.
‘Maybe it’ll turn up soon as the snow melts, Guv – like you said.’
‘Aye – but it’s forecast sub-zero all week.’
They all nod reflectively and there is a silence of a few moments. Then Skelgill turns to DS Jones, and addresses her in a more benevolent tone.
‘How did you get on?’
DS Jones smiles patiently.
‘The Gilhooleys were interesting.’ Her face is suggestive of a small degree of martyrdom in undertaking the assignment. ‘They weren’t keen to let me in – not that it made much difference – the place was like a fridge – a little stone cottage that looks abandoned from the outside. It’s down a long track, at the north end of estate – I had to walk the last couple of hundred yards. They don’t have a car – they claim they got a lift to the funeral and have been snowed in since Friday afternoon. They’re both in their eighties and not what you’d describe as mobile. I’d wager there’s next to no chance of either of them breaking into Crummock Hall and committing murder. As soon as I mentioned the O’Mores the old man clammed up – but his wife started on – “Mark my words, lass, we’ll take what’s our right – see if we don’t.”’ DS Jones mimics the local Lorton accent with tek and reet and dunt.
Murder at the Wake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 7) Page 11