Murder at the Wake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 7)

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘First thing that popped up on my screen when I searched for Edgar’s accountancy practice – he’s being sued for negligence by a bunch of his rich clients.’ (Skelgill makes no comment, but that DS Leyton can hear his breathing suggests he is at least listening.) ‘Seems he’d advised them on this great wheeze to dodge National Insurance – paying their bonuses into an offshore trust – but the taxman objected and took ’em to court. It ran for years – went all the way to the House of Lords and they ruled in favour of HMRC. The clients had to pay back all the tax they avoided, plus – and this was the killer – eight years’ compound interest at some punitive rate. So now they’ve raised a class action against Edgar’s firm for multi-million damages.’

  ‘He’ll have insurance, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s tone is unreasonably dismissive.

  For a moment DS Leyton is a little deflated. Gamely, however, he conjures a counter argument.

  ‘But that don’t always help, Guv. You know what insurers are like for finding loopholes. One of our kids put a light sabre through the brand new telly a couple of months back – we’ve got accidental damage cover but the company wouldn’t have none of it – said attacking Darth Vader’s no accident.’

  Now Skelgill makes a scoffing noise, as if to signify that his sergeant’s incongruous analogy proves his point. But DS Leyton is not finished.

  ‘There’s more, Guv – wait ’till you hear this.’ He pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect; but Skelgill sounds like he is yawning, and DS Leyton is obliged to reveal his hand. ‘The offshore trust was held in the British Virgin Islands – by none other than Regulus & Co merchant bank.’

  DS Leyton makes a humming noise, redolent of self-satisfaction, but falling just short of an overt expression that he rests his case. Skelgill – as might be predicted – remains obdurate and does not comment. Eventually he asks a rather banal question.

  ‘So what are you proposing?’

  ‘I’ve had a word with a contact in City of London Police, Economic Crime Directorate – old mucker of mine – we were on the same intake, years back. He said he’d find out what he could without making any waves – so’s not to let ’em know we’re sniffing around.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Thing is, Guv – I was thinking – if Edgar and Martius have cooked up something together – wouldn’t it make sense if I took Martius instead of Brutus?’ (Skelgill does not reply, so DS Leyton continues.) ‘Google “Owain Jagger” and a shedload of celebrity gossip comes up – he’s leading the life of Riley.’

  ‘So what, Leyton?’ Skelgill’s voice is rising.

  ‘I just thought, Guv – with Cassandra being a bit of a socialite and all – put the pair of them together and they’re right up DS Jones’s street – all this social media malarkey – it’s more her generation.’

  DS Leyton is treading on eggshells – and not just in subverting his superior’s instructions.

  ‘Leyton – she’s twenty-six – that’s not a different generation – your bairns are a different generation. You’ll be applying to draw your slippers next, man.’

  Of course, his sergeant makes a reasonable point – not least since he has unearthed a pecuniary connection between Martius and Edgar – but Skelgill is haunted by lurid fantasies that revolve around Brutus, aka Owain Jagger. And when his emotions hold sway, a logical hearing is unlikely – it takes something that appeals to his baser needs to provide an effective diversion. Unbeknown to DS Leyton this now arrives in the shape of a tray of antique silverware, Darjeeling tea and scones with jam and cream.

  ‘Leyton – that’s Thwaites here for me to interview.’

  Skelgill peremptorily hangs up the call.

  *

  ‘It’s just you and the staff left, Thwaites?’

  Skelgill mumbles these words through a mouthful of dough, and waves the intact portion of his scone in a semi-circle to illustrate his meaning. He reposes on one of the sofas in the drawing room, and has induced Thwaites to take a seat opposite. It is the first time he has had a proper look at the butler in broad daylight, and the man’s frailty is emphasised by his faded outfit, worn at the knees and elbows, lank grey hair and pallid complexion. As the afternoon sun’s rays stream through a long mullioned window set in the south-west corner of the room, spotlighting a myriad of tiny dust motes, the old retainer resembles a Jamesian ghost, ephemeral and insubstantial. Only his dark eyes, shining like horse chestnuts newly broken out of their involucres, reveal some sense of a more vital life force within.

  ‘That’s correct, sir. Master Martius went yesterday before luncheon as you know, and Miss Cassandra and Master Brutus and Master Edgar took a taxi last evening to Kendal, to catch the London express from Oxenholme. Mr Mullarkey departed early this morning – his office had managed to book him on a flight from Liverpool that took off at midday. Miss Perdita has decided to lodge in the vicinity, sir. She arrived by ferry from Ireland in her motor car, and there is no point in her going home, as she would have to be back in two days for Mr Declan’s funeral.’ Now he looks a little remorseful, and perhaps his professional pride has been offended that she has moved out. He pulls himself together, however, and puts positive spin on the matter. ‘She thinks she’d be better able to write – in what you might call more homely surroundings than rattling about in this big place, sir.’

  Skelgill regards the old man with a certain agonised indecision. An onlooker would presume he doubts the butler’s statement – but in fact what troubles him stems from his own sensibilities. While a career as a diplomat was never going to be his (and not just because of his station in life) – and while the culture of the Cumbrian farming community in which he is steeped is to call a spade a spade – he holds back – he plainly harbours some sympathy for the elderly retainer, a man with a modest background akin to his own, a man wounded in the service of Queen and country, and a man who has devoted his entire working life, well beyond normal retirement age, to his feudal employers. But Skelgill is Skelgill, and a policeman at that, and there are limits to his capability as regards beating about the bush.

  ‘I need to put it to you, Thwaites – it’s come to my attention – that concerning yourself there is an undisclosed matter – of paternity.’

  The watchful brown eyes become those of a rabbit caught in the headlights, widening to reveal yellowed sclerae and bloodshot rims, and the frail figure seems to shrink within his butler’s outfit, the fingers of his off-white gloves twitching involuntarily.

  ‘But – why – what – w-who has been saying something, sir?’

  The man’s stammer seems to disconcert Skelgill and he swivels at the waist and stares out of a window, as if some movement has caught his eye. Indeed, he rises and stalks across for a better view: there is nothing new to observe, other than that the guelder rose bushes – as foreseen by the professor – have been stripped of their fruits and abandoned by the voracious waxwings. He remains staring, however, upon the snowy scene.

  ‘Let’s just say a little bird told me.’

  Thwaites makes no reply; he seems petrified, grey as stone, unmoving in situ. It must be plain to Skelgill that his shot in the dark has found its target – yet he seems disinclined to press home his advantage. After a few moments he turns around, but remains at the windows, leaning against the sill. He digs his hands into his pockets, and lifts one shoe and inspects its scuffed toecap; he expels a reluctant sigh.

  ‘Thing is, Thwaites – it was commonplace in those days – you’d be far from the first to be born the wrong side of the blanket –’

  Skelgill suddenly becomes conscious of the other man’s movement – it is nothing major, but a distinctive start that is out of synch with his present demeanour. He glances up at Thwaites, contriving a sympathetic expression – but Thwaites has set his jaw and now presents a surprisingly defiant countenance.

  ‘But, sir – my father was an American airman.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His name was Hal, sir – Harold O’Rourke. I’m named a
fter him, sir. He was a nose-gunner on the Flying Fortresses. He was stationed at RAF Silloth for a time – a special assignment helping out on the Wellingtons – and that’s when he met my mother. He was shot down over the North Sea and listed missing in action. She never got to marry him, sir.’

  Now it is Skelgill’s turn to be rocked. He gazes blankly at Thwaites but then turns back to look out of the window, perhaps to conceal his consternation. That his lunchtime picking of his mother’s brains might have provided him with misinformation, he had not bargained for. She is sharp as a tack, with a memory to match – however, she was just a slip of a girl, of an age with little Harold Thwaites when these events might still have retained some salacious currency in the local grapevine. Of course – Minnie Graham might not be wrong. That Mary Ann Thwaites had a less than virtuous reputation is in a sense confirmed by her fleeting liaison with the American. It need not have stopped with him. That she was provided with protected employment and an estate cottage by Padraig O’More was reasonable evidence on which to base the supposition that there had been some relationship – Padraig O’More might have believed (indeed been induced to believe) that he was the source of her out-of-wedlock ‘trouble’; and perhaps even Mary Ann did not know who was the father-to-be. But if Aerial Gunner O’Rourke downed over Doggerland was responsible, then any embryonic theory of Skelgill’s concerning Thwaites’ as-yet-unasserted claim of succession as a half-brother to Sean and Declan O’More is likewise shot down in flames.

  While such thoughts assail Skelgill’s mind, his body is working to dispel any outward impression that he has been knocked off his stride. But a twitching of the shoulders is suggestive of an inner turmoil – something, perhaps a subtle aspect of Thwaites’ reaction, is telling him not to consign this idea to the trash. He swings about to find the butler watching with furrowed brow. Skelgill waves an arm in an offhand manner.

  ‘Not to worry Thwaites – if it turned out to be an issue – you know we can sort it with a simple DNA test. If we swabbed yourself – cross-referenced it with one of the family – that would soon clear up whether you were both related to her grandfather.’

  This hypothetical prospect seems to bring on a repeat bout of Thwaites’ initial unease. He swallows, with difficulty, his prominent Adam’s apple jumping like a trapped frog in the saggy gullet of a pelican. He inhales wheezily and now looks pleadingly at Skelgill.

  ‘I shouldn’t like to offend the family’s honour, sir.’

  Skelgill regards him reflectively for a few moments.

  ‘Aye – well – like you say – doesn’t sound like there’s any need for all that palaver.’

  Thwaites bows his head with excessive servility.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ He sounds as though he is taking an order for drinks.

  Skelgill breaks away from the window and strides to the grand piano where the family photographs are arranged. Thwaites watches his progress. Skelgill beckons him to follow.

  ‘What you can do, Thwaites, is tell me who would have known Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More.’

  Thwaites rises arthritically from the sofa; for a moment he seems in danger of toppling forwards, until of a fashion he straightens up and gains his balance. It strikes Skelgill that the old man himself could be doing with a walking stick, though it would not befit the duties of a butler. He shuffles across to where Skelgill is examining a print he has selected. It is a portrait of a group of men in tweeds, casually armed with expensive shotguns and lounging around the rear of a Land Rover Defender, labradors and working cockers milling at their feet.

  ‘That’s Mr Regulus there, sir.’ Thwaites indicates with a trembling gloved forefinger. ‘That would have been a shooting party – Mr Regulus used to bring his important clients up from London.’

  ‘So these are not his friends?’

  Thwaites shakes his head doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t recall any regular friends, sir – of Mr Regulus, or of himself and Miss Shauna as a married couple. It wasn’t very often that they came here together. There was a London crowd – but they were both well known in their particular spheres and had a lot of what you might call acolytes, especially Miss Shauna, being such a public figure. And as for business associates, Mr Regulus would invite different ones each time, as a rule, sir. I should say he only visited on average twice or thrice a year, sometimes just for a weekend. Although Miss Shauna was born here she’d moved away to drama school at an early age – I don’t she think had such an affinity with Crummock Hall. And Mr Regulus was very much a city person. It was the children that stayed for longer periods, for their school holidays, sir.’

  Skelgill nods pensively. He waves a hand rather hopefully at the collection of photographs.

  ‘Is there anyone here that jogs your memory, Thwaites?’

  The butler glances jerkily from one composition to another. His expression has the pained look of an eyewitness who is desperate to help but is unable to pick out a suspect. Finally he turns his attention back to the picture that Skelgill still holds. Skelgill angles the frame so he can better see.

  ‘My memory’s not so good these days, sir.’ Nonetheless he stabs with an index finger. ‘That gentleman might be Mr Mullarkey – the elder – I think he was an uncle or great uncle of the present Mr Mullarkey – but I believe he passed away, and that was why the young Mr Mullarkey took over, sir.’

  Skelgill scrutinises the image. Thwaites refers to one of seven or eight men in the shooting party; he looks a good generation older than the rest of the laughing group, and is positioned a little to one side. And certainly he bears a small resemblance to Fergal Mullarkey – there are the round protruding ears, and the same pattern of hair loss (though it is difficult to discern any colour due to the faded nature of the photograph). Skelgill makes a doubting face, but nonetheless digs his phone from a pocket.

  ‘I’ll ask him.’

  Now Thwaites stands by obediently while Skelgill composes a photograph and hands him the original. Skelgill extracts Fergal Mullarkey’s business card from his wallet and squints to read the small print of the mobile phone number.

  ‘What is it, +353 for Ireland?’

  ‘I believe so, sir.’

  Skelgill gives a little grunt of approval. ‘Look at that – full signal.’

  He taps in a brief note and transmits it along with the image, watching his handset with scepticism until it advises him the message has gone. He puts away the phone and then takes the picture back from the butler. He checks the reverse of the frame, but there are no markings of any kind.

  ‘When do you reckon this was?’

  ‘I should say in the spring of the year of The Accident, sir – or perhaps the autumn before.’

  Now Skelgill replaces the framed original on the grand piano. For a moment the butler looks like he would wish to rearrange the positioning, for Skelgill’s work is rather slipshod. However, his training gets the better of him and he suppresses any such inclination.

  ‘On the day of the drowning, Thwaites, they went fishing. Was that usual?’

  Thwaites seems a little reluctant to answer this question; his breathing appears to be troubling him.

  ‘It was Mr Declan’s boat, sir. He’d had it made ready the night before. But Mr Regulus was the headstrong sort, if you know what I mean, sir? Mr Declan was not too pleased when he discovered they’d taken it.’

  Skelgill’s expression has darkened at this revelation.

  ‘What about when he heard what had happened?’

  Now Thwaites seems positively embarrassed on behalf of his late master.

  ‘He wasn’t one to declare his emotions, sir – especially when it came to affection. If he complained at you it was his way of showing he cared, in a funny sort of way.’ (Skelgill exhibits a flicker of recognition in response to this notion, but remains silent.) ‘It’s difficult to remember too much about the time, sir.’ He pauses for thought, as if to illustrate his dilemma. ‘I do recall the police coming with his fishing rod – asking
him to identify it – he was awkward about that, because they’d wanted to keep it – as some kind of evidence, I suppose.’

  Inevitably this statement sparks Skelgill’s curiosity.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The rod floated, you see, sir – they found it long before they found the bodies.’ Thwaites looks discomfited. ‘Of course, sir – it was never used again – Sir Sean put a stop to all boating and fishing after that – but it’s hanging in the main hallway if you wanted to see it? That’s just outside, sir.’

  ‘Aye – why not.’

  It has not escaped Skelgill’s notice where there is fishing equipment displayed around the walls, and indeed he makes a beeline to the correct item. It is a traditional seven-foot split cane fly rod, with a cork grip and equipped with a brass reel stamped Hardy Bros, Alnwick. Skelgill needs no invitation to take it down from its brackets, adroitly unfastening the twisted wires that hold it in place.

  ‘They don’t make them like they used to, Thwaites.’

  ‘No, sir – I should think that applies to a good many things.’

  Skelgill weighs the rod in his hand, and turns it to examine the reel. It is set up right-handed, as most rods would be – but that does not stop Skelgill from experimentally stripping out half a dozen yards of line, the ratchet of the reel protesting like a chorus of cicadas in the great echoing hallway. He releases the fly from the hook keeper.

  ‘Thing is, Thwaites – this isn’t a boat rod.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘Best thing about split cane – it’s ideal for fishing on a beck, where’s there’s overhanging trees – tuck a short roll cast into the places where trout lie like no other material.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘Aye – watch this. See that Indian rug at the end of the hall?’

  Thwaites has no time to reply and can only lurch aside as Skelgill lifts the rod left-handed, and in a smooth movement draws it back at a low angle, avoiding the ceiling and loading the tip with line. Without interruption there is sudden swish – the rod has come alive, like a rapier in the hands of a skilled swordsman – and a curling loop of line is projected down the long hallway, the invisible leader with a final elegant flourish turning over to deposit the fly gently in the centre of the rug, some twenty feet away.