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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘My word, sir – that’s very impressive if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  Skelgill settles for a shrug of affected modesty; now he inverts the rig so he can reel in – with a final deft flick he retracts the leader and grabs it just above the fly. He inspects the lure with interest.

  ‘Greenwell’s Glory.’ (The butler looks a little nonplussed.) ‘You don’t fish, Thwaites?’

  ‘No, sir – never, tried it sir.’

  Skelgill dangles the fly for the man to see.

  ‘It’s the name of the pattern. Invented by a vicar from County Durham in the eighteen hundreds – for trout streams. If you ask me, Declan was planning to fish the outflow of the Cocker – or Buttermere Dubs, at a push.’

  Thwaites nods obediently.

  ‘I couldn’t really say, sir. I recall he sometimes fished Bassenthwaite.’

  ‘Lake.’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  Bassenthwaite Lake. Bassenthwaite’s a settlement.’

  ‘Of course, sir – that’s right.’

  Skelgill looks like he is about to trot out his little maxim – but must realise there is a danger of the conversation drifting into an unproductive backwater.

  ‘Did Edward Regulus fish much when he came here?’

  ‘Not as I recall, sir – as I mentioned, he was a city person, you see – I think he liked the idea of country pursuits – but he didn’t have a great deal of practical experience.’

  ‘Reckon that was the cause of the accident?’

  ‘What else could it have been, sir?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Happen they had an argument – an altercation – swamped the boat?’

  Thwaites looks troubled.

  ‘I suppose it’s possible, sir.’

  Skelgill notes that the old retainer doesn’t reject the idea out of hand.

  ‘How did they get on together?’

  ‘It could be a little combustible at times, sir. Mr Regulus was accustomed to getting his own way – and of course Miss Shauna she had what you might call a fiery temper when it came to standing up for herself – that’s in the O’Mores’ nature – young Miss Perdita being a case in point – though a proper little lady she’s turned out to be, sir, and artistic like her mother.’

  He reflects on this analysis with some satisfaction. Then suddenly he seems unnerved to find Skelgill watching him closely. He folds his hands in front of him in the servant’s pose of attention, and waits to be addressed. Skelgill duly obliges.

  ‘Still – they must have been alright if they went fishing – the last thing you do if you want to avoid someone is go out with them in a boat.’

  Thwaites is forced to accept this logic – certainly he offers no rejoinder – and his mind would not be trained to work like Skelgill’s, who could imagine half a dozen reasons why you would take someone out in a boat if you wished them ill.

  Skelgill hands over the rod for Thwaites to return to its place on the wall. For a moment the old butler apes Skelgill’s original action, and weighs the rod in his hands as though he is thinking about giving it a whirl. But he frowns when he realises something is amiss.

  ‘The winder seems to be on the wrong side for me, sir – I’m afraid I’m left-handed.’

  Skelgill grunts approvingly.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Thwaites – sign of intelligence.’

  13. HEADQUARTERS – Wednesday 11am

  It is not every year that winter coats the countryside in such abundance – in fact on this scale it is more of a once-in-a-decade event – and Skelgill is unaccustomed to the view that greets him each morning from his office window. As the late dawn unveils the bleak beauty of the snowscape he observes a phenomenon that seems to fascinate him: that, while under ordinary conditions the rolling farmland rising to the distant Howgills is a flat and amorphous vista blending browns and greens and greys with no particular landmarks, beneath its blanket of snow it is transformed into a detailed diagram – almost a 3D map – in which every tree and brake and wall and barn is meticulously inked in black upon white; up to the naked eye’s limit, even every sheep is visible. If there is an analogy to be drawn, perhaps he wishes for some magical lycopodium powder – like that used for fingerprinting of old – that could be sprinkled about Crummock Hall to bring out the salient details of this case. But there is a complication – a fourth dimension – he has encountered a time-warp; events stretching back over decades and even centuries might hold some import and inform his rudimentary theories; thus the amorphous landscape prevails in his own mind’s eye.

  ‘Got that coroner’s report, Guv – courier just dropped it off with George at the front desk. Had it copied for us.’ DS Leyton’s tone is matter of fact; clearly he is not expecting praise for whatever heroic endeavours have circumvented the system.

  Skelgill does not respond immediately, instead he remains standing at the window, gazing out. But his sergeants have arrived in tandem, and while DS Leyton brings news DS Jones bears supplies from the canteen, and these turn his head: aromatic bacon rolls and piping hot teas. Skelgill is quick to exchange places: he regains his seat and pulls a plate and a mug from the tray, she assumes her station beneath the window, taking just a black tea. DS Leyton carefully positions a copy of the report on the desk – but not so close as to suggest that Skelgill ought actually to read it. He, too, helps himself to comestibles.

  ‘Thanks, Emma – good on you, girl.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Skelgill, already tucking in, raises an eyebrow in her direction, which may be a token acknowledgement, an obligation felt in light of DS Leyton’s more profuse thanks – however it might be deduced that he still resents her absence yesterday.

  ‘Bacon’s a bit on the streaky side this morning, Guv.’

  Though there is a certain verisimilitude in what DS Leyton says, in fact it is a conversational point (perhaps raised to snuff out the flicker of disharmony) rather than a well-founded complaint. Skelgill, ducking into a double-handed bite, looks up critically.

  ‘Leyton – if you can’t finish it, I’ll have yours.’

  Now DS Leyton clearly feels under pressure – he realises he has made a slip and must disappoint his boss – when it comes to his stomach, Skelgill ranks quantity before quality.

  ‘Ah – well, Guv – I’ll give it a chance – reckon I’ve got one notch still spare on the old belt.’

  Skelgill gives a disparaging toss of the head, and then indicates the coroner’s inquest report – meaning he wants to know what it says. DS Leyton hoists his plate onto the filing cabinet beside his regular seat, and brushes flour from his fingers before locating his own copy.

  ‘I’ve had a quick butcher’s, Guv. Top line: verdict of death by misadventure – no suspicious circumstances. Both parties drowned. No lifejackets worn – nor any found. Sir Sean Willoughby O’More gave evidence that Shauna O’More was a competent swimmer, but that he believed Edward Regulus was not. Her silk scarf was wrapped round his wrist, and it was suggested she’d tried to tow him to safety but it proved too much for her.’

  Skelgill is munching pensively, regarding his subordinate through narrowed eyes. Of course, he knows this detail, but at the moment he shows no inclination to mention it. DS Leyton continues.

  ‘It was recorded that because the boat was never recovered, it was impossible to say whether there was any third-party liability – but, after all, it belonged to Crummock Hall – it’s not like they rented it from one of these boat-hire companies.’

  ‘It belonged to Declan, Leyton.’

  ‘Straight up, Guv?’ Beneath DS Leyton’s inquisitive frown it is apparent that he is trying to guess what Skelgill expects him to make of this. He dives for cover back into the document. ‘It was also noted that they were inexperienced on water – however, the conditions were calm and the witness who raised the alarm reported that the boat hadn’t capsized – it was sinking.’ Now he scratches his head rather absently. ‘You’d think it would float even
if it filled with water, Guv – then you could just hang on to the side?

  Skelgill treats his sergeant’s question as rhetorical, and does not offer a reply. But now DS Jones weighs in with a more direct inquiry.

  ‘Guv – I know this is a daft question – but how would a boat fill with water?’

  Skelgill pounces upon the opportunity to show his expertise, as long-standing skipper of a tub not dissimilar to that which went down with the Regulus-O’Mores. He holds up a quelling palm while he gulps tea to clear his throat.

  ‘Any wooden boat leaks to some degree – but usually we’re talking minor. It all depends how you’ve looked after it. See – wood swells when it’s wet – on a clinker-built boat that swelling can break the internal structures of the strakes where they’re pinned by the copper rivets. Let the boat dry out – the wood shrinks – except now it’s damaged. When it’s soaked again it can’t expand to its original size – so you get little gaps that won’t reseal.’

  DS Jones is nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘Surely it would be obvious if it leaked?’

  ‘Not if it were holed an inch above the waterline. Might have been overlooked with just Declan using it – then two folk get aboard and maybe take a load of gear – wine bottles, picnic hampers, whatever – that causes the draught to increase – now it’s holed below the waterline.’ He pauses to allow the facts of Archimedes’ Principle to sink in. ‘Water trickles down the hull and gathers beneath the bottom boards. Be easy not to notice – especially if you’re a novice. So the draught grows by the minute. Then maybe there’s another leak, a bit higher up, and this comes into play – now you’ve got water ingress in two or more places. And if there’s no baler – she’s filling to the gunnels – what do you do?’

  His tone is ominous, and DS Leyton shudders, self-confessed landlubber that he is. But DS Jones correctly interprets the peculiar workings of Skelgill’s ego.

  ‘What would you do. Guv?’

  Skelgill gives a casual but self-important shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘If I had a non-swimmer in the boat – I’d make sure their lifejacket was inflated. Then row like the clappers towards the nearest shallows. If you must sink, may as well make it somewhere you can salvage the boat from.’

  Skelgill’s disproportionate concern for his craft does nothing to allay DS Leyton’s fears, and he remains disconcerted by the prospect.

  ‘Guv, from what the eyewitness said – sounds like they were panicking – they weren’t going nowhere – only down.’

  Skelgill does not respond – instead he becomes submersed in a brown study. He consumes the last remnants of his bacon roll in silence. There is a rather sinister question that has been threatening to bob to the surface of their discussion; now DS Leyton rather candidly dredges it up.

  ‘Reckon there’s more to it, Guv? Some connection with old Declan? Think he could have known about the condition of the boat?’

  Skelgill blinks a few times and gazes rather vacantly at his sergeant. Then he wipes his lips on his cuff.

  ‘You tell me, Leyton.’ It is a frustrating response, however he tempers it with some unexpected praise. He pats the hitherto uninspected document lying upon his desk. ‘Good job on getting this – last time I spoke to that archivist it was like drawing teeth.’

  DS Leyton looks suddenly pleased with himself – but it is a short-lived indulgence, for he realises Skelgill’s commendation is a backhanded compliment aimed at DS Jones. Now Skelgill regards her with a certain impatience – unfairly so if he alludes to her day off, when she could not be expected to work. Yet such an assumption would be to underestimate her diligence, intelligence and – not least – her speed-reading proficiency. As Skelgill inhales to speak she interjects.

  ‘About Declan, Guv.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘It occurred to me that we’ve got a kind of diary – a slice of life at least – I was looking at his nature log – first thing this morning.’ Skelgill is scowling doubtfully, but DS Jones presses on, undeterred. She holds up her copy of the coroner’s inquest report. ‘In here it states that when the police contacted Crummock Hall to check if Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More were missing it was 1pm.’ She pauses for dramatic effect – though Skelgill remains disinterested. ‘According to his logbook, on the afternoon of the drowning Declan went bird-watching between two o’clock and four. From the entry you wouldn’t know it wasn’t just an ordinary day. And – incidentally – the coroner’s report also notes that he did not give evidence at the inquest because he was too ill to attend.’

  These revelations certainly have the effect of stunning DS Jones’s colleagues into a silence. Skelgill seems reluctant to show any particular reaction – but DS Leyton’s broad fleshy features become twisted into a mask of consternation. It is he that speaks first.

  ‘Cor blimey – that’s bang out of order.’ He rattles his sheaf of papers. ‘This says Sir Sean mobilised all the staff and led them down to the lake – they were frantic, searching the banks in the area the boat was last sighted. And old Declan goes bird-spotting!’

  Now the two sergeants turn to Skelgill to await his pronouncement. He gnaws rather distractedly at a thumbnail.

  ‘We’ve heard he was a recluse.’ He spits a sliver, real or imaginary. ‘All Declan knew was they were missing, not dead.’

  This appears to be the sum of what Skelgill has to say on the matter – it is typical that he refuses to be drawn; like a patrolling pike eschewing a juicy bait, he acknowledges its presence but mistrusts the particular swim in which it dangles, conditioned by the scars of some narrow scrape of old. Yet DS Jones – who could be excused for trying to curry favour – has a point that is both apposite and thought provoking; DS Leyton might have procured the elusive coroner’s report, but it is she that has made something of it. Could Declan have been complicit in ‘The Accident’ – and might such a possibility provide a connection to his untimely death?

  However, their conference is about to be turned topsy-turvy: Skelgill’s office door opens uninvited, and the mustelid-like features of DI Alec Smart become insinuated in the crack. He sidles in like a grinning cartoon character with the power to slip through improbably small gaps, taking care not to besmirch the designer suit that clothes his angular frame.

  Skelgill’s expression blackens, and he looks like he is about to berate DI Smart in no uncertain terms for his unwelcome entrance – but the interloper is quickest to the draw.

  ‘Tasty line for you, Cock – no strings attached.’ He addresses Skelgill directly, his nasal Mancunian drawl imbuing his words with a guileful undertone. ‘Chief forwarded me your initial report on your little celebrity difficulty.’

  Skelgill folds his arms and sinks against the back of his chair, his knotted brows a wall of dark distrust. That DI Smart has invoked the rank of their senior officer – and painted the case as problematic – succeeds in putting him on the defensive. Now DI Smart gains in confidence, and takes a couple of casual steps into the centre of the floor.

  ‘Not exactly your bag, eh, Skel? City slickers and celebs and not a country bumpkin to be seen.’

  Skelgill seems tongue-tied and can only glower more fervently. DI Smart preens, brushing at the lapels of his merino jacket and inspecting the shine on his outrageously pointed footwear.

  ‘She knows it’s right up my street – soon sort it with the right team under me.’

  Head still bowed, his salacious grin widens and he flashes a sidelong glance at DS Jones. She squirms uncomfortably beneath his eviscerating scrutiny – and not least his blatant and somewhat lewd double-entendre. Today she wears more comfortable attire for desk-based work – indeed she has arrived in Skelgill’s office in what might be a trendy Aran sweater, perhaps anticipating her superior’s habit of keeping open the windows, whatever the weather. However, her lithe lower limbs are sheathed in her trademark stretch jeans, and it is this feature of her anatomy that attracts DI Smart’s flagrantly roving eye. Now he winks at h
er – and tugs at his tie and casts about as though he is looking for a mirror in which to admire himself.

  ‘Chance for someone to get their glad rags on – jaunt to London I reckon, rub shoulders with the glitterati.’

  His intimation is plain to his fellow officers – and quite likely he has made a play to the Chief to take over Skelgill’s case. That he is not gleefully bearing news of a proclamation to this effect, however, suggests any such attempt has been rebuffed – for the time being, at least. Skelgill might not be best versed in regard to high society, but he does have local provenance on his side – and perhaps this is recognised by the powers that be. Skelgill must detect that the balance of power still rests in his favour, and at last contrives a rejoinder of sorts.

  ‘Aye, well – happen the right team’s in place already, Smart.’

  DI Smart shrugs indifferently, but in a way that at once openly admits defeat and suggests that any such victory of Skelgill’s will prove to be in vain. He digs his hands into his pockets and whistles a couple of bars. It is clear that any meaning is lost on Skelgill – but DS Jones patently identifies what is the theme tune of Empty Hollow, in which ‘Owain Jagger’ of course stars. Unnoticed by her two male colleagues, whose eyes are upon DI Smart, her cheeks redden.

  ‘Like I was saying, Skel – got a little line for you. Your report states that the four O’Mores that live down south have returned to London.’ Now he pointedly looks at DS Jones, who is compelled to shy away and examine her notes. ‘But your posh soap star Brutus was spotted incognito in a local hostelry yesterday.’

  ‘Which hostelry?’ The pressure cooker that is Skelgill’s pent-up ire has him hissing this question before he can contain himself.

  Now DI Smart comes over rather coy.