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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Ah, sandalwood.’ Toby Vellum, who has taken several paces into the centre of the room, pauses with eyes closed and head tilted back, his hands held out as if he is sampling the ether between his fingers and thumbs like it is fine quality cloth. ‘And the glorious smell of old books.’

  He turns to find Skelgill regarding him with suspicion, and he feels the need to explain.

  ‘Sorry, Inspector – for some reason I was expecting something – unnatural – you know, since the death occurred in here?’

  Skelgill’s next reply of “aye” is one that hints at distraction, and Toby Vellum wastes no time in approaching the massed ranks of shelves that line the wall ahead of them. He rocks before them in a kind of awe, like a small child that has been let loose in a Victorian sweet shop, hands clasped and eyes bulging, suffocating in the ecstatic indecision of whether to gorge upon aniseed balls or to feast upon golden toffee humbugs.

  ‘I’d appreciate if you didn’t touch anything, sir.’

  Skelgill’s tone is rather harsh – as though he expects Toby Vellum is about to lose control and pounce upon the shelves, dragging out book after book, discarding them carelessly each time he spies a better one.

  ‘Certainly, Inspector – I quite understand.’

  Indeed, he is true to his word, and begins to stoop and rise and sway rhythmically from side to side – a new incarnation – his hands now circling, his fingers fluttering, like a pianist, a virtuoso, lost in the movement of some great symphony that plays in his head. There is a good half-minute of air-piano, until finally he comes to his senses.

  ‘Just a few shots, Inspector – as I had hoped, it looks like I shall be able to capture everything I need – most of the books are easily recognisable from their spines.’

  Skelgill watches in silence as Toby Vellum pulls out a compact digital camera from a pocket of his greatcoat and methodically sets about snapping a section at a time.

  ‘Some of these yours, were they, sir?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, Inspector – certain volumes I recognise having sourced personally in the past few years – although I imagine when I cross-reference our files I shall discover many more.’

  ‘What sort of records have you got?’

  Toby Vellum makes a sharp intake of breath, a prelude to an apology.

  ‘We are rather Dickensian I’m afraid, Inspector. When they invented computers they passed us by. All of our billing is still manual – we just have great dusty old ledgers – and paper invoices – for our bookkeeper – hah-ha!’

  Skelgill manufactures an affable grin – perhaps surprisingly he seems to find the anachronistic fellow tolerable company – and he affects to be amused by what must be a rather hackneyed joke in the trade.

  ‘When was the last time you supplied a book to Declan O’More?’

  Toby Vellum inhales in a way that indicates it involves some racking of his brains.

  ‘I should say it was in August this year – a first edition Familiar Wild Flowers, series 1 to 5 bound in a 3-volume set – published by Cassell, 1890 if I recall correctly.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘My father has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the genres in which our regular clients specialise – as you can see, in Declan’s case it was primarily natural history and the local environment – so he would contact him when something of interest came on the market. Less often Declan might get in touch with an inquiry – something he wanted us to locate.’

  Skelgill regards the shelves rather broodingly. Toby Vellum busies himself with photography, occasionally expressing an “ooh” or an “aah” as he spots some particularly edifying title, Interesting Rock Lichens of Granite Tors, perhaps.

  ‘I thought it was all going digital these days – with your e-readers and apps and whatnot?’

  ‘Thankfully, Inspector that shall never apply to antiquarian books.’ He addresses the shelves and sweeps a proprietorial arm. ‘How wonderful to be surrounded by such craftsmanship – and of course one’s book collection is one’s very own autobiography. It tells a story of a man and his life.’

  Skelgill looks like he is pondering how this notion would apply to him: his haphazardly filed though fiercely guarded compilation of field guides and maps with their squashed mosquitos, and oil-thumbed how-to manuals, and piles of dog-eared magazines, spanning his interests from fishing and fell-running to real ale and Triumph motorcycles.

  ‘What would that set of Wainwrights fetch?’

  Toby Vellum looks suddenly alert, and his face assumes a mask of professional caution.

  ‘Ah – that was more my father’s bag – I should need to consult our records and do a bit of research. Is it something you are interested in acquiring, Inspector?’

  Skelgill looks surprised – and sheepish – that his covetousness has been revealed.

  ‘I’ve got them all – mostly modern editions, like.’

  Toby Vellum nods thoughtfully.

  ‘The proof of the pudding will be in the eating – the price they command when they go to auction.’

  Skelgill now seems perplexed – that Toby Vellum apparently knows something he does not. Has he received word of a planned sale?

  ‘I thought the idea was to keep the collection together – that it’s worth more that way?’

  Toby Vellum in turn appears puzzled. And now maybe increasingly guarded.

  ‘I should be very surprised if that were the case, Inspector. As I say, collections are so personal – it would be rather like buying out the entirety of someone’s wardrobe. Unless the purchaser is looking for wallpaper – but in that case it would be far cheaper to buy books of a lesser pedigree, or faux books – they can look just as well if it’s only for décor.’ He strokes his moustache pensively. ‘No, I should say maximum value would be realised by breaking the collection down into its constituent parts, individual sets, perhaps grouped into interests – British birds for instance.’

  Skelgill does not answer, but Toby Vellum is clearly a confident chap by nature, and in possession of a sharp mind to boot.

  ‘You are not by any chance thinking that Declan’s death had something to do with his books, Inspector?’

  His expression is curious, for he looks slightly horrified – perhaps it is the realisation that his all-enveloping passion could be connected to the despicable event.

  ‘Seems it’s his only asset – and a valuable one.’

  This is a surprisingly candid admission from Skelgill, and it is hard to imagine that he makes it without some Machiavellian purpose. However, his countenance is that of a local country copper baffled by an unfathomable mystery; that flails about and clutches at this insubstantial straw. Toby Vellum lowers his camera and turns to face Skelgill; he blows out his cheeks and now looks for all the world like a pupil in a school production playing the part of a false-moustached adult who has been confronted with shocking news concerning the parson’s wife and the verger.

  ‘But, Inspector – surely that would point the finger at the beneficiary?’

  Skelgill shrugs somewhat helplessly.

  ‘Aye – except there isn’t one. At least, not as far as we know.’

  ‘Oh – well – oh dear.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Well – I was just contemplating, Inspector – I mean – this is pure speculation – and rather wishful thinking – but imagine if he had left them to us – to Aloysius Vellum & Co!’

  Now he looks entirely disconcerted.

  ‘That’s not likely, is it, sir?’

  Toby Vellum slowly scratches his head, and replies in a distracted manner.

  ‘Well – actually – no I rather think not – but I suddenly imagined that – well, say you knew that – and you’ve allowed me in here – and I’ve been jolly well swooning over his books – it wouldn’t have looked very good.’

  ‘Happen if you’d have known they were coming to your firm you might have been a bit more restrained, sir.’
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br />   Toby Vellum thinks about this and grins rather inanely.

  ‘Yes – I believe you are right, Inspector.’

  ‘Still – I wouldn’t mind you letting us know what you reckon it’s all worth – when you’ve done your valuation.’

  ‘Why, certainly, Inspector – you shall be the first to –’

  Before he can complete his sentence there comes a sharp knock upon the study door. Skelgill scowls – it means someone has crossed the police tape in the hall – and holds up a hand to indicate that he will deal with the matter. It would appear to be neither the self-important, self-styled Martius Regulus, who last time simply burst in, nor Thwaites, who has the polite servant’s habit of making a cough and calling out “Sir?” – indeed, when Skelgill opens the door he is met by the gratuitously grinning clownish countenance of Fergal Mullarkey, who immediately begins to apologise.

  ‘Sorry to butt in, Inspector – the buffet has just been served – the family wondered if you would like to join us while it is still hot?’ He cranes to see around Skelgill into the study. ‘And young Vellum there, of course.’

  Toby Vellum grins rather self-consciously, and Skelgill is quick to note the unspoken exchange between the pair, tradesmen as they are, their firms long-standing purveyors of their respective services to the O’More clan. He might wonder if there is a little contest of pecking order – surely a solicitor would rank himself above a bookseller? – albeit that Toby Vellum’s business card boasts a string of letters after his name the equal of Fergal Mullarkey’s, in quantity if not in quality. And there might also be an element of reproach – for it occurs to Skelgill that through his good offices Toby Vellum has managed to gain access to the book collection when, for all he knows, such an opportunity has been denied by the family. However, all this is in a fleeting moment, and Fergal Mullarkey brings with him the waft of piping hot sausage rolls (at least that would be Skelgill’s guess), and Skelgill’s stomach makes up its mind on behalf of both of them.

  ‘Aye – we’re done in here.’

  *

  If Skelgill feels like a gatecrasher at the wake he is sufficiently thick-skinned not to notice those disparaging glances cast in his direction; undaunted he forages along the trestle table that has been set up in the drawing room. His dedication wins the approval of the portly maid who serves the finger buffet, content that at least one person appreciates the efforts of the staff. Certainly the Regulus-O’Mores do not exhibit any great appetite (preferring liquid sustenance), and it is only the muttering coterie of black-clad undertakers who, in a shadowy alcove, like Skelgill have seriously availed themselves of the facility, balancing full plates with one hand and rather surreptitiously knocking back glasses of sherry with the other.

  When Skelgill turns with his own plate amply stocked he finds himself a singleton. Beside the piano a cornered Toby Vellum is on the receiving end of a lecture from Fergal Mullarkey. The family members have divided into two groups. Martius and Edgar confer beneath the portrait of their great grandfather, Padraig Willoughby O’More; Cassandra and Brutus engage in a more animated conversation upon one of the sofas by the hearth, heads together they whisper and giggle and give every impression of being liberally oiled. Perdita sits opposite them; she seems relaxed, if a little detached from their hilarious wrangling. Skelgill saunters across to gaze out of the windows. It is another cold, clear day, and the mercury has struggled to rise above freezing – certainly in the now-shaded garden all looks frosty. He is chewing pensively, staring at the border of guelder rose bushes – now merely inauspicious bare brown twigs stripped of their festive scarlet baubles – when there is a light tug upon his sleeve.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts, Inspector.’

  The soft Irish accent seems to infiltrate his reverie like a ripple over sand, and it is a moment before he swallows and slowly looks upon Perdita’s upturned countenance. If he has not noticed her beauty to date then he cannot fail now to be captivated, for the solemnity of the occasion seems to lend to her a tragic allure. He appears a fraction overawed.

  ‘I was just thinking about bird-watching.’

  ‘Of taking it up?’

  ‘No – no.’ Absently he combs the fingers of his free hand through his hair. ‘I’ve got enough daft hobbies to last a lifetime.’

  He doesn’t add anything more and there follows a slightly awkward silence. But Perdita is unfazed, and she seems to be taking some pains to choose her words. Over her shoulder Skelgill notices that Thwaites, holding a decanter top and bottom in his white-gloved hands, is looking at them rather anxiously, and seems to be trying to decide whether he may come across and interrupt. In the event – to his evident chagrin – he is diverted by a request from the maid and sidles crablike from the drawing room, casting a somewhat anguished glance back in their direction. Now Perdita finds her voice.

  ‘Remember we said, “some other time”, Inspector?’

  ‘Aye?’

  She grins impishly – now cheered it seems.

  ‘I thought, perhaps – to escape from this rather stifling atmosphere – would you accompany me on a walk down to Buttermere? We could slip out unobtrusively.’

  Skelgill’s first reaction is to glance about the room, as though concerned for eavesdroppers – but then he leans back and examines her footwear: she still has on the après ski snow boots she wore for church. She moves to allay any objection he might make.

  ‘I shall be fine with these if we stick to the road – but oughtn’t we go – before it gets dark?’

  Skelgill regards her through narrowed eyes. There is a hint of admiration in his expression, for she closes like a skilled saleswoman.

  ‘Fine by me – my car’s there anyway – I hitched a lift up with that Vellum character in his Spitfire.’

  She inclines her head by way of understanding. Then her manner becomes a little more conspiratorial.

  ‘Just one thing, Inspector – I believe there are two pubs in the village – would you object if we tried the other?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Good ale, all the same.’

  ‘And good company, I hope?’

  She affects to be offended by his priorities. He reddens a little.

  ‘Aye – right – I meant –’

  But now she interrupts him with a little peal of liquid laughter, and she moves towards him and stares at him quizzically. He is obliged to speak.

  ‘What is it?’

  She touches her chin lightly, a glint in her brown eyes, like she is daring herself to act. And then, before he can recoil, she reaches and wipes something from his chin and slowly sucks it from her fingertip. She giggles mischievously.

  ‘Cranberry sauce, Inspector.’

  15. THWAITES – Saturday 8am

  ‘Guvnor?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s me – Leyton.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Skelgill’s voice, crackling and hoarse, sounds like he has just woken.

  ‘Where are you, Guv?’

  ‘Where am I?’ Now he could be asking himself. He clears his throat with some difficulty. ‘Buttermere.’

  ‘Stay at your Ma’s, Guv?’

  There is a momentary hiatus before Skelgill replies.

  ‘Get to the point, Leyton.’

  Skelgill has inserted a graphic adjective before the noun. His irritation, elevated at the outset, now rises to cause DS Leyton to become even more tentative.

  ‘It’s the butler, Guv – Harold Thwaites.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s dead, Guv.’

  *

  By the time Skelgill reaches Crummock Hall it appears its occupants have been roused and have gathered in the drawing room. He pokes a cursory head around the door to see them clustered on the sofas before a weak fire, tousle-haired and bleary-eyed and wrapped in dressing gowns, cupping mugs of coffee that may be fortified with the cognac that is conspicuous in their midst, cap off and half consumed. They pay little heed to him, or that
he wears the same outfit in which they last saw him at the funeral – if indeed they paid any attention then. But he wastes no time and stalks away; the staff quarters are situated on the upper floor of the old stable block, converted in Edwardian days, when Padraig Willoughby O’More acquired the first motor car in this part of Cumberland. Skelgill is taking the narrow stairs two at a time when a shadow falls across his path. It is the bulky figure of police pathologist, Dr Herdwick. He stands, arms akimbo, a battered leather Gladstone bag held at one side, his rough-hewn features twisted in mock censure.

  ‘What kept you, lad – thought this was your local patch?’

  Skelgill affects a simper but does not offer an explanation. The doctor seems intent upon descending, and there is a momentary awkwardness. Now the doctor sets his jaw.

  ‘That said, don’t reckon there’s owt for thee, lad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Carbon monoxide poisoning – died between midnight and two.’

  Skelgill suddenly winces and raises a hand to his brow as though he suffers a jag of pain.

  ‘Are we talking suicide?’

  The older man shakes his head decisively.

  ‘We’re talking poor ventilation, lad. Plus a coal fire.’

  Of course, while it is for Skelgill and others to establish such practical facts, his medical colleague is no stranger to events of this nature, and Skelgill knows better than to question his judgement without basis. He notes, however, that the doctor’s reply does not dismiss outright his suggestion. He takes a step upwards.