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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘You must be thinking we all shipped out in haste.’

  Her question could be considered as subtly probing, however, she says it as a statement, an apology almost, and Skelgill shrugs in a way to suggest it is not for him to judge – and perhaps she appreciates this – for she relaxes back into the corner of the settee so that she may better regard him.

  ‘On my part – you know, I honestly couldn’t face going back there this morning. It is such sad news about dear old Mr Thwaites – coming on top of everything else. And despite not really knowing him – I mean, as an adult, having so rarely visited – he was always very kind to me – right from when I was a tiny child. I guess I got singled out for special treatment, being the wee one. You know – he unfailingly remembered to set out my cutlery left-handed? Sure, he seemed pleased by that.’ She gives a little ironic laugh. ‘Over here you get called a ciotóg – the strange one.’

  Skelgill is looking at her with an undisguised intensity – but now he transfers his gaze to her glass, and then to his own; and then they both grin wryly, and clink southpaw.

  ‘It’s “cuddy-wifted” in Cumberland – and maybe I don’t have to tell you, a cuddy’s a donkey.’

  ‘We left-handers are supposed to be more creative, Inspector.’

  ‘Aye – so they say – except I’ve not got a creative bone in my body.’

  Perdita frowns disapprovingly, and rises to this challenge on his behalf.

  ‘Who said creativity resides in the bones, Inspector – surely it’s the realm where the soul wanders free?’

  She takes a decisive gulp of her drink. Skelgill reaches for the decanter and offers a refill and she does not demur.

  ‘You –’ Whatever he is about to say he checks himself and starts again. ‘I – I saw the shop window display – the promotion for your new book.’

  She peers rather coyly from behind the strands of hair that are beginning to stray across her face.

  ‘Strictly speaking, my new book is over there.’ She gives a casual flick of the hand in the direction of her desk. ‘Such are my publisher’s lead times that I completed Slave to Desire almost a year ago.’

  Skelgill drinks and swallows quickly.

  ‘So does the new one have to be raunchier still?’

  Now she laughs, a liquid peal, tossing back her head to reveal the pale unblemished skin of her throat.

  ‘Oh, my – the marketing department has gone to town, now! And that’s not half of what the photographer wanted me to do.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I seem to be the only person who doesn’t read them – I’m beginning to get the gist of what I’m missing.’

  Perdita is amused; she kicks off her stiletto heels and pulls her feet up onto the sofa to make herself more comfortable; her legs are bare and the hem of her dress, gathered at the centre, slips higher and draws Skelgill’s gaze. She seems unaware – or unconcerned – but for his part he begins to realise that the delicate and intricately woven fabric is partially see-through, and raises intriguing questions about what – if anything – she could possibly be wearing beneath. She drinks and regards him over the rim of her glass with a beguiling flutter of her eyelashes.

  ‘It’s no Fifty Shades, I’m afraid, Inspector – my romantic liaisons tend to take place off camera – I think the suggestion that something is possibly going to happen is often far more tantalising than the graphic detail.’ She pauses to watch his reaction. He is now studying his drink, swirling the fast-melting slivers of ice. ‘But when my heroes and heroines are thrown together by turmoil and tribulation I shouldn’t like them to resist temptation.’

  Her tone is wistful, and now she drains her glass and leans forwards, touching him upon the shoulder with her right hand – then gracefully she rises and takes a step back.

  ‘There is something I should like to show you – if you’ll excuse me for a wee second?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Barefooted she glides across the room, closing the door behind her. Skelgill waits for a moment and then he too stands; however, rather than follow her he stalks to the window and looks out – the street is empty; a sheen of ice glistens on the railings. He turns his eyes to the open notebook on the desk. There is a fountain pen beside it; evidently she prefers the traditional method, for lines of flowing longhand fill the pages. It seems she halted mid-sentence, and the top is off the pen. He replaces it, and then notices a familiar business card, that she is using as a bookmark: “Tobias Vellum, Aloysius Vellum & Co.” For a second he frowns – but, then, she is a writer with an interest in books, Vellum a bookseller with a connection to the family, and pushy to boot. Why wouldn’t she have his card?

  He crosses to the shelves; there is an eclectic mix of classics – contemporary and traditional, from Highsmith and Updike to Dickens and the Brontës – with a smattering of popular fiction – but it is the photographs that capture his attention. Though books may be their owner’s biographer, for Skelgill, these images offer a far more intriguing insight into the life and character of Perdita – and Rowena – for she appears in a range of guises and situations, from lustrous literary events to casual holiday scenes, and she is revealed in the easy and intimate company of males and females alike – though there is no consistent companion. He steps across the hearth to continue his perusal, the candles gutter at his passing – and now one particular portrait strikes home. Beneath a snowy mountainous backdrop a rosy-cheeked Perdita – younger, perhaps in her university days – stands victorious between two other girls, each of them displaying a medal. They support skis in crooked arms and have sunglasses pushed back upon their bandanas. Behind them is a signboard that marks the name of the piste; it says simply, ‘La Face’. The exclusive resort of Val d’Isère might be alien territory to Skelgill – but no one with his mountain credentials would fail to recognise what is the most celebrated and notorious black run in the entire French Alps. He stares, teeth bared, his mind electrified.

  But now a creak of the door handle interposes between his slip-sliding thoughts and their subconscious substrate – instinctively he pulls a book from the shelf, and by the time Perdita enters he appears engrossed in its content. He turns casually – she is waiting in the doorway – and now she laughs, an outrageous note of amusement: for he has inadvertently selected the first volume of the erotic trilogy she referred to just a moment earlier! Skelgill rather sheepishly replaces the book.

  ‘Inspector – sorry to keep you waiting – but it struck me – ’ She pauses, and crosses one leg in front of the other, and tilts her head a little to the side. ‘You were interested when I told you about the bibles that my Great Uncle Declan gave to each of us for our Christenings – and I said I keep mine always at my bedside.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Skelgill’s “aye” is one that even he does not recognise.

  ‘I thought perhaps you would find it more edifying to see it in situ.’

  18. THE ARCHIVES – Sunday 8am

  ‘Successful night, Inspector?’

  Fergal Mullarkey is waiting on the steps outside his offices, part of a Georgian terrace characteristic of the area. Like Skelgill he is muffled and gloved against the bitter cold, and his beady blue eyes peer out from beneath a bowler hat. His choice of words seems to set Skelgill on his guard – as if he suspects the lawyer of knowing his movements – and the detective hunches his shoulders and casts about uneasily, as though the surroundings might inspire some suitable rejoinder.

  ‘I headed back after I’d drunk the second pint.’

  Fergal Mullarkey gives an unconvincing nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting your call at this time of the morning.’

  ‘I’m a bit of an early bird.’

  Skelgill’s tone is unapologetic, and perhaps overly taciturn, given that the man is doing him a fairly sizeable favour. But the lawyer is undeterred.

  ‘To catch the worm – hah-ha!’ He produces his trademark grin. ‘No worries – sure
, it suits me to get the job done – in fact, if you’re willing, I’ll give you the code to reset the alarm, and you can let yourself out whenever you’re finished.’

  He does not reply: while Fergal Mullarkey wrestles against a series of locks with a great jangling bunch of keys, Skelgill has noticed a brass plate bolted to the grey sandstone wall beside the door. Its inscription reads, “Mullarkey & Shenanigan, Solicitors.”

  ‘Never fear, Inspector – there have been no Shenanigans here for a very long time.’

  He chuckles, albeit it in a rather forced manner, for this must be an incalculably hackneyed quip.

  Skelgill follows him inside; the general impression is not dissimilar to the residence of Perdita Regulus-O’More – for, indeed, these offices comprise several conjoined townhouses, commonplace in central districts, a natural evolution as original occupiers gradually flitted to suburbs more suited to a lifestyle with the new-fangled horseless carriage. The décor is businesslike, with plain carpets and neutral walls ornamented with certificates of proficiency. Fergal Mullarkey leads them up a broad staircase to the third storey, and along a corridor to the rear of the property, at the end of which there is a door on either side. To the left a small plaque denotes “Boardroom”, and corresponding on the right is “Meeting Room”; it is into the latter that they go.

  The chamber is bright – the walls are bare and reflect the early morning sunlight – and there seems to be a tang of turpentine in the air. Much of the available space is taken up by a large oval table, ringed by chairs, but Skelgill’s gaze falls upon a coffee maker in one corner, sitting upon a glass-fronted refrigerator in which are visible cartons of milk and packets of chocolate chip cookies.

  ‘Just make yourself at home, will you, Inspector? Grab a coffee while I pop down to the archive and see what I can unearth.’

  Skelgill frowns and clenches his fists at his sides.

  ‘Can’t I give you a hand?’

  Fergal Mullarkey shifts his weight a little uneasily from one leg to the other.

  ‘To be honest with you, Inspector, I think we would just get under one another’s feet. There is only a narrow gap between the rows of racking, and you wouldn’t really know what you were looking for.’

  ‘How about carrying it up?’

  ‘We have a dumbwaiter adapted for the purpose – it is somewhat antediluvian, but it does the job.’ He moves across to the door. ‘Oh – and for reference – the gents’ loo is back the way we came, at the top of the stairs.’

  Left to his own devices Skelgill wraps his jacket around a chair and balances his hat and gloves on top. Then he makes a coffee, taking several attempts to get the hang of the unfamiliar device. It requires sachets to be slotted into a concealed flap, and a certain amount of patience, which is a quality that only seems properly to visit Skelgill when he climbs into his boat. He finally succeeds having dissembled the front of the machine and effected a modification to the mechanism with the stem of a teaspoon. He ambles to the window with his steaming mug. The view to the rear is of a low-rise arrangement typical of Georgian town planning, once the stables and grooms’ accommodation, now converted into desirable mews properties and perhaps equally sought-after city centre garages. However, the scene is haphazard, in that various extensions and conversions have been added down the years, and one such appendage is attached to the lawyers’ building. It occupies two storeys, and juts out as a flat roof just below the window. The felt is cracked and has been repaired in places with great daubs of bitumen, and patches of ice reveal where standing water must ordinarily collect. Skelgill casts a critical eye over the sash window, and then gives it a shake; it is loose in its frame – and then he notices that the two-piece brass catch has been removed and is lying together with its screws in the corner of the sill. He realises that the woodwork has a new coat of gloss paint – it is still tacky to the touch (and this accounts for the smell). He lifts the lower sash – it would be easy enough to climb out – or for a burglar to climb in – but what does enter is a rush of cold air about his thighs, and he slams it back down. He glances around the interior of the room; there is a PIR high in the angle above the door – it flickers red as he moves about – so he supposes that even were someone to scale the extension, the alarm system would catch them.

  There is no sign yet of Fergal Mullarkey. Skelgill decides to visit the bathroom – although all he does is look around and scrub his fingertips of gloss paint. He retraces his steps and stands silently in the corridor. Gauging by the positions of the doors, the Boardroom would seem to be of similar proportions to the meeting room. He tries the handle, but it is locked – and now he hears clunking and whirring noises, followed by the tread of feet upon the staircase. He slips back to his coffee and is seated when Fergal Mullarkey backs in and rather breathlessly dumps two weighty legal storage boxes upon the table. However, the lawyer beams triumphantly.

  ‘Here you go Inspector – that’s everything from 1700 to 1750 – should comfortably cover the period you’re after.’ He lifts the lid off the upper box and extracts a manila file, and then opens this upon the table and slides it across to Skelgill. ‘But – as I warned you last evening – it is all in longhand.’

  He grins rather inanely and then he dusts off his hands and takes a step backwards towards the door.

  ‘Well – I shall bid you goodbye for now, Inspector. The alarm code is 1916 – not so tricky, hah-ha! – just press the ‘exit’ button after typing it in – and there is a good strong Yale on the door that when you pull it shut should suffice until tomorrow morning.’

  Skelgill, already scowling at the page of impenetrable gothic scrawl before him, glances up distractedly.

  ‘Aye – no bother – I’ll send you a text when I’m done.’

  ‘Ah – excellent idea – and are you heading directly back to England this afternoon?’

  The answer is yes but for some reason Skelgill plays it cagily. He glances casually at the legal boxes.

  ‘Reckon I’ll see how I get on.’

  Fergal Mullarkey nods – but now he hesitates – he feels the top of his head in an exploratory manner – as if he is checking that hair has not magically returned since his last inspection.

  ‘And, er – just how is it going? Overall, I mean – are you any further forward with the investigation into Declan’s death?’

  Skelgill looks up quickly.

  ‘Aye – much further.’

  His reply carries a note of indignation, that Fergal Mullarkey would assume otherwise, and the lawyer’s mouth falls slightly open.

  ‘Oh – well – jolly good.’ (There is more checking for hair.) ‘You see, Inspector, the family are rather impatient to get the books over here into safekeeping. Since Declan has died intestate, it may take some months to resolve his will – and irrespective of what they decide about the future of Crummock Hall, now that Thwaites is sadly no longer with us it looks like the place is going to have to be mothballed. The heating system will be drained down – and there is a grave risk that the collection could deteriorate if it becomes damp. Here in our own library we have controlled ambient humidity and temperature, and ample space. I have explained to them, however, that until the police have finished with the crime scene there is little we can do.’

  Skelgill is listening evenly – though now he homes in on one particular remark.

  ‘So they’ve not settled yet?’

  ‘Concerning the fate of the estate?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Fergal Mullarkey shakes his head.

  ‘I suppose it is understandable – it is not a decision to be taken lightly.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  Skelgill’s bluntness seems to catch the lawyer unawares. But, though his pale cheeks flush, to his credit he provides what would appear to be an honest answer.

  ‘Well – if I am being frank, Inspector, it is in our interest that they keep the estate in the Regulus-O’More family – they represent a sizeable client measured over a period of
years – and, of course, there is a sentimental aspect in our long association.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘When do you think they’ll make up their minds?’

  Now Fergal Mullarkey contorts his pliable features into a resigned grimace.

  ‘I was rather anticipating they would have decided yesterday, Inspector – but of course – events took over – you understand?’ (Skelgill nods; he means the unfortunate passing of Thwaites.) ‘We shall be reconvening next week.’ Somewhat reverently he folds his hands on his breast. ‘Let’s hope it is the last funeral for a long time.’

  ‘Aye – I’ll second that.’

  Now the lawyer edges closer to the exit.

  ‘Oh – and these documents – don’t worry about putting them back in their boxes – you see, you’re not the only person who wants to peruse them.’

  Now he flashes Skelgill a look that is emphatically conspiratorial.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Our mutual friend, Perdita – or perhaps I should say Rowena, given the nature her interest – I understand she has an idea for her next plot – and wishes to add a touch of authenticity. She is calling in tomorrow – although I fear she will be disappointed – I fancy that history will not live up to her vivid imagination when it comes to her characters’ romantic liaisons.’ He taps the side of his nose in a suggestive fashion, and smirks. ‘For my part, I must head off and lay out the hymnbooks.’

  Skelgill nods and raises a hand, as if in farewell – but in fact his gesture becomes a detaining index finger.

  ‘Just one thing I’ve been wondering about?’

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘How did you recognise me last night?’

  For a moment Fergal Mullarkey looks nonplussed – he is clearly unprepared for this question, and he glances anxiously about the room – and then his gaze falls upon Skelgill’s discarded garments. He waves a hand loosely at the chair.