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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Inspector – there can only be one hat like that in the whole of Ireland.’

  He chuckles fretfully and raises both palms in an apology-cum-wave and makes what might be considered a hasty exit. Skelgill is left staring at the door, but after a few moments he turns his attention to the file that lies open before him on the table.

  It takes him under a minute to confirm what he has suspected all along – that he is not going to read the documents. Even were they printed in fourteen-point type, double-spaced, set in beautifully legible Times Roman or Garamond or Athelas, Skelgill would have found the two towering boxes of material a testing mountain – so the page before him penned in archaic quilled cursive script with elaborate swirls and loops (not to mention obsolete legal terms that would even defeat a lawyer) represents a precipitous literary scree in which his boots gain not an inch of traction. He slumps back in his chair and folds his arms, dark furrows lining his brow. If Fergal Mullarkey harbours any secretly malicious intent beneath his superficial helpfulness then he has succeeded – for the task he has casually inflicted is so overwhelming as to be almost suffocating, indeed Skelgill rises and strides to the window and raises the lower sash to admit fresh air, cold or not.

  He marches back to the refreshments corner and makes himself another coffee. And now that his host has departed he attacks the biscuits with gusto, perhaps a small act of revenge, which he augments by using up all of the sugar. As he sits and slurps he must rue the absence of DS Jones – for if anyone could digest the material before him it is she. Indeed he casually finds her number on his mobile phone – but then he has second thoughts and rises again and begins to empty the boxes. Neatly, he lays out the documents in successive piles, ranging them around the table as though he has examined them in chronological sections. He looks at his phone once more and engages the camera app – but when he experimentally composes a photo he decides the exercise is futile. He wanders to the window and for a while he stands gazing out. Then he makes a small involuntary jolt and some purpose grips him: he slips the handset into a hip pocket, retrieves his gloves from the back of the chair, returns to the window, hauls the lower sash to its upper limit, and clambers out.

  Thirty seconds later he is inside the ‘locked’ Boardroom. His hunch that it, too, is being painted proves correct. Here, also, the window catch has been removed. He scans about – at first sight it appears little different to the meeting room – perhaps a better class of table and chairs, but otherwise the same nondescript carpet and newly emulsioned walls. There is, however, a stack of about a dozen large framed photographs at one end of the table. The decorator has evidently removed them from the walls to do his job. Skelgill begins to work his way through the collection – group shots of members of staff – a historical record of the partners and their underlings, their names listed beneath, taken at intervals of roughly ten years. While the oldest pictures, dating from the early 1900s hold most intrinsic interest – brilliantined hairstyles, elaborate moustaches, starched collars and unintentionally hammed poses – it is to the more recent images that Skelgill gives his attention. He lays out the latest four in chronological order – and now he removes his gloves and takes snapshots with his mobile. When he has finished he spends some time poring over the originals. Then he replaces his gloves, re-stacks the frames, and climbs out onto the flat roof, shutting the window and returning to the meeting room whence he came. Having restored the sash to its closed position, he lays his phone upon the table and transmits a call, engaging the speaker when he hears the recipient pick up.

  ‘Jones – where are you?’

  ‘Oh, Guv – morning – er... in London, actually.’

  ‘London?’

  Skelgill sounds as indignant as if his subordinate had said New York or Rio de Janeiro or Shanghai.

  ‘I travelled down yesterday afternoon – I went to see a show – with a college friend.’

  It takes Skelgill a moment to collect his thoughts.

  ‘What brought that on?’

  DS Jones sounds a little guarded.

  ‘The tickets came up – it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  Again Skelgill hesitates.

  ‘When are you heading back?’

  ‘I’m on the six o’clock express from Euston – it gets into Penrith at nine.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Are you sure, Guv?’

  ‘There’s a couple of things I want to bounce off you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  There is ostensibly a note of reluctance in her voice – but perhaps Skelgill can sense there is something else – that she is building up to an inconvenient revelation. He remains silent, and his intuition proves correct.

  ‘I might have some news by then, Guv.’

  ‘What kind of news?’

  ‘Well, er... about Brutus.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He keeps texting me, Guv.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve agreed to meet him at lunchtime – just for a coffee.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s The Ritz, Guv.’ She blurts this out, as if doing so will diminish its impact. ‘I thought I might learn something.’

  ‘Aye, a lesson to regret.’

  ‘But, Guv – I think he wants to talk to me.’

  ‘That’s not all he – ’

  As Skelgill checks himself DS Jones simultaneously interjects.

  ‘Guv – I can handle it – don’t worry – I’m a big girl, you know.’

  ‘Jones – I’ll see you at nine.’

  Skelgill cuts off the call and stares at the handset. He leans over the table, his two hands resting on their heels. His expression is hard to fathom, but it could be assessed as a mixture of concern and irritation, with just a hint of jealousy. And perhaps there is a semblance of self-reproach for what he has said. He hauls on his jacket, and stuffs his gloves into the pockets. He takes his fur-lined trapper hat in both hands and gives it a shake, and then he holds it at arm’s length and regards it pensively. The last time he wore it was on the ferry from Holyhead, when he clambered up on deck in the freezing night air to see the lights of Dublin.

  19. RECONSTRUCTION – Monday 10am

  ‘Tell Leyton what you told me last night.’

  DS Jones looks apprehensively at Skelgill, and then at the newly arrived DS Leyton. They all three have travelled separately to Crummock Hall – to be admitted by the maid, Betty – and are now convened in Declan’s study, still technically ‘their’ territory as a designated crime scene. DS Leyton is the last to arrive, bringing with him a black pilot’s case from headquarters. He closes the door but remains standing against it; perhaps he detects a certain tension in the air.

  DS Jones looks rather sombre, dressed all in black – leather jacket, ankle boots and stretch jeans and, unusually for her, a beret and scarf. The zipped waist-cut jacket emphasises her figure, and the fashionable ensemble gives her a continental look, her large dark eyes blinking soulfully behind hair pushed down by the beret. She is framed by one of the two arched windows to DS Leyton’s right, standing rigidly with her fingertips pressed into the inaccessible front pockets of her jeans; directly ahead, across the room Skelgill half-sits against the edge of the desk, his arms folded.

  ‘I spoke with Brutus yesterday – lunchtime.’ She glances apprehensively at Skelgill, and then raises her shoulders to signify that her complicity was inadvertent. ‘He got in touch with me.’

  ‘Sounds interesting, girl.’

  DS Leyton grins encouragingly – he must sense her predicament and that Skelgill’s hackles are up. His response seems to relax her, and she takes a couple of paces towards him. Skelgill watches on censoriously.

  ‘He told me about the family’s decision – regarding Sir Sean O’More’s will.’

  DS Leyton makes an exclamation of suppressed anticipation.

  ‘He says he and Cassandra want to sell Crummock Hall as soon as possible.’

  ‘Cor blimey – I s
hould’ve put a few nicker on that one.’

  DS Jones responds with a wry smile, though she holds up a qualifying palm.

  ‘But Martius and Perdita want to keep it – as a going concern – to appoint some kind of live-in estate manager.’

  DS Leyton looks decidedly intrigued by this news. Though he knows little of Perdita, by living abroad she demonstrates scant interest in Cumbria – and in the case of Martius, certain financial indicators would lead one to suppose he too favoured a sale. DS Leyton counts off silently on the fingers of his free hand.

  ‘We’re missing Edgar.’

  DS Jones nods eagerly.

  ‘That’s the thing – it’s a stalemate – the split has effectively given him the casting vote – and apparently he won’t reveal his hand. To quote Brutus, “That little runt Gerbil has got us over a barrel.” Brutus doesn’t know why he’s holding out – but he says he’s loving the power trip.’

  DS Leyton rolls his eyes.

  ‘Reckon he wants a bigger slice of the cake?’

  Now Skelgill intervenes. ‘What do you mean, Leyton?’

  DS Leyton puts down the pilot’s case and has a small battle with his somewhat ill fitting overcoat, which has managed to slip around sideways.

  ‘Well, Guv – Edgar’s due a fifth, right? – same as each of them. But if he wants to play them off – he can go to either side – say he’ll throw in his lot with whoever comes up with the best offer. He’s the accountant, after all, Guv – like you said.’

  Skelgill’s tone is sceptical. ‘I can’t see Martius standing for that. He’s brassed off as it is – not inheriting the whole estate.’

  DS Leyton shrugs.

  ‘So, what happens if they can’t strike a deal?’

  ‘It would have to go to court, Leyton. Then it’s anyone’s guess – you know what judges can be like. They might not want to take that chance – never mind that it could last for years. I’ve spoken to Mullarkey – he’ll be hassling them to come to a decision. If this place is mothballed the value starts to plummet.’ Skelgill pushes off from the desk and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Plus these books will deteriorate if they don’t get them into proper storage.’

  DS Leyton seems dissatisfied. He glances at DS Jones and then looks back at Skelgill.

  ‘Why is Brutus telling us this? He might be a cocky little geezer, but he’s not stupid. Reckon it’s a double bluff?’

  ‘In what way, Leyton?’

  ‘Coming clean about his intentions – since we’re likely to suspect anyone who wants the cash – stands to reason, Guv.’

  Skelgill remains pensive.

  ‘Does it?’

  DS Leyton is nodding.

  ‘Think about their movements – if the murder was 2 o’clock like you say, Guv. Brutus is nowhere to be seen until 2:30 – Cassandra claims she can’t remember where she was – yet she’s on the spot when Thwaites finds the body – and Edgar’s handily placed up the staircase in his secret attic.’

  Skelgill seems unconvinced – his expression is growing increasingly pessimistic.

  ‘What about the others? Martius. Mullarkey. Thwaites. What about Perdita, for that matter?’

  Now it is DS Leyton’s turn to frown. He waves a hand approximately towards the windows.

  ‘But, Guv – she was lost up the mountain.’

  ‘Leyton, I can easily imagine how Perdita could have been here at 2 o’clock.’

  Skelgill’s countenance is grim – and his subordinates are startled, for surely this is a sizeable volte-face on the part of their boss. Of course, he may be playing devil’s advocate for good purpose – but for the hell of it is just as likely. His frustration is plain; however he offers no further explanation and a silence prevails. Although there is apparently some background heating the room temperature is far from ideal, and none of them shows any inclination to shed their outdoor garments. After a minute, DS Leyton tries a more oblique tack.

  ‘If only we could find that walking stick, Guv – old Declan’s shillelagh.’

  Skelgill glares at his sergeant.

  ‘We’re not going to find it, Leyton.’

  ‘Why not, Guv? This snow’s got to melt eventually.’

  Skelgill digs his hands into his pockets and turns to stare at the hearth. In the grate there remains the large heap of cold grey wood ash.

  ‘Because it went straight on the fire.’

  DS Leyton glances sidelong at DS Jones, who gives a barely perceptible shake of the head to indicate this is also news to her.

  ‘How do you know, Guv?’

  Skelgill is still contemplating the fireplace.

  ‘Remind me what it was made of.’

  ‘Sandalwood, Guv – it’s unusually dense?’

  Skelgill looks like he is tempted to take up the theme of density. However, he refrains and tilts back his head.

  ‘Unusually scented, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton begins sniffing ostentatiously. In the background, DS Jones is beginning to nod.

  ‘It’s faded now.’ Skelgill scowls impatiently. ‘But you couldn’t miss it at first.’

  ‘My hooter’s not what it used to be, Guv – plus I’ve had a stinker of a cold. The kids bring a new one home from school every Friday.’ He shakes his head ruefully. ‘Why didn’t you say, Guv? I’ve had a couple of the lads up to their armpits in snow.’

  Skelgill gives the semblance of a shrug.

  ‘Why tell the culprit we’ve worked it out? Let them think we’re daft country coppers, Leyton.’

  This is a common and oft irrational excuse of Skelgill’s, and one that in the present circumstances is unlikely to find favour with his subordinates – when they might reasonably infer it is he that is treating them as “daft country coppers”. However, DS Leyton nods obligingly, and now he bends to pick up the black case, as if this notion has reminded him of their purpose in meeting this morning. He raises the bag one handed – it does not appear to be heavy – and pats it with the other. His tone of voice becomes decidedly optimistic.

  ‘Well – at least we’ve got the rest of the stuff, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not react immediately – but after a few seconds he nods rather reluctantly.

  ‘Right – start laying it out.’

  While his subordinates delve into the bag, Skelgill stalks across to the hearth and takes down Declan’s tweed shooting-coat from its hook. He spreads it in a rough approximation of where Declan lay: head towards the desk, feet towards the clock. DS Leyton is more methodical: he refers to a folder of photographs, and carries the glass over towards the garden door and places it on its side – he stands back and checks the picture to confirm the accuracy of his handiwork. DS Jones has extracted Declan’s logbook and pen from polythene bags and now positions them on the desk. Skelgill distributes the pendulum and brass winder key, again from memory.

  That he has opted to stage this reconstruction – albeit of such minor proportions, and an exercise that could arguably be conducted from the comfort of his office using the extensive photographic record – might be regarded as a move of desperation. It could be surmised that ‘the powers that be’ see little or no progress on his part – that he has produced no systematic analysis of the information gathered: facts, hearsay, opinions and claims (many unsubstantiated); and thus he has not acted upon the evidence to date.

  But this would be to underestimate Skelgill. That he harks back to his first few moments in Crummock Hall, when he felt that this room had its story to recount – whispering, unintelligible, piecemeal – tells that his inner thoughts (gut feel, to his critics) are inviting him to appreciate the narrative that has been progressively taking shape.

  His subordinates perhaps sense something of this and they silently back away towards the windows. Skelgill stalks about the room – though with little regard to the ‘clues’ they have laid out. He looks more like a sergeant major inspecting his platoon’s quarters with a mission to find fault. And in a sense that is precisely what he does. He st
ands facing Declan’s antique partners’ desk and glares at the arrangement of the journal and the fountain pen. Perhaps he is reminded of the parallel of Saturday evening, of Perdita’s notebook and pen, when he replaced the lid – or perhaps it is a more obscure sense of discord – but either way he is prompted to pull out his mobile phone, and broodingly he thumbs through to the photograph he took of Declan’s notebook on that first Sunday afternoon.

  ‘The pen was on the left.’

  ‘Oh – sorry, Guv.’

  DS Jones starts – and swiftly moves to round the desk in order to correct her error. But Skelgill does not wait to see the adjustment – instead he strides over to pick up the brass winder key – and likewise the pendulum. He turns to DS Leyton, and hands him the two items together.

  ‘Leyton – wind the clock.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘Wind the clock – with the key.’

  DS Leyton looks a little bewildered.

  ‘Won’t it need the pendulum, Guv?’

  ‘Just wind it, Leyton.’

  Now Skelgill’s tone is sharp – as if his sergeant fails to act quickly the moment will be lost. DS Leyton obeys without further dissent and rather awkwardly inserts the end of the key into the round hole on the tarnished clock face. It is just a simple square head bolt fitting and he makes half a dozen turns when Skelgill lunges from behind and wrenches him by the collar and roughly pulls him to the ground where Declan’s jacket is laid.

  ‘Whoaa! Steady on, Guv!’

  ‘You’re right-handed, Leyton.’

  ‘Struth – I could have told you that, Guv – you didn’t have to trip me up!’

  DS Leyton flounders like a turtle that has been flipped over and is unable to right itself. But Skelgill exhibits no great sympathy – in fact, none at all. His attention is taken by the positions in which the key and the pendulum – jettisoned by DS Leyton in his moment of panic – have come to rest: remarkably close to where they were first found.

  ‘Declan was right-handed. He used his walking stick in church right-handed. His fishing rod was set up right-handed. Clearly, he wound the clock right-handed.’