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

by Bruce Beckham

  21. THE HANDBOOK – Friday, midnight

  If it’s Friday there must have been a funeral.

  For now, however, the Vale of Lorton sleeps beneath its blanket of snow. The little church of St James, Buttermere has once more served a solemn congregation. Harold Thwaites has been laid to rest. The wake has passed, a subdued affair dulled by yawning platitudes and stifled by lip service. The company, weary of travel and the repetitive strain of melancholy psalms, has retired as one to bed. Majestic in the southern heavens, Orion the Hunter shifts imperceptibly westwards. A grey tomb amidst black pines, Crummock Hall lies in shadow.

  And then a flicker of light illuminates a window of Declan’s study.

  It would seem to be the beam of a torch, and to emanate from within. Exactly how this might be the case is a small mystery in itself. While the crime scene has been officially released – and notified to the family through their solicitor – the study has been left locked (albeit the lock-stoppers removed) and the keys retained in the possession of the police. The explanation provided seems eminently sensible: given that the contents are valuable the family would presumably wish them secured. It is Skelgill’s intention to repatriate the keys in the morn – an excuse perchance casually to insinuate himself among the occupants once more. Failing that, there is always the possibility of a cooked breakfast.

  The flashlight appears to play around the room, crossing the two arched windows and the porthole of the external door a couple of times, before settling internally – indeed, its movement ceases, as though it has been placed in a static position; only a faint glow now radiates. A curious watcher – were there to be such a person improbably loitering (or stationed) outside, defying the sub-zero conditions – might creep with care over crunchy snow to peer cautiously in. And there would be something to see. The door to the corridor ajar, diffuse light filtering from beyond. The torch resting upon the desk, angled across a book such that its beam illuminates the shelves beyond. And a hooded figure – wearing what could be a charcoal dressing gown – standing on the top rung of the library step. He or she – being of uncertain gender – takes down one book at a time, flicks through it, replaces it, and moves on to the next. That the room is shrouded in gloom does not seem to be an impediment – certainly reading does not appear to be their object. More likely it is looking for a bookmark – or a photograph – or a flower that has been pressed – although the inspection is perhaps even too cursory for that.

  For someone concealed inside the room – equally improbable, of course – it is the sounds that narrate the events. There is the initial scrape of a key in the lock. The library step dragged across the floor. The breathing – certainly heightened – of the newcomer; perhaps anxiety, but also perhaps the effort of balancing upon the curved step and continually reaching up; some of the tomes must weigh several pounds. And all the while in the background the steady tick of Declan’s clock – for Skelgill left it running. Indeed now it strikes twice – though this is midnight; he did not trouble to correct the time, and it was 10 a.m. when he set the hands to twelve. The putative book thief is unperturbed by this discrepancy – and works on methodically – and even seems unconcerned when the study door is pushed wider, and a slender form clad only in skimpy nightwear appears cautiously in the opening.

  ‘Who’s in there?’

  ‘Ah, Perdita.’

  ‘Oh – it’s you.’

  ‘Come inside.’

  ‘But what are you doing?’

  There is a sinister chuckle. The shadowy figure descends the library step and moves across to pick up some object from the desk; it glints as it crosses the beam of the torch.

  ‘Let’s say I couldn’t sleep – and decided to find some bedtime reading.’

  ‘But – the study was locked – by the police?’

  ‘Ah – yes – spare keys are always expedient. Come in – close the door.’

  Perdita does as she is bid – though she seems uncharacteristically apprehensive; she leaves the latch unfastened, and steps a few paces to her right in front of the clock, away from the incumbent.

  ‘I thought you were a second intruder.’

  ‘Who says there was a first? You must know the police suspect one of us.’

  ‘Someone has to guard our property.’

  ‘That is rather valiant of you – did you wake any of the others?’

  ‘I –’ Whatever Perdita is about to say, her slight hesitation gives away the truthful answer – and indeed she replies obliquely. ‘I came down to the drawing room – to get a nightcap – I couldn’t sleep, either.’

  In the murk the hooded figure reaches for the torch, and plays it illustratively upon the shelves before shining the beam directly into Perdita’s face. Her pupils constrict like those of a trespassing feline that has triggered a security light.

  ‘You know these are intended for you.’

  It is a question but the tenor sounds almost accusing.

  ‘The books?’

  ‘Declan made a will.’ Now the tone is scathing. ‘A month ago – witnessed by our esteemed Sir Sean and the trusty Thwaites.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe of Great Uncle Declan – after his last words to me.’

  ‘It is hidden – in the boathouse.’

  ‘The boathouse?’

  ‘I’ll drive you there – we’ll use the garden door – nobody will hear us. Go ahead – it is unlocked.’

  Perdita’s eyes are narrowed and her full lips register alarm. She does not move.

  ‘But – I can’t go outside dressed like this.’

  ‘But I think you can.’

  And the object picked from the desk is now raised into the beam and extended at arm’s length. It is a wartime revolver – recognisable as one kept in a display cabinet in the main hallway with its live cartridges ranged alongside.

  ‘I – I don’t understand –’

  ‘You will Perdita – oh, little lost one.’

  The voice is now harsh and menacing, and the gun is jerked to indicate the order.

  ‘The garden door – open it.’

  But this command seems to have magical properties – for the garden door swings open – and there silhouetted against the moonlit snowscape is the stocky figure of Detective Sergeant Leyton.

  ‘Police – drop the weapon.’

  And now with hardly a delay the hall door follows suit – and braced for action stands Detective Sergeant Jones.

  ‘Do as you’re told – then no one gets hurt.’

  Perdita glances anxiously from side to side – though she must be largely blinded, for both the gun and the torch remain trained upon her. And neither does their bearer move, though the voice becomes more strained.

  ‘You will notice this is a six-shooter.’

  ‘Lower the gun – you won’t get away with it.’

  ‘Really?’

  There is a quiver conveyed through the torch beam – perhaps a stiffening of the adjacent wrist as a precursor to firing. It is at moments like this when it seems ludicrous that the British police are not routinely armed. But then again, who needs firearms when you have Skelgill concealed in the log coffer. Behind the would-be shooter – and invisible to the dazzled Perdita – the freshly oiled lid of the coffin-like mule chest silently opens. In one swift movement Skelgill rises, raises a branch of convenient cricket bat proportions and brings it down with malevolent force to break the wrist and send the revolver spinning across the room. The torch falls, too; its bulb shatters. In the darkness, Leyton and Jones pounce.

  *

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  No answer. Either Fergal Mullarkey adheres to the clichéd lawyer’s maxim, “no comment” – advice that his firm must timelessly have dispensed – or he is in shock of the injury inflicted by Skelgill. His good wrist is unceremoniously handcuffed to a wooden spindle of Declan’s sturdy chair. Skelgill turns to Perdita – she is shivering, though she is wrapped in his oversized fleece top.

  ‘What do y
ou reckon?’

  ‘I have really no idea, Inspector. I only thank God that you guessed all this.’

  Skelgill frowns. That he guessed? She does have no idea. He thrusts his hands onto his hips and regards the towering library. Whatever Fergal Mullarkey sought he had a long night’s labour ahead of him. He had examined barely a hundred books – when there must be a good four or five thousand ranged wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling. That he refuses to speak suggests it is something of import. Skelgill glances again at their captive – then he addresses DS Leyton.

  ‘I’ll wake the others. Ask them.’ He makes for the door – then he hesitates. ‘Jones – you’d better come – you take Cassandra.’ He notices that Perdita sways and has to correct her balance. ‘I reckon you need that nightcap. Go to the drawing room. Chuck some wood on the fire – get comfortable. We’ll send the rest along.’

  Skelgill exits with DS Jones and they make their way through the darkened halls and corridors, switching on lights as they go. In the entrance hall they climb the main staircase, and split at the top, for the male and female chambers are segregated on either side of the central atrium. Skelgill wakes Martius first – and is impressed by his swift uptake of the situation – though he can cast no light on Mullarkey’s quest. Skelgill decides to leave him to rouse Brutus – and heads for Edgar’s room. He knocks, perhaps rather forcefully, and announces himself – though he waits a decent two or three seconds – and hears some scrabbling within. When he enters a table lamp is on and Edgar sits up blinking on the far side of the bed, the blankets raised to his chest. His expression hovers somewhere between alarm and dismay. Skelgill is about to speak when a noise behind his right shoulder disturbs him. He turns and instinctively pulls open the door of a wardrobe. Crouching inside, clutching at a pillow to preserve his modesty is a cringing Toby Vellum. At this moment DS Jones – who has finished with Cassandra and sent her downstairs (needing little encouragement for a stiffener) – appears in the doorway.

  ‘All okay, Guv?’

  She cannot see at what he stares with such disquiet. For perhaps five seconds he does not reply. Then he shuts the wardrobe door and stalks away – pushing past DS Jones and heading for the stairs.

  ‘Hunky-dory.’

  He strides through the house at a speed that obliges DS Jones to skip to keep up.

  ‘Cassandra doesn’t have any idea, Guv.’

  Skelgill speaks out of side of mouth.

  ‘I don’t reckon any of them will – but I know who might help us.’

  As they are about to pass the drawing room Skelgill indicates to DS Jones that she should remain and intercept the family as they arrive.

  ‘Keep them all here for the time being.’

  DS Jones nods her understanding. Skelgill continues briskly to the study, where the solitary DS Leyton stands sentry just inside the door. His sergeant seems relieved that he has returned. Skelgill glances briefly at Fergal Mullarkey and then spends a few moments contemplating the bookshelves once more. He takes out his phone and rests it on the desk and digs in another pocket for his wallet. From this he extracts a rather bent business card, which he places beside the handset. Squinting in the poor light, and with the mobile set to loudspeaker mode, he taps out the number. He growls with discontent as it strives to transmit.

  ‘One bar – come on.’

  In the hush of the room the ring tone seems indecently loud – then it is answered.

  ‘Oh – Inspector.’

  The voice is tremulous. Toby Vellum. He sounds like he anticipates a reprimand.

  ‘If Declan had to chose a book – the most important – which would it be?’

  ‘Oh – er – well –’ This inquiry momentarily wrong-foots Toby Vellum – but his confidence begins to return as the realisation dawns that perhaps he is not to be pilloried after all. ‘Well – I should say – Declan being such a dedicated bird-watcher – it would be The Handbook.’

  ‘The handbook?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector – some call it The Witherby. Witherby, Jourdain, Ticehurst & Tucker – The Handbook of British Birds, 1938 – first edition that is. Many authorities say it has never been bettered.’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘It’s a five-volume set. It has a beige dustwrapper with plain black text on the spine. About nine inches high.’

  ‘If you could only choose one?’

  ‘Well – I suppose Volume 5 has the index. It holds the key.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Skelgill pokes at the phone and cuts off the call. He looks at DS Leyton and points to the opposite corner.

  ‘You start at that end – I’ll use these steps and do the top four shelves. Witherby, right?’

  ‘Roger, Guv.’

  Purposefully – and thus wholly oblivious to the demonic expression that has possessed the features of Fergal Mullarkey – the pair set about their task, Skelgill upright, imperious and hawklike; DS Leyton, crouched, painstakingly tracing an index finger along the spines of the old books. Silence descends, but for the metronomic beat of the clock, and the sporadic grunts of DS Leyton he progressively bends and squats – when suddenly there is a strident rending of wood – and Fergal Mullarkey makes a break for freedom! Declan’s antique chair is not as robust as it looks – and with a violent jerk he wrenches the spindle from its mortises and vaults across the desk, explosively scattering the accessories stacked upon it – the lamp, the telephone, the field glasses and a small assortment of books. He gains the floor on the other side and in a swift movement stoops to grab up one particular volume and lurches for the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  It takes precious seconds for the detectives to react – by the time they have the door open Fergal Mullarkey has fled – but there is an obvious route of escape to the front of the house – and Skelgill chances it. He rounds into the hallway outside the drawing room to be confronted by the sight of DS Jones – she lies crumpled – however she begins to lift her head. He straddles her torso and by the armpits heaves her into a sitting position.

  ‘Guv – what happened?’ She is plainly groggy – and now DS Leyton lumbers along to make an undignified landing at her side. ‘Someone whacked me from behind.’

  Skelgill pats DS Leyton on the shoulder.

  ‘Make sure she’s okay.’

  Without more ado he is gone. A dozen seconds later he reaches the entrance hall to find the front door wide open – from the darkness beyond there comes the sound of an engine turning over. He races out – a car is threatening to leave its parking space, though the wheels spin hopelessly upon the packed snow. But just when it seems the fugitive will be thwarted the tyres find some grip and the vehicle begins to rumble away. Skelgill sprints and catches a door handle – but Fergal Mullarkey twitches the steering wheel and Skelgill is left flailing. In desperation he makes a last-ditch lunge for the roof bars – and with a herculean effort swings himself onto the trunk. The car picks up speed – swerving frantically in an effort literally to shake off Skelgill. His teeth are bared, his hair trailing in the bitter wind, his knuckles like ivory as he grips for all he is worth.

  Fergal Mullarkey’s driving is badly hampered by his injury – he steers one-handed and cannot operate the manual shift; the engine screams out for a higher gear. He has no headlights on and is hardly familiar with the winding route – and rounding a sharp curve he is unprepared for the t-junction. Too late, he brakes. The motor slews out of control, spins across the lane and demolishes a five-barred gate that marks the continuation of the track down to the boathouse. The sudden deceleration throws Skelgill into the field – and now the conditions are a blessing, for a soft drift cushions his fall, albeit he is temporarily buried. Righting himself, spitting snow and blinking away ice crystals, he sees the driver’s door is open – the interior light on – and the cockpit empty. But in the angled rays of the moon a line of fresh prints leads away – Fergal Mullarkey is heading for the lake.

  The going underfoot is not easy – knee-deep snow wit
h a collapsing crust – and neither hiker nor tractor has been this way to beat a path – nor is the erratic trail of fleeing footprints one upon which Skelgill may capitalise. And perhaps he is more stunned by the impact than he would like to admit. The scene beneath the moon is surreal in itself – a world in dreamlike duotone, in negative; the winter sky a great canopy of midnight blue, the snow-covered fells an undulating swathe of spectral grey. Skelgill stares at the ridge of Mellbreak; it rises steadily from north to south, a lung-busting run he has completed on countless occasions. He tells himself this is no more difficult. The track dips into a black copse of dense pines – and now from his left the ‘twit’ of a tawny owl is answered on his right by the ‘to-woo’ of its mate – and Skelgill finds himself raising a palm as if to acknowledge their coded advice.

  The boathouse is in shadow, where the wood overhangs the shore. It is a simple affair, really little more than a shed that is open at both ends. The human tracks disappear into the darkness within, and Skelgill becomes more cautious as he approaches. He realises that the building is badly neglected, there are planks askew and the roof is in need of repair – but, of course, Sir Sean prohibited all boating after ‘The Accident’. The place has been abandoned for a generation. He hesitates at the entrance, stretching wide his eyes and scanning from side to side to make the best of his peripheral vision. He can’t be certain that during his flight through the corridors Fergal Mullarkey did not grab some other weapon – a cutlass or dagger from the wall. He steps inside. As his sight adjusts to the greater gloom he sees there is a deck on the left that extends as a pontoon beyond. The ice has encroached within, despite the shelter, although the first yard from the bank is unfrozen.