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

by Bruce Beckham

  And now suddenly this water begins to swell – Skelgill immediately understands why – Fergal Mullarkey is on the ice – pressure waves will be radiating from beneath his feet to find their outlet wherever there is clear water at the shore. Skelgill stalks along the landing stage – and, sure enough, some dozen yards away and moving steadily further is a hunched figure, monk-like, still wearing the long dark gown, the hood again raised, his forearms cradled about his chest.

  ‘Stop – you’ll never make it!’

  Does Fergal Mullarkey think he can reach the opposite bank? Does he not realise the ice sheet is incomplete? That it becomes thinner with every step he takes? But he pays no heed to Skelgill’s warning – other than the unexpected proximity of his pursuer shocks him into renewed vigour – he begins to run – but instantly the ice responds to the extra downforce with creaking protests – and he has taken but three loping strides before it yields to his weight.

  What Skelgill witnesses now occurs in slow motion – there is a resounding crack that pierces the still night air and echoes from the wooded bank behind him – and a great slab of ice, perhaps three inches thick, tilts like a surfboard – Fergal Mullarkey the improbable rider, suspended in mid-air – until gravity prevails – and he drops. He submerges entirely, but only for a second, and comes back up gasping with the shock of the icy water. In one hand he still grips the book – and now he lunges for the ice shelf, elbows first, and thrusts his forearms onto the glistening surface – but his weight simply breaks off a new section and he goes under once more. Then he is back up – less buoyantly – trying again – but to no avail.

  Skelgill turns and dashes to the boatshed. There is nothing so much as an old rotted ring or rope. Instead he begins tearing at a loose plank. He bends his back and with a splintering squeal it comes away and now ferociously he rips free its neighbour – more easily since he can get proper purchase. He returns halfway along the boardwalk, to a point where the frozen surface is some three feet below. He tosses the planks onto the ice and removes his jacket. He strains to check the exact location of Fergal Mullarkey – it is a chilling sight as the choking lawyer raises his good arm and holds aloft the book he has so coveted – and slides beneath the black water in a grotesque parody of the Lady of the Lake, and Excalibur.

  And then an irresistible force hits Skelgill from behind and flattens him into the snow.

  ‘No way, Guv – we ain’t losing you!’

  A breathless DS Leyton has taken him down with a thumping rugby tackle – perhaps enjoying some small and justifiable revenge for the incident with the clock. A second later DS Jones descends upon Skelgill’s legs. He curses and writhes but their combined weight is too much for him – and perhaps there is some relief in their thwarting of his rescue instinct.

  DS Jones cries out through gritted teeth.

  ‘Guv you can’t! You know you can’t! You’d be diving in pitch dark – the cold shock would kill you!’

  Skelgill does know this. He utters a few token protests – but he gives up the struggle and his colleagues release their grip. DS Leyton rises and offers a helping hand. DS Jones retrieves her superior’s jacket and presses it upon him. Then slowly, together, they tread carefully to the end of the landing stage. The spot where Fergal Mullarkey went down is marked by broken chunks of ice that lie upon the frozen surface. In their midst is a smooth patch of clear black water, where there floats the pale dustcover of a book.

  ‘That’ll be Volume 5.’

  *

  The Regulus-O’Mores – or as they each might prefer to be called, Martius Regulus, Cassandra Goodchild, Owain Jagger, Edgar Regulus-O’More and Rowena Devlin – along with a rather self-conscious looking Tobias Vellum have strayed from the drawing room: upon their return the detectives find the group convened in the study of the late Declan Thomas O’More. But for Vellum – who is fully dressed in his fashion of the middle-aged gentleman – they all sport stylish nightwear of haut couture. There is a strained chatter – which subsides as the police enter – and Martius has his shotgun, of which he is duly (and not unwillingly) relieved.

  ‘Just for our protection, you understand, Inspector – we had no idea whether Mullarkey was likely to give you the slip and come back looking for us.’

  Skelgill’s expression is severe.

  ‘He won’t be giving anyone the slip.’

  For the time being, however, Skelgill is no more forthcoming, and the family can only speculate upon Fergal Mullarkey’s fate – for all they know he is in custody and speeding to jail in a black maria.

  ‘I swear I’ve heard the blighter prowling about before – at night.’ This is Martius again. ‘His room abuts onto mine.’

  ‘I’ve seen him.’ Now all eyes turn to Cassandra. She is holding a rocks glass, and she reclines in the harpist’s chair. Her legs are crossed and unconcernedly she exposes a generous stretch of naked thigh beneath her silk gown. She smiles coyly at Skelgill and tilts the glass back and forth – it seems to be a signal that she has observed Mullarkey during a nocturnal visit to the drinks trolley. ‘Prowling – either he or a ghost.’

  Skelgill is visibly discomfited by her somewhat brazen manner.

  ‘We’ll be needing new statements from you all – in light of what we now know.’

  ‘I take it the matter is closed, Inspector?’ Martius’s tone is insistent. ‘The murder?’

  ‘I shouldn’t say closed, sir – more like blown wide open.’ Now Skelgill folds his arms, lines crease his brow. ‘We may be talking four murders.’

  A small ripple of indeterminate excitement (or it could be shock) permeates the group; glances of anxiety and expectancy are exchanged – but no one now seems prepared to speak. Perdita still wears Skelgill’s fleecy over her pyjamas – it almost reaches down to the lace-trimmed hems of her satiny shorts – and as she steps forward there is a peculiar sense that she has acquired some privileged position – de facto spokesperson – by virtue of this conquest of his garment. Her strawberry blonde mane is dishevelled, and her dark oval eyes underscored by matching crescents – but there is vitality about her sylphlike form, and she rises up on her tiptoes and spreads her arms appealingly.

  ‘But what on earth was he looking for?’

  ‘Something hidden in a book. We plan to recover it.’

  Though his words are intended to convey a command of the situation – and he avoids mention of the small matter of the lake – his tone cannot conceal a distinctly pessimistic note. The effect is another hiatus – however, there comes a nervous cough, the kind of ‘ahem’ that politely requests permission to speak. It is Toby Vellum. He has been standing beside the desk, his hand upon a small stack of books that he has evidently gathered up and restored to its place, perhaps the bookseller in him unable to bear them strewn so uncaringly about the floor.

  ‘Er – Inspector – The Handbook.’ Lightly he touches the set – incomplete, of course – four volumes (of five) with familiar beige dustcovers.

  DS Leyton suddenly interjects.

  ‘Fancy that, Guv – there was Mullarkey and us searching the shelves – and they were on the desk all along.’

  Skelgill glares sharply at his sergeant, like a schoolmaster rebuking a garrulous pupil. DS Leyton grins somewhat sheepishly. Skelgill turns back to Toby Vellum.

  ‘What about The Handbook?’

  ‘Er – well, Inspector.’ He raps a knuckle on the top copy. ‘This is the 1945 edition – reprint, strictly speaking – Vellum & Co supplied it to Declan a couple of years ago. He wanted what he called a ‘workaday’ set – to save his precious first edition from wear and tear.’

  Though Skelgill’s features remain implacable, a small fire burns in his eyes.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Just over here, Inspector – I’ll show you – Volume 5, wasn’t it?’

  Toby Vellum seems to know exactly where to look – in the centre of the bookshelves, directly behind Declan’s damaged chair, at a convenient waist height. He slips around
the furniture and extracts the book, and obediently carries it back to Skelgill. As he holds it out two-handed he gives it a little shake, as though there is something wrong with the weight – or perhaps the balance – his features register alarm, and he meets Skelgill’s gaze with a small nod of affirmation.

  Skelgill opens the volume – and immediately it is plain that this is no ordinary book – a central section has been hollowed out to form a cavity in which nestles a black velvet drawstring bag. There is a collective intake of breath. Skelgill extracts the pouch and calmly passes the book to DS Jones at his side. Brutus is quick to move in – he places a hand on DS Jones’s shoulder and cranes to get a better look – and now the whole company crowds around voyeuristically as Skelgill unfastens the ties and tips out the contents. It is a single object, about the size of a walnut, and almost as great a contrast as there can be to his calloused palm – an immense diamond that sparkles even in the inadequate light of the study.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – that puts the Koh-i-Noor in the shade.’

  In the stunned silence that ensues Martius clears his throat.

  ‘The Koh-i-Noor is valued at over a billion dollars.’

  And now Perdita finds her voice again.

  ‘And all who own it are said to be cursed.’

  22. DRAWING CONCLUSIONS – Saturday 3pm

  ‘Aye – aye – that’s much appreciated, Jim – tell your pal thanks very much. When I’m back in Dublin the black stuff’s on me. I’ll look forward to the email.’ Skelgill now listens into the earpiece of the antique telephone (for this morning changed atmospheric conditions have precluded any mobile signal whatsoever from reaching Crummock Hall). ‘Aye – well the offer of a day on Bass Lake’s always open – just say the word – if this thaw’s permanent we could be in business next weekend – that double-figure pike’s just waiting for you.’

  Skelgill ends the call to retired professor Jim Hartley and stalks across to the windows of the drawing room. The familiar view of Grasmoor is obscured by cloud, in fact nothing is visible beyond the conifers at thirty yards, and even they are hazy silhouettes against uniform grey; a fine drizzle drenches the vale – though it is yet to make any impression on the deep snow, now a uniform wash that merges seamlessly into the mist. He ponders for a few moments, and tilts his head – an evaluative gesture, indicative of some considerable surprise. He returns to the sofas beside the fire and takes his seat opposite DS Leyton and DS Jones; his female colleague reaches to top up his tea, and they both watch him expectantly. However, Skelgill bides his time – and when he does respond, it is to resume the conversation they were having prior to the call being put through.

  ‘Whoever moved the clock back wanted to be sure we thought the time of death was 12 noon not 2 p.m. Why?’ Now he jabs an accusing index finger towards the outdoors, and the question is rhetorical. ‘Because if it were 2 then Perdita was out there – out of the frame. And why would you want Perdita in the frame? Because she’d had a blazing row with Declan – that morning – by her own admission – she even told us the time – between 11:40 and 11:50.’ He looks at DS Jones for confirmation and she nods obligingly. ‘So who knew that?’

  And now he does wait for a response. DS Leyton is first to supply what might be considered rather an obvious answer.

  ‘Well – Mullarkey, Guv. We only had his word for his whereabouts before lunch. He could have been eavesdropping.’

  ‘Aye – Mullarkey.’ However Skelgill regards DS Leyton somewhat distractedly – for it is not the solution he seeks. ‘Aye – he moved the clock back, alright – it suited him best that way – but that’s not the point, Leyton. You have to look at this the other way around – I’m talking about Thwaites. We know from the statements of the family and the other staff that he was helping in the kitchen and setting out the buffet between 11:45 and 12:15. But he was in his butler’s pantry beforehand – likely as not he overheard the argument.’

  Now Skelgill stands up. He takes a small turn about the room, as though relaxing on a sofa and such deliberative cogitation are not easy bedfellows.

  ‘So Thwaites knows Perdita has just visited Declan – that they argued – and at 12:15 he takes in Declan’s lunch. He finds him dead. Naturally he assumes it’s Perdita that’s killed him.’

  Skelgill pauses to check the reaction of his sergeants. DS Leyton is looking a little bemused. DS Jones is listening acutely.

  ‘So what did he do? Did he raise the alarm? No – the exact opposite – he covered it up. He copied an authentic logbook entry from a year before, as if it were his regular dictation – he invented times that had Declan bird-watching between 11:55 and 13:55 – and he wound the clock forward to make it seem the attack took place at 2 p.m. – when Perdita was a couple of thousand foot up Grasmoor. It wasn’t himself he was creating the alibi for – it was her.’

  Now DS Leyton’s features have become troubled.

  ‘But, Guv – you said yourself – you could think of how she could have been here?’

  DS Leyton’s apprehension reflects a belief that his superior had made this remark more out of defiance than from some reasoned basis – and he knows Skelgill will not take kindly to being reminded of the fact. But Skelgill does indeed have a theory. He produces a wry smile and makes a scoffing sound.

  ‘I can’t help it Leyton – when something seems impossible it’s like a red rag to a bull. If Perdita had wanted to give herself an alibi – by pretending to be lost in a blizzard – sure, she did a good job of it. But she owns snow boots and a jacket with sewn-in avalanche reflectors. She was some kind of ski champion at university. And she knows her way about the fells. She made that distress call from near the summit at 1:45 – all she had to do was switch off her phone and jump on a pair of skis. She could have been at the boundary wall of Crummock Hall in six minutes.’

  DS Leyton exhales extravagantly.

  ‘Flippin’ heck, Guv – you kept quiet about that one.’

  Skelgill contorts his features in mock relief.

  ‘Probably just as well, Leyton.’

  Now DS Leyton chuckles.

  ‘Don’t want to confuse us daft country coppers, eh, Guv?’

  Skelgill reacts with uncharacteristic humility – he comes back to the sofa and gestures apologetically with two hands.

  ‘It was confusing enough, Leyton. We’ve been asking ourselves why did someone kill Declan; when the real question was why did Thwaites cover it up? In fact – why did he cover it up believing it was Perdita?’

  ‘I think I might know.’

  This is DS Jones, who has risen unobtrusively and wandered across to the grand piano where the photographs are displayed. Skelgill watches her with interest. DS Leyton swivels round. She returns with the photograph of Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More that they had examined on their first visit.

  ‘This is a bit of a long shot, Guv.’

  But Skelgill is nodding grimly – it seems she may have found the target. She lays the picture on the coffee table so they can all see it. Then she twice taps the glass with a polished nail, indicating the tragic couple.

  ‘These are her parents.’ She glances at Skelgill. ‘It’s not entirely clear from the quality of this image – though it would be easy enough to verify – but it looks to me like they’re both blue-eyed.’

  DS Leyton appears perplexed. But Skelgill is nodding almost imperceptibly.

  ‘So are Martius, and Cassandra, and Brutus, and Edgar.’

  DS Leyton now stares at each of his colleagues in turn – he might almost be checking their eye colour, as some sort of cross-reference for what DS Jones is about to say. She continues.

  ‘It used to be thought impossible for blue-eyed parents to have a brown-eyed child. It’s actually not – however it is exceptionally rare. And Perdita has brown eyes.’

  And now Skelgill chips in.

  ‘She’s also left-handed. And my guess is Thwaites was a redhead when he was younger.’

  DS Leyton’s brow furrows as the
rather shocking implication sinks in – and not least that, while DS Jones has perhaps just worked this out, Skelgill has obviously suspected for some time.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – what are you saying – that Thwaites was her father?’

  Curiously Skelgill begins to shake his head.

  ‘I reckon what matters, Leyton – is that he thought he might have been.’ Skelgill now grimaces and combs the fingers of both hands through his hair; it is a gesture that seems designed to assuage the notion; that it has been preying uncomfortably upon his mind. ‘Another one of my daft-copper ideas – I picked up on some local hearsay – I figured that Thwaites could be the illegitimate son of ‘Mr Padraig’ as he called him. That would have made him younger half-brother to Sean and Declan – reason to suspect him for Declan’s murder – since he could make a claim on the estate. But I got that completely wrong – his father was a Yank – an airman who was stationed hereabouts in the war.’ Now Skelgill sinks back into the sofa and clasps his hands over his midriff. ‘Thing is – when I began to suggest it to him he became really unnerved – but it never occurred to me that he thought I was going to ask him about Perdita.’

  DS Leyton leans forwards, his expression full of doubt.

  ‘But that would mean him and – well – Shauna – you know, Guv?’ He lowers his gaze as though he is embarrassed to be any more explicit in present company.

  Skelgill chuckles at his sergeant’s prudishness.

  ‘These things happen. Leyton.’

  ‘But the age gap, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill folds his arms rather defensively. He flashes a glance at DS Jones.

  ‘Aye – but do the sums, Leyton. You’ve met Thwaites as an old bloke – Perdita’s now thirty-three. Wind it back – he would have been in his early forties – and Shauna in her thirties.’