Murder at Shake Holes

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Nicholas Mistress.’

  Now the woman smiles; her composure seems restored, and her eyes glint with the knowledge that she is being abstruse.

  ‘What?’ Skelgill struggles to process her unexpected words.

  ‘Surely you have heard of him – he won the Stayer’s Hurdle at Aintree four years ago. He might be retired– but he has lost none of his steeplechaser’s stamina.’

  Skelgill is still scowling but DS Jones butts in.

  ‘You mean you came on horseback?’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean, officer. My trusty steed is tethered to the rear of the train.’

  Skelgill’s tone remains sceptical.

  ‘What route did you take?’

  ‘The railway passes through my land. It seemed the expedient approach – under the circumstances.’ She regards him calmly and then looks at DS Jones. Perhaps she is half expecting that they might accuse her of trespassing, but when no such reproach is forthcoming she continues. ‘And to answer your question – I am trained in first aid – and I have some basic medicines.’ She pats a pocket of her coat. ‘Since the emergency services are stretched to breaking point – I thought I might do my bit.’

  Skelgill has heard enough to satisfy himself of her bona fides. He seizes upon the implication of her statement.’

  ‘Do you have communications?’

  ‘Not as such. I am snowed in at the stables with three of my staff and four guests. We are entirely offline, as far as internet and telephone is concerned. But we can reach the village on horseback. There is an operational landline at the post office. That is where I picked up the news about the train this morning.’

  Skelgill can sense that DS Jones is staring at him; but when he does not reciprocate, she takes matters into her own hands.

  ‘What kind of saddle do you have?’

  Lucinda Hobhouse regards the younger woman with surprise.

  ‘A bareback pad, as a matter of fact.’

  DS Jones does not waver.

  ‘I’d like you to take me to the post office.’

  Skelgill glances in alarm at DS Jones – clearly irked that she has not consulted him. But he stays any further reaction, conscious of Lucinda Hobhouse’s inquisitive gaze. Indeed, she rises and they each step aside to make room, as though she is now one of their cohort.

  ‘Well – certainly it will be satisfying to know that my expedition has not been in vain. I’m only sorry I could not bring the buggy – else I could have driven you both. But I think three of us would be too much even for Old Nick – a big chap like you, Inspector.’

  She briefly places a palm on Skelgill’s chest. He makes an involuntary movement, to recoil, but is restricted by the bulkhead at his back. He frowns. He does not think of himself in such terms – he is just a couple of inches above average height, and rangy of build – the shorter DS Leyton must weigh a good deal more than he. Rather gruffly, he coughs up a reply.

  ‘Don’t worry, madam – one of us needs to go back to the others.’

  The woman rocks forwards on the balls of her feet as if she is keen to move – but then she hesitates.

  ‘What about – if you don’t mind my asking – you said there was a fatality?’

  Once again Skelgill can sense that DS Jones is watching carefully for his reaction.

  ‘An elderly gent – he may have suffered a heart attack.’ Skelgill makes a face of displeasure. ‘We’ve had to leave the body here on the train. Obviously that’s why we need to inform the relevant authorities. Under the circumstances there are procedures such as notifying the Coroner. And there’s the likes of next of kin to think about.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lucinda Hobhouse looks from Skelgill to DS Jones. ‘In which case, oughtn’t we hightail it?’

  DS Jones reacts by taking a step towards Skelgill, but he is blocking the door and seems reluctant to give way. His expression is unnaturally blank but in his grey-green eyes there is an anxiety aimed at his colleague, as though he is trying through telepathy to communicate some coded message. But DS Jones seems unperturbed. She squeezes past Lucinda Hobhouse and places a hand on Skelgill’s arm, applying enough pressure to get him to begin to back out of the compartment.

  ‘Don’t worry, Guv – I know exactly what I need to do.’

  8. INTERVIEWS

  Thursday, 2pm

  ‘Just come in, Leyton!’

  Skelgill’s raised voice follows several attempts, knocking and calling, by his sergeant to gain his attention. But when DS Leyton enters the room it appears empty, although Skelgill’s railway-issue overall lies discarded upon the counterpane, spread-eagled in an action caricature of its erstwhile wearer.

  ‘Whoa!’

  DS Leyton’s exclamation (and that he rears, almost spilling the contents of the tray that he bears) is caused by the sudden appearance, naked to the waist and jack-in-the-box like, of his superior, who springs to his feet on the far side of the double bed.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guvnor – I nearly touched cloth.’

  Skelgill merely winces by way of response. He reaches for a shirt from the back of a chair, but offers no explanation as to what he was doing – as far as DS Leyton is concerned it could have been executing push-ups, snatching forty winks or searching for a discarded pipe cleaner. In fact the latter would be in the right proximity, and Skelgill casually presses shut the open drawer of a mahogany desk that sits beneath the window. DS Leyton now rounds to the desk to deposit his tray.

  ‘Saved you some cheese-and-pickle sarnies, Guv – before those flippin’ gannets finished ’em off. They act all posh but they ain’t half got sharp elbows. Fraid they nabbed all the smoked salmon. And there’s tea in this flask – nice and hot.’

  Skelgill casts a hungry eye over the small feast that his sergeant has salvaged.

  ‘See, Leyton – I told you, you have your uses.’

  DS Leyton simpers rather affectedly.

  ‘Truth be told, Guv it was the housekeeper – young Samanta’s idea. She tipped me the wink that you’d slipped in via the tradesman’s entrance. She’s a decent girl, eh? Bit spooky looking, though – glides about this gaff like my old great granny’s ghost.’

  Skelgill is already biting into a sandwich and with his free hand trying to screw off the lid of the thermos. While he is unable to speak DS Leyton continues.

  ‘Er – DS Jones, Guv – I just knocked on her door to see if she wanted to join in the picnic – couldn’t get an answer.’

  Skelgill shakes his head and waggles his sandwich to indicate the futility of his sergeant’s quest. He checks his wristwatch as he swallows his mouthful.

  ‘With a fair wind – she’ll be getting a message out any minute.’

  DS Leyton gawps.

  ‘Struth, Guvnor – what are you saying – she’s not here?’

  Skelgill pours himself a mug of tea and piles several sandwiches onto a plate and settles down in an armchair. In as few words as he can muster between bites he proceeds to enlighten his colleague about the events on the train. DS Leyton looks at once relieved and bewildered.

  ‘Is this horsey woman going to bring her back?’

  ‘We didn’t discuss that – but I reckon Jones’ll come up with a solution.’

  DS Leyton runs the fingers of one hand through his dark hair.

  ‘Phew – that’ll take the pressure off all round, Guv – once they know everyone’s safe.’

  But when DS Leyton looks at his superior he sees Skelgill’s features are creased with doubt.

  ‘Safe from what, Leyton? Frostbite, hypothermia, aye. Now you’ve been babysitting, have you changed your mind about the murder threat level?’

  ‘Well – not exactly, Guv – but I reckoned if you’d found anything critical you’d have rocked up swinging.’

  ‘Leyton – all you need to know is the manuscript has gone. Leastways – gone from Mikal Mital’s possession. Which makes the Jenny Hackett incident doubly worrying – whether she’s got it squirrelled away somewhere, or not.’<
br />
  DS Leyton ponders for a moment. Then he indicates with a downward motion of the hand.

  ‘You weren’t just looking for it under your bed, Guv?’

  ‘Not exactly, Leyton – but you’re not so wide of the mark. Somebody has been.’

  ‘What do you mean, Guv?’

  Skelgill looks reluctant to elaborate. He contrives a partial clarification.

  ‘Things have been moved.’

  DS Leyton’s expression becomes more puzzled.

  ‘Was your room locked, Guv?’

  ‘Leyton – I don’t reckon we’re dealing with someone who’s put off by basic door locks.’

  DS Leyton shrugs.

  ‘Could have been Samanta, Guv – doing a bit of a tidy. She was telling me she’s a jack of all trades, working here – and her a trained interpreter – she speaks five languages –’ DS Leyton tails off, seeing that his superior disapproves of this diversion. ‘How could you tell, Guv?’

  ‘Come off it, Leyton – don’t tell me you don’t know when your missus has been checking out your secret stash of Mars bars.’

  ‘Stone me – how – aha!’ DS Leyton points an accusing finger at Skelgill – that he has caught him out. ‘I prefer Kit Kats, actually, Guv – the missus buys ’em in bulk for her WI ladies’ coffee mornings. Trouble is, try hiding anything from our nippers, little varmints, they are.’

  DS Leyton abruptly falls silent and Skelgill, assiduously working his way through the sandwiches and tea, glances sideways at his colleague to see that his features are rather forlorn. Of course, his family Christmas is at present in jeopardy – an anxiety compounded by the irony that, as the crow flies, they are within easy striking distance of their home railway station of Penrith; so near and yet so far.

  ‘Leyton – it’s unlikely we’ll get out of here tomorrow – but if the forecast’s right and the snow stops, back by Christmas Eve is a realistic possibility.’

  DS Leyton starts from his reverie. He regards Skelgill guardedly – surely his superior is not becoming sentimental? For a moment he brightens.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – it’s like that there whodunit, the flippin’ Mousetrap – where they all get stuck in a country house in the snow.’ But again there is a flicker of melancholy in his dark eyes. ‘I took the missus out west to see it when we were courting – trying to impress her, I was. Told her at the interval who the culprit was – me being the smart Alec bobby, like. She was determined it was someone else – I couldn’t help but laugh. Except, come the end – she made a right monkey out of me – she only went and got it right!’

  ‘Happen you’ll have more success this time, Leyton.’

  Skelgill’s tone seems unreasonably irritated – it prompts a more businesslike rejoinder from his subordinate.

  ‘It sounds to me like we need Forensics to give us a steer, Guv – but I guess that ain’t gonna happen any time soon.’ (Skelgill is shaking his head grimly.) ‘But I’ve got ’em all primed for interviews – I told ’em at lunchtime that as soon as you and DS Jones had properly searched the missing geezer’s cabin we’d speak to everyone individually. Who do you want to start with, Guv?’

  ‘The guard, I reckon. He’s supposed to have checked in the elusive Mr Harris.’

  ‘Righto, Guv – I’ll organise it for the library again, shall I?’

  ‘Aye.’

  DS Leyton rises, but somewhat ponderously, and instead of setting off on his mission he loiters and looks apprehensively at the tray. One sandwich remains and Skelgill has drained the flask.

  ‘I may as well take that down, Guv – drop it back to Samanta.’ He hesitates. ‘You don’t want that last sarnie?’

  Something in his manner causes Skelgill to regard DS Leyton sharply. Then he glares at the tray and it registers with him that there are in fact two more mugs and side plates, and his sergeant’s words upon arrival about DS Jones and picnic come to mind. A small note of alarm creeps into his voice.

  ‘Have you eaten, Leyton?’

  ‘Er – well – not exactly, Guv – but I mean – you’ve done five trips this morning – I didn’t like to –’

  ‘You donnat, Leyton – you should have said.’ Skelgill looks more annoyed than remorseful; the latter is not an emotion he would experience when it comes to competition for food. ‘Get Samanta to put you up some more bait.’

  DS Leyton grins self-reproachfully.

  ‘I’ll be alright, Guv – I’ve got an emergency stash of Kit Kats in me suitcase.’

  *

  ‘Ruairidh Angus McLeod.’

  Skelgill glances to one side; squinting, he can just read his colleague’s notebook, and that DS Leyton has written ‘Rory’.

  ‘Would you like to spell that, please, sir.’

  While the man does so, and DS Leyton, ever fastidious in his note-taking makes a correction, Skelgill scrutinises him. He is still wearing his railway-issue outfit, other than having swapped his blazer for a mottled grey cable-knit sweater that has leather patches sewn onto both elbows. With his untrained ginger eyebrows and ruddy complexion he could pass as a fisherman from one of Scotland’s myriad ports. His small blue eyes dart from one to the other of the detectives; there is a superficial belligerence in his manner, but it is plain that he is unnerved, like a gaoler usurped by a prisoners’ uprising. Skelgill senses he expects to be accused of failing in his duty, of losing a passenger. And perhaps, therefore, to the man’s surprise, and without particular deliberation on Skelgill’s part, he opts for a collaborative approach.

  ‘We’ll all get it in the neck if we sit on our hands and it turns out there’s something we should have done about this Mr Harris.’ Ruairidh McLeod regards Skelgill suspiciously as he gestures to indicate himself and DS Leyton. ‘Besides – this is our patch. It would have been one of us sent out to investigate in the normal course of events.’

  ‘Ah cannae be held responsible for people deciding tae leave the train.’

  It seems the man’s instincts for self-preservation for the moment prevail. Skelgill maintains an amenable tone.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong – we didn’t stop between Euston and when the train hit the snowdrift?’

  The guard shakes his head.

  ‘Aye – we didnae.’

  ‘The only scheduled halt before Edinburgh is Carlisle, right? Where we were due to disembark.’

  ‘Aye.’

  DS Leyton is looking rather perplexed. This is perhaps because Skelgill has not begun with the more obvious explanation – but now his superior does so.

  ‘Could the person – this Mr Harris – have changed his mind at Euston? Got off again?’

  Ruairidh McLeod hunches his shoulders.

  ‘Ah would have seen him. Ah was on the platform until we departed.’

  Skelgill does not contest the man’s assertion. Instead he gestures to DS Leyton, who has the manifest obtained originally by DS Jones. He hands it to his boss. Skelgill examines the list of passengers, their designated cabin numbers, and ticks made in biro in the left-hand margin.

  ‘Mr McLeod – we were cutting it fine – and Mr Bond and his team, and Ms Adamska – they were hot on our heels.’ (The guard nods sullenly.) ‘When did Mr Harris arrive?’

  ‘Ah deal with hunners of passengers every day. It’s nae my job tae remember individuals.’

  ‘But you recognised Mr Bond – and he called you by name.’

  ‘Aye – he’s a regular on the sleeper – and Sir Ewart.’

  ‘And that goes for their colleagues?’

  ‘Aye – I suppose so.’

  Skelgill taps the paper with the back of his right hand.

  ‘Could you have ticked off Mr Harris by accident?’

  The guard shakes his head with determination; his reply, however, is more ambiguous.

  ‘The first group of passengers all came together – they’d been waiting for the gate tae open.’

  Skelgill consults the list.

  ‘That would have been Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – an
d Ms Ivanna Karenina – who you already knew.’ Skelgill glances up and the man nods warily. ‘Plus Ms Hackett, Mr Mital, Mr Faulkner – and Mr Harris. Only four strangers – it’s not exactly a lot to remember.’

  The guard’s intransigence seems to resurface as Skelgill’s assertions become more probing.

  ‘Like Ah say – they made a rush at me. My job’s tae get them checked on board with nae fuss.’

  ‘What did Mr Harris look like?’

  It could be the heat of the small library with its rekindled fire, and that the man is wearing a thick sweater, but his face is becoming increasingly flushed.

  ‘Late thirties. Medium height. Average build. Short dark hair.’

  Now Skelgill’s brow creases.

  ‘It sounds to me like you’re describing Mr Faulkner, sir.’

  The man glowers obstinately but offers no defence. Though the universal description would fit several million citizens, Skelgill opts not to press the point further.

  ‘Okay, Mr McLeod – after the train departed – what did you see of Mr Harris?’

  ‘I didnae see him. He must have went tae his bed.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  The guard shakes his head.

  ‘Some passengers just want tae sleep. It’s under seven hours tae Edinburgh. Plus they get woken up forty-five minutes before we reach Waverley.’

  Skelgill nods pensively.

  ‘Just remind us about the locking of the compartments, sir.’

  ‘When a passenger arrives on board their cabin is open. They can lock it on the inside. If they go tae the toilet or the lounge car they can leave it on the latch – or if they set the lock I have tae let them back in.’

  ‘So somebody locked compartment number one.’

  It takes the man a moment to process Skelgill’s logic, but when he does he nods vigorously. It seems he believes this vindicates his resolution that there was a Mr Harris.

  ‘Aye – Ah had tae unlock it for your lassie.’

  The man grins – a little salaciously, Skelgill would judge, if it were not for the gravity of the subject. He shifts in his chair and tugs at the back of his shirt, as if he needs a physical distraction in order to realign his thoughts. There is nothing yet to convince him of the existence of Mr Harris. It can only be that a man displaying the powers of Spring-heeled Jack might explain whatever crimes have been committed which keeps him from dismissing the matter entirely. But folklore is not the answer, and it is only in the movies where villains subvert the laws of physics, while a willing audience is suckered into suspending disbelief.