Murder at Shake Holes

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Can you describe further what took place?’

  ‘Simply that he searched among my belongings.’ She gives a light shrug of her shoulders; she seems intent upon persisting with her laconic style.

  ‘And then he left the room?’

  ‘I can’t remember – I must have passed out.’

  Skelgill glances at DS Leyton who responds with a somewhat unguarded frown. The woman notices the exchange and is quick to respond.

  ‘Do not doubt what I say, Inspector.’

  Her tone is steely.

  ‘Madam, was something stolen?’

  Now she hesitates.

  ‘I cannot tell you what has been taken.’

  On the face of it this is an ambiguous statement – but Skelgill understands by now that her pared responses are carefully crafted.

  ‘You mean something is gone but you don’t want to say what it is?’

  Perhaps to the detectives’ surprise, she frowns self-reproachfully.

  ‘I was foolish to have it in my possession.’

  ‘Are we talking about an item of jewellery?’

  She compresses her lips broodingly.

  ‘You will know it when you find it. I wish to avoid any publicity. Its potential value would soar and I would never see it again.’

  Skelgill regards her rather severely. But he understands that she will have weighed the likely fidelity of any vows of confidentiality they might render.

  ‘That doesn’t make it easy for us, madam.’

  ‘I’m sure you will find a way, Inspector – a resourceful man, such as you are.’

  She smiles engagingly – almost irresistibly – and Skelgill discovers he is nodding in agreement. He can sense DS Leyton is straining at his side.

  ‘And now if you will excuse me, officers, I shall take a bath.’

  She slips off the bed and glides past them into the en suite.

  She only part-closes the door and there is the splash of water beginning to cascade abundantly into the cast-iron tub. Skelgill rises and glances about the room – but when he looks back at his still-sitting sergeant he sees the man transfixed – for he has inadvertently glimpsed a reflection from a full-length mirror as Wiktoria Adamska hangs her silk gown on a hook. Skelgill cuffs his colleague on the back of the head.

  ‘Come on, Leyton.’

  They exit, and begin to perambulate the first-floor landing. DS Leyton looks a little stunned.

  ‘Cor blimey, what do you make of that, Guv?’

  Skelgill might wonder to exactly which aspect his sergeant refers – the theatrical summons, the dramatic account, the abrupt termination – or his accidental ‘What the butler saw’ moment. As for the latter, he is thankful that he insisted upon a chaperone. He growls elusively.

  ‘You tell me, Leyton.’

  ‘Well – I mean, Guv – her claiming she’s been robbed – no idea of who – and won’t tell us what. What are we supposed to do? We can hardly turn out everyone’s pockets and pat them down on her say-so. See if some tea leaf’s got a priceless diamond tiara stuffed down their underpants.’

  Skelgill shrugs somewhat unconcernedly.

  ‘I would have thought a set of papers was more likely, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton cocks his head interrogatively to his superior.

  ‘What – are you thinking of Mikal Mital’s manuscript, Guv?’

  ‘Why not?’

  After a few moments’ deliberation DS Leyton inhales to speak – but he realises they have walked full circle (or, more accurately, full square) and are lapping Wiktoria Adamska’s door. He hesitates until they have turned the next corner.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask her, Guv?’

  ‘And let the cat out of the bag?’ Skelgill’s retort is sharp-tongued. ‘That’s why I said jewellery. If she’d had the manuscript, Leyton – then she must be in on whatever’s been going on. I don’t want her or anyone else knowing we’re looking for it.’

  Now DS Leyton rocks his head from side to side, as though he might be suffering from a stiff neck – but his words reveal it to be an accompaniment to some troubling speculation.

  ‘I imagine if she’d have knocked on the old fella’s compartment wearing that pink affair – he might have let her in, Guv.’

  ‘Red affair, Leyton.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘Remember – Ruairidh McLeod told us he saw a woman in a red dressing gown.’

  ‘Maybe she’s got a whole troop of colours. There’s enough underwear in that little case to last a fortnight.’ And then a thought dawns, for the sergeant’s voice takes on a note of heightened interest. ‘And she was standing right next to Jenny Hackett when she got shoved into that snake pit, Guv.’

  At this juncture they reach the head of the main staircase. Below in the lobby Skelgill sees that Samanta is standing to attention before the reception desk; from out of their line of sight he hears the gruff voice of Joost Merlyn – indeed he catches the words, harshly spoken: “And that is how it will remain. No matter what that –”

  Samanta suddenly glances anxiously in their direction. Whether by accident or design it must betray their presence to her employer for he breaks off his sentence – and must dismiss her with some signal, for she bows her head obediently and turns and quickly walks away. By the time the two detectives have descended, the area behind the counter is deserted.

  But Joost Merlyn may be lurking in the back office, and Skelgill points towards the front door. It is unlocked and they emerge beneath the part-recessed portico onto the raised step. Here the snow is just a few inches deep, beyond lies a good foot and a half. Its surface is pristine, the only tracks some fifteen yards away being those of DS Jones’s arrival and then her departure assisted by Skelgill, leading to and from the archway further along the front of the building. The inundated parking area is level, reflecting the old inn’s location at the confluence of Ulpha Beck and Shake Holes Beck, effectively a little floodplain of alluvial deposits. Encircling them, bare oaks striped with driven snow rise up against a steep fellside; the deciduous wood has a dense ground layer of rhododendrons; these add some colour, albeit a deep winter green, and the bushes are heavily laden with snow. There appears to be a ride, tunnel-like – perhaps a footpath – that disappears into the bank of shrubs, and Skelgill can just a make out a sign fixed on the trunk of a tree, peeling lettering that might read “Bath House”. The surrounding fells crowd in upon the scene, and although there is a clear blue sky, cerulean in its intensity, the low winter sun has not yet risen sufficiently to illuminate the inn and its environs, and so the more immediate snowscape lacks definition. Earlier, beneath the turbulence of the helicopter, Skelgill had not appreciated quite how comprehensively the wind has dropped. Neither flora nor fauna move – yet from the woodland fringe emanate the purring contact calls of a party of invisible long-tailed titmice; a sign that not all life has been stifled.

  ‘It’s flippin’ Baltic, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods appreciatively. He watches the warm plumes of their breath drift up and slowly dissipate.

  ‘Baltic without the Blast.’ Skelgill sniffs, as if the cold air is causing his nose to run. ‘It’s going to be a sight easier to get about. The visibility’s perfect.’

  DS Leyton makes an ambiguous quavering sound.

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy falling into one of those holes, Guv.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow – is it a hint that his sergeant would rather sit tight than risk a trek across country to rendezvous with a rescue vehicle? However, he reverts to their paused conversation, now that they have privacy.

  ‘She weren’t too fussed about locking her doors, Leyton.’

  ‘Nor even shutting ’em, Guv.’

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill senses that his partner has not quite recovered from their interview. ‘Invitation to trouble, wouldn’t you say?’

  DS Leyton is frowning, gathering his thoughts.

  ‘She’s not shy, is she, Guv? I mean – calling you up to her room – wearing nex
t to nothing.’ Now he punctuates his sentence with a deliberate “ahem”. ‘And what Jenny Hackett told us on the train – that she’s got a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘What are you saying, Leyton?’

  ‘Well – what if she’d left her door unlocked on purpose? That she was expecting a visitor. But she nodded off. Then she was too shocked to do anything when things didn’t go to plan. Meanwhile, whoever it was – maybe even a different geezer – took advantage of the situation.’

  Skelgill is making pained faces during this rather disjointed description. Clearly he is unhappy with the whole scenario.

  ‘What she described there, Leyton – sounded to me exactly like a bad dream.’

  ‘A dream?’

  ‘The feeling of paralysis – the invisible intruder – the way it blacks out with no conclusion. All that’s missing is being in the Chief’s Monday morning meeting, naked from the waist down.’

  DS Leyton chuckles. He tucks his hands beneath his armpits and blows out a stream of mist.

  ‘Trouble is, Guv – something’s been half-inched.’

  But Skelgill seems to be shaking his head minutely.

  ‘Trouble is, Leyton – we can’t be sure who’s telling us the truth and who isn’t.’

  Despite that DS Leyton groans in frustration Skelgill suspects it is a sound effect engineered to disguise an involuntary shudder.

  ‘Come on, Leyton – let’s get a hot cuppa – find somewhere quiet where we can work out a plan of action.’

  Skelgill spins around easily on the snow and opens the large oak door sufficiently for them to slip inside without allowing too much heat to escape. As he enters he realises that Samanta is close by, arranging brochures in a slotted tourist-information display unit. Her response is to check about the lobby and then to fix him beseechingly with her large dark eyes, crescent shadows prominent beneath. Skelgill mutters something to DS Leyton and then casually saunters over to the girl, leaving his colleague to head in the direction of the breakfast room.

  ‘Got any decent suggestions for how a dozen folk might spend the day? Mostly city types.’

  His words seem to catch her by surprise – and she begins to take him literally, raising a hand to indicate that there are indeed many attractions in the vicinity – no matter that such a notion is entirely impractical in the circumstances. Skelgill gives a wry grin. He pulls out a leaflet at random and appears to peruse it. It is a somewhat amateur production, entitled ‘Shake Holes Historic Trail’. He lowers his voice and speaks without looking at her.

  ‘What was that all about – when you were just told to make yourself scarce?’

  Again Samanta glances across at the reception desk – but it is still unmanned. Nonetheless she too responds in hushed tones.

  ‘Ah – he noticed I had taken the beers – the craft ale?’

  ‘What?’ Skelgill’s tone is indignant.

  ‘He says he has locked the cellar permanently – and I must ask him for the key each time I have to fetch stock.’

  Now Skelgill swears an oath under his breath. He bridles that the girl has landed in trouble for his sake. He looks as if he would like to punch the man.

  ‘Where is he? I’ll put him straight.’

  The girl is alarmed – she reaches to place a palm on Skelgill’s arm.

  ‘No, no – it is best that you do not. It is not a problem – I can handle it.’ She regards him earnestly, as if to be sure of his cooperation. She takes a step closer, now gripping the sleeve of his shirt. ‘But there is something –’

  But the sudden explosion of the one-man hullabaloo that is Richard Bond truncates her sentence. The burly fellow strides into the lobby, apparently calling out orders to himself – and then exclaims loudly when he spies Skelgill. In one hand he grasps a bundle of material, red in colour. In his wake a somewhat alarmed looking DS Leyton paddles to keep up, and the disturbance lures a limping Joost Merlyn from his lair beyond reception. Skelgill folds the leaflet out of sight into his back pocket and steps protectively in front of the girl.

  Richard Bond marches up to Skelgill. He gives the kind of nod that might be appropriate to informally acknowledge a more senior officer.

  ‘Jenny Hackett has left the building.’ He raises the red material, which unfurls in the shape of a dressing gown. ‘She abandoned this in the tack room. It has her cigarettes in the pocket.’ The ex-military man’s staccato sentences are delivered like little bursts of gunfire.

  They crowd rather vacantly around the gown, as though something might reveal itself – it is a silk kimono, with a subtle oriental pattern in different shades of crimson and scarlet that is only evident on close examination. But Skelgill is thinking he is unaware that she smokes, and wondering that Richard Bond knows better – and DS Leyton now voices a concern along similar lines.

  ‘How can you be sure it’s hers?’

  However, it is not Richard Bond that answers, but Samanta.

  ‘I have seen it – while I serviced her room – hanging in the bathroom.’

  Skelgill raises his hands. They are getting ahead of themselves.

  ‘Hold your horses.’ He gestures that Richard Bond should lower the article, and the man drapes it across his forearm. ‘What makes you think she’s missing?’

  Richard Bond regales Skelgill with the self-reproachful simper that he has employed each time there might be a question of insubordination on his part.

  ‘I went along to the tack room – in my role as, er – ahem – unofficial quartermaster. I reasoned we might be making a break for it today – so I decided to identify the most suitable kit – get everything shipshape, and all that.’ Now he leans towards Skelgill, and adopts a tone of expert-to-expert, as if his words are not intended for the others. ‘I thought alpine-style roping, in view of the risk of shake holes – in threes with each female between two males?’ (Skelgill nods encouragingly – but he just wants the man to get on with it.) ‘I realised immediately that one of the smaller outfits was gone, and boots – and there are fresh disturbances in the snow leading across the stable yard. I made a mental list of those I have seen this morning at breakfast – narrowed it down to Jenny Hackett. I tried her door – there was no answer – but it was unlocked and the room empty.’

  DS Leyton seems rather peeved; perhaps that Richard Bond is intruding upon his territory.

  ‘She could be with someone else – or in one of the public rooms – the library.’

  In turn Richard Bond looks irked – as though he considers DS Leyton to be of a lower rank than he and that he finds the sergeant’s contention impertinent. He turns to face Skelgill.

  ‘I’ve had a preliminary scout around. I think you’ll find she is definitely gone, Inspector.’

  Skelgill nods curtly.

  ‘Let’s make doubly sure, eh – protocol, and all that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Skelgill places a hand on DS Leyton’s upper arm.

  ‘Leyton – you check upstairs – with Samanta.’ He regards the girl in a businesslike manner. ‘You’ve got a master key, aye?’ She nods, and her hand moves to cover the pocket of her apron. Skelgill continues to address her. ‘See if you can tell if anything else is gone from her room.’

  Now he turns to Richard Bond. He knows he must act decisively before the man sets his own agenda. But there are not enough police officers for what he needs to do. If he asks Richard Bond to conduct an unsupervised search and later it proves that something was overlooked he, Skelgill, will take the rap. But there is a more disquieting aspect: the stalking incident in the woods is still raw in his memory, his confidence shaken – but if he excludes Richard Bond now it will give the game away.

  ‘Richard – can you take the ground floor yourself? Public rooms and staff quarters.’ Skelgill does not pause to gauge the reaction of Joost Merlyn. ‘Check everywhere methodically, including all the store cupboards. And the freezers and suchlike.’

  Richard Bond is nodding enthusiastically. Skelgill holds out his
hand for the garment – its exchange frees the man into action. He clicks his heels and sets off for the corridor that leads eventually to the tack room. ‘I shall work clockwise.’

  Skelgill hands the red gown to DS Leyton. ‘See if anyone else recognises this. Then you may as well put it back in her room.’ He gives a tip of his head to indicate that his sergeant and Samanta should embark on their task.

  Skelgill is left standing with the sour-faced Joost Merlyn, the latter leaning heavily upon his stick; he looks like he may be calculating whether these events will have any impact on his takings. As such, and still irked by Samanta’s little revelation, Skelgill cannot resist a small impertinence.

  ‘At least it’s not Ms Adamska that’s done a runner, eh, sir?’

  The man mumbles something unintelligible – perhaps it is a curse in his native tongue, but Skelgill does not have Richard Bond to translate. He issues a rejoinder that he considers will carry commensurate weight.

  ‘Perhaps you and I can check the more unexpected places, sir – places the average daft country copper wouldn’t think of looking. How about we begin with the cellar?’

  The man glances sharply at Skelgill, and looks like he might object, his scowl fiercer than ever – but then he shuffles around the fulcrum of his walking stick and begins to hobble away. If Skelgill were meeting him for the first time he would judge him singularly uncooperative, but in fact this surly behaviour is just par for the course. He follows into the back office, which to his surprise is barely more than an unlit butler’s pantry into which has been squeezed a worn leather armchair and an electric fire. On a shelf sit a kettle, a mug and spoon, and a jar of instant coffee. It is like a nightwatchman’s den – and appears to rely on ambient light from the reception area. The back wall is taken up by a planked door that could do with a fresh coat of varnish. Without a word Joost Merlyn rests his stick against the armchair and delves into the pocket of his baggy cardigan and pulls out a blackened hand-forged key and fits it into the body of an equally ancient mortise lock. It seems both lock and hinges are well oiled, for there are no melodramatic sound effects that would befit the gloom and the hunched gaoler-like character. He reaches to throw a switch that casts the scene beyond into adequately if not brightly lit contrast. Leaning to look past the man Skelgill sees an unguarded ladder-style staircase descending steeply beside several courses of exposed foundations.