Murder at Shake Holes

by Bruce Beckham

  He might expect Joost Merlyn already to have stated that Jenny Hackett cannot possibly be in the cellar because it is locked – but there is the matter of timings conveyed by Samanta. The door would presumably have been open last evening for the transfer of miscellaneous beverages, and perhaps even the requirement to change a barrel. But the man’s taciturnity in this respect nevertheless strikes him. He decides the natural reaction is for him to raise this question.

  ‘When was this door last unlocked, sir?’

  Joost Merlyn does not make eye contact.

  ‘I locked it last night – around midnight.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want folk helping themselves.’ Skelgill’s tone acquires a note of sarcasm. ‘Then again – maybe you would. I understand there’s a special arrangement in place to cover your costs. The more the merrier.’

  There is a snarl that may be a sign of assent.

  ‘That’ll save you all the red tape involved in submitting a compensation claim to the railway company – won’t it sir?’

  Skelgill’s expression of concern is plainly disingenuous. He means he is onto him if he is thinking of double claiming. Joost Merlyn declines to be drawn.

  ‘You going down, or what, Inspector?’

  ‘Are you not going to show me?’

  The man shifts a hand and places it upon his raised hip, and grimaces ever more hideously.

  ‘Not unless you want to carry me back up.’

  Given what he knows, Skelgill is unconvinced by this little charade – but he opts to take the retort at face value. Joost Merlyn is a large man – if he were not stooped by his affliction he would reach Skelgill’s own height and is both bulky and overweight. Not to mention his disagreeable features and questionable personal hygiene. Manhandling him is not an appealing prospect. Skelgill shrugs indifferently – the man moves aside to allow him to pass. As he does so he has to hand over the sprung door – and as Skelgill takes control he jerks the key from the lock and steps over the threshold. He responds to the man’s strangled protest with an insouciant grin.

  ‘Wouldn’t want the lock to jam. Happen that’d give you all another problem, breaking me out, eh?’

  He does not wait for a reply, and descends confidently, facing out and no-handed, when actually the stair is steep enough to merit facing in. The door swings to above him. His first impression is that the air is fresh, when he has anticipated a stuffy cobweb-festooned staleness. There is a hint of beeriness, although not a patch on the uplifting yeasty aroma of real ale venting from its casks.

  Skelgill is not expecting to find Jenny Hackett hiding down here. That he personally opted to search the cellar is a decision driven as much out of devilment as professional curiosity. But suddenly alone he is able to reflect upon the practicalities of the situation. The prima facie evidence is that Jenny Hackett has, as Richard Bond put it, “left the building”. He considers this is likely to prove a reliable assessment. And they shall in due course set out in pursuit – because surely she will not make it far, and will encounter danger despite the more benign climatic conditions. But no police officer worth their salt would embark without checking thoroughly her last known whereabouts. He inhales through gritted teeth – for the corollary of a search that includes cupboards, freezers and suchlike is that foul play is suspected. He trusts that those civilians enlisted can be relied upon to refrain from subsequent scaremongering.

  For his part, this first stage of the task is not going to be onerous. Illuminated by a chain of bulkhead lights at head height, the cellar is less extensive than he has anticipated. It is basically a vaulted cavity that must run along the front section of Shake Holes Inn – probably the footprint of the original building, a more rudimentary edifice than exists today (the upper floor, and the wings that enclose the stable yard appended at a later date). The arching sidewalls and ceiling are of roughhewn limestone, the end walls of brick construction. To Skelgill’s left – the east, he concludes – beneath what must be the snug bar stands a cluster of stainless steel beer kegs. Several of these are connected by clear tubes to electric wall-mounted pumps, the tubes in turn snaking into the darkness above – presumably through a duct directly into the bar itself. The long rear wall is lined with galvanised steel racking, on its lower shelf crates of mixers, pops and sodas, canned beers, ciders and wines. Its upper shelf is reserved for spirits – vodka, gin, and rum. Skelgill is about to pass these by, when something about them strikes him. Up in the bar, the bottles on the optics and on display behind are all those of the leading international brands. Smirnoff, Gordon’s, Bacardi. But none of those names are to be seen here – these are all cheap supermarket own-labels, imitations that retail at half the price. Skelgill nods grimly. Joost Merlyn is engaging in what is known in the trade as ‘decanting’ – passing off cheap liquor as top quality in order to turn a fatter margin of profit. An inverted plastic funnel confirms his deduction. Skelgill scoffs disparagingly – but he cannot say he is surprised. This is the man that keeps fine bottled ale for personal consumption. And Skelgill wonders where it might be.

  At the opposite end of the cellar is a wooden chute and, at its foot, a traditional ‘pig’, a cork-filled jute sack to absorb the impact of the kegs dropped by the drayman. Skelgill reasons that there will be a trapdoor that opens at the front of the inn. He ducks beneath the ladder to inspect. He is right – at the top of the chute there is a hinged wooden hatch held fast by an iron stay. Ordinarily he would expect to see chinks of light, but there are none because of the thick blanket of snow above. And yet he feels a faint draught – and at the same moment gets a hint of some floral bouquet – it is a fragrance he recognises without being able to place it. He looks to his left; against the end wall is a tall oak bookcase that has been pressed into use for storage purposes. Scrawled in black ink on the edge of the top shelf are the words ‘cocktail ingredients’. It is actually an impressive collection – and he notes that these are genuine brands, variants of vermouth, triple sec, blue curaçao and the like. On lower shelves are mixers, syrups and small bottles that contain bitters.

  He takes a step closer – but feels the sudden crunch of glass beneath his foot. As he recoils he realises he is standing in a pool of tacky liquid. There is a broken bottle, more or less flattened, but its fragmented label is just sufficiently intact for him to be able to read the words ‘Crème de Violette’. He grimaces at the prospect – but he supposes it explains the flowery scent. And now he recalls last night a sub-committee making the case for mixology – in particular the two Russian females and their compatriot Egor, and Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – egged on by an inebriated Jenny Hackett, who nonetheless seemed to know her Moscow Mules from her Molotovs.

  On reflection they must have had Samanta up and down the cellar ladder like a jack-in-the-box, in their quest for ever more exotic concoctions. And he remembers Joost Merlyn’s self-satisfied smirk as the tab escalated. Cocktails? Ka-ching! Poor Samanta, perhaps, run off her feet, arms overloaded, she dropped this bottle – and if Joost Merlyn has inspected, then no wonder he has castigated the hard-working girl.

  Skelgill’s distaste for the man is renewed. Once more he feels impelled to confront the miserly landlord. Not least that his treatment of Samanta is despicable. But – hold on – he inhales deeply, his face a picture of discontent. It is not like him to get sidetracked by personal enmity – nor to resort to jibes or harbour grudges. Either punch his lights out – or forget it – for the time being. There is feedback from the others, and a search party to be organised. Better to focus. He decides this is a moment to let water pass under the bridge. There will be more bridges.

  He returns to the ladder in the centre of the cellar and ascends. Joost Merlyn has been keeping watch. He prises himself from his armchair. Skelgill hands back the key. He does not comment on his findings.

  ‘Where else is there, sir?’

  ‘There’s nowhere else – your soldier man is checking the stables and the stores.’

  ‘What about this B
ath House place?’

  Skelgill’s tone is neutral. He seems to have caught the man off guard.

  ‘What?’ There is a moment’s hesitation. ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘Well – it’s not nothing, is it? I saw the sign across the car park – and it’s mentioned in your guided walk pamphlet.’

  ‘Ach.’ Joost Merlyn almost expectorates. ‘That is an exaggeration – the bath house is a ruin, a pile of stones. Some former owners produced that leaflet – there’s no call for history these days. You’d be wasting your time. It is bricked up. ’

  ‘All the same, sir – we still need to look. I wouldn’t be doing my job.’

  12. BATHOLOGY

  Friday, 10.30am

  The bath house is the last structure a casual rambler would expect to stumble upon in this rugged rural corner of Cumbria. Even a hotel guest, following the marked trail and therefore in expectation of ‘something’, would find it incongruous. While the inn has a workmanlike perpendicular Georgian facade, austere and unornamented, here there is the sudden illusion of a time-travelling spacecraft having crash-landed in the forest. Set in a small round clearing, the bath house is a construction in the neoclassical style. From a circular stone base arises a chiselled Doric temple with its snow-capped domed roof supported by ten fluted columns. In the centre beneath the dome and otherwise exposed to the elements stands a sculpted statue; the brochure in Skelgill’s back pocket would tell him this is Hygeia, the Greek goddess of good health. She bears a chalice, and the fingers of her left hand caress the head of an asp that winds its way up a pedestal at her side.

  For some this lofty vision might evoke feelings of enchantment – but Skelgill, ever practical, has his mind set on the more prosaic foundation. It resembles the lower storey of a medieval watchtower, a round turret of undressed rocks of local origin. Ostensibly its role is as a plinth to elevate the temple – but, in fact, reaching a height of perhaps seven feet, this must be the actual bath house itself, possibly a much older edifice. He guesses it was built over the sulphurous mineral spring that he can smell even now. It has no windows and – as Joost Merlyn had presaged – in effect no door, for the narrow portal beneath a stone lintel is indeed blocked – the single aspect that is displeasing to the eye, a slapdash score of courses of blue engineering bricks of a similar vintage to those forming the end walls of the cellar.

  On his approach through the dark tunnel of rhododendrons, a steeply rising path that has received only a sprinkling of snow, Skelgill has followed no human tracks, and the snow in the clearing and around the bath house is virgin but for the spoor of a roe deer that has passed this way. Nonetheless, he satisfies himself that there is no other means of entry, and that none has been attempted, and circles the building. Back before the blocked doorway he faces outwards, his breath coming more steadily as his pulse rate eases. Even for a fellsman of his experience, the scene is uncannily silent; no sough of the wind, no mew of a buzzard, no bleating of sheep, no tractor chug of a farmer on the move; and not even the distant drone of traffic.

  After a while, however, Skelgill fancies he can hear running water – it intrigues him what might be inside the tower base – a spout filling a stone bath of sorts, he supposes, where those Victorian diehards immersed themselves in hope. It would be cold, year round – although ironically in these sub-arctic conditions the ground water would provide protection against frost. He is reminded of Joost Merlyn’s belittling of history; neither is the subject his own bag – but to allow this hidden treasure to fall into ruin seems a travesty. But what chance the man would put his hand in his pocket to restore it – when a few paintball pistols will do the trick for the gung-ho urban clientele he aims to attract?

  Skelgill ponders his next move. A wren momentarily appears on a protruding twig and gives its too-big-for-its-boots alarm call. ‘Jenny Wren’, indeed. Where has Jenny Hackett gone? As he had anticipated – and to the patent satisfaction of Richard Bond – the search of the inn had drawn a blank. That is to say, as far as she in person was concerned. Her luggage and toiletries remained, but of the most salient item in the detectives’ minds – the late Mikal Mital’s manuscript – there was no trace; nor could DS Leyton find her mobile telephone or wallet. Moreover, his sergeant’s questioning of her fellow passengers had proved unproductive. All retired collectively – shortly before midnight – and none admits to having arisen before breakfast, or having heard a disturbance in the night. Wiktoria Adamska’s earlier testimony is of course the exception to this rule, and had prompted DS Leyton to confide in his boss a revised hypothesis.

  “What if it were Jenny Hackett in her room, Guv? Say she suspected that Wiktoria Adamska had the manuscript – sneaked in – nicked it – scarpered. Next thing it’ll be splashed all over the front pages.”

  As Skelgill replays this notion his eyes narrow. Would Jenny Hackett seriously have considered making a dash for freedom? How desperate was she – is she – to impress her editor? It was still snowing heavily when they went to bed – and by his estimation had continued to do so until shortly before the visit of the helicopter. She could of course have waited for dawn – but that would have risked being seen by one of the patrons or staff. Besides, in spite of Richard Bond’s excitement about tracks leading from the tack room and across the courtyard, on closer inspection these proved to belong to the two detectives. No footprints extended beyond the winch point above which the chopper had hovered. Indeed, no new tracks could be discovered leading from the inn. This entailed falling back on the theory that, if Jenny Hackett had departed, she did so in the dark, while it was still snowing – and her footprints were subsequently buried.

  Or, like ‘Mr Harris’, she is possessed of supernatural qualities!

  Skelgill gives a frustrated gasp, his breath forming a confused cloud before him. There was one snippet of interest. When quizzed by DS Leyton as to whether Jenny Hackett had given any indication of her intentions, Ruairidh McLeod had asserted that, when the two teams (Dire Straits and The Pretenders) were seated together before their bar billiards contest, Jenny Hackett had declined a refill of wine, proclaiming that she “needed to keep a clear head” and had tapped the side of her nose. At the time the guard took this to mean so that she would perform well in the pub games – but with hindsight, who knows? However, Skelgill had dismissed the significance of this account. His recall is of Jenny Hackett filling her boots from the free bar – not to mention the potent cocktails later. He had expressed this doubt to his subordinate, but DS Leyton had offered a rejoinder.

  “What if she were just getting everyone else smashed, Guv – especially Wiktoria Adamska – if she planned to creep into her room? We just assumed she was knocking it back because of the night before – but for all we know she might hardly have touched a drop.”

  Skelgill remains unconvinced by this argument. It would seem more likely to him – knowing what he does of Jenny Hackett’s personality and penchant for a tipple – that if she did concoct a plan to steal and make away with the manuscript, she did it under the influence of alcohol, a spur-of-the-moment whim that has likely led her into trouble.

  The guard had also been questioned about the red kimono. His response had been that, yes, it was the identical colour, and, yes, it could have been Jenny Hackett whom he glimpsed slipping from view – but that he had no way of being one hundred per cent certain on either count. Corroboration, however, comes in the testimony of the remaining females – none of who lay claim to the said garment. So here is some small evidence to suggest that Jenny Hackett was prone to nocturnal wanderings. But did she finish at the inn what she started on the Midnight Express? Or has she gone back to the train?

  Skelgill checks his watch. He has not shared his thoughts about Jenny Hackett’s motivation – nor indeed his reasons for setting out alone, among which the missing journalist is only secondary. His primary purpose is concealed in his backpack – the walkie-talkie and the conversation that is scheduled with DS Jones. His explanation to the others wa
s that the train has been sealed off by order of the Coroner – standard protocol in the event of an unexplained death – and that only the police may cross the tapes. He had convened a meeting that comprised himself and DS Leyton, Richard Bond and his two associates, and Bill Faulkner. These he considered to be the most able bodied. On interrogating the latter three on their outdoor proficiency (Richard Bond’s skills he took as read), it emerged that, while the two younger men were athletic but not country types, Bill Faulkner confessed to being a fully paid-up duck hunter, indeed part-owner in a syndicate of two thousand acres of prime Louisiana coastal marshes, a shooting cabin that sleeps twelve, a brace of Labrador retrievers, and – by the sound of it – a different gun for every species he bags. It seems there is more than meets the eye to the quiet American, and that he is perfectly capable of covert operations, creeping about the countryside and interpreting the signs. Skelgill had noticed Richard Bond looking on with affected admiration, a glazed stare and a fixed smile that he suspected to be a cover for competitive envy. But Skelgill was convinced. And thus, for the purposes of avoiding a further calamity, he paired Messrs Bond and Faulkner respectively with each of the younger men. Richard Bond would take Egor and Bill Faulkner, François – this a relatively arbitrary choice, although Faulkner had joked that he also speaks French, albeit the New Orleans version. DS Leyton – to his poorly concealed relief – was once more delegated to man the fort. Clearly, under the circumstances, a police presence was required – both to reassure those remaining, and in the event of further unexpected developments.

  The triumvirate of Skelgill, Bond and Faulkner had then pored over a map to agree upon a plan of action. Ulpha Beck cascades from north to south along the margin of the woodland. The pairs would split up and head in opposite directions, sticking to the bank of the stream. When they reached the respective polar limits of the plantation, they would each strike west across the open fell country, and swing around in a wide pincer movement, until they met up. In effect they would draw a circle around the inn. If tracks were found, the more experienced man was to follow and the second to report back. They had bemoaned the lack of a mobile signal. Of course, Skelgill had to keep mum about his radio. But giving it to one of them would be pointless – and it would defeat his own main objective. Besides, in his bones he held out no great hopes for their locating the missing journalist. But they will do their best, and Richard Bond’s cabin fever is circumvented for the time being. Meanwhile Skelgill may inspect the train, which is a mite more promising.