Murder Mystery Weekend Read online

  Bruce Beckham

  __________

  Murder Mystery Weekend

  A detective novel

  LUCiUS

  Text copyright 2018 Bruce Beckham

  All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2018

  Paperback edition first published by Lucius 2018

  For more details and Rights enquiries contact:

  [email protected]

  Cover picture

  © Bruce Beckham 2018

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Murder Mystery Weekend is a stand-alone crime mystery, the eleventh in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It is set primarily in and around the English Lake District – a National Park of 885 square miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria – and the Scottish capital, Edinburgh.

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Murder in Adland

  Murder in School

  Murder on the Edge

  Murder on the Lake

  Murder by Magic

  Murder in the Mind

  Murder at the Wake

  Murder in the Woods

  Murder at the Flood

  Murder at Dead Crags

  Murder Mystery Weekend

  Murder on the Run

  (Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)

  Murder, Mystery Collection

  The Dune

  The Sexopaths

  Table of Contents

  Glossary

  1. First Day Of Spring

  2. ‘A Murder Is Announced’

  3. Lady Anne’s Chamber

  4. Will Liddell

  5. Southwaite

  6. Rest And Be Thankful

  7. Breakfast In Corstorphine

  8. Blackhall/Suzy Duff

  9. Murrayfield/Belinda Luker

  10. Ravelston/Felicity Belvedere

  11. St Salvator’s/Muriel Liddell

  12. Laldhi Mahal

  13. Loganlea

  14. Catriona

  15. London

  16. Detour

  17. Bassenthwaite Lake

  18. Penrith, HQ

  19. What The Butler Saw

  20. Return To Edinburgh

  21. Iuncta Sororibus

  22. Open Day

  Next In The Series

  Glossary

  Some of the local Cumbrian and Scots dialect words used in ‘Murder Mystery Weekend’ are as follows:

  Ah kent yer faither – I knew your father

  Auld Reekie – ‘Old Smoky’ (=Edinburgh)

  Beck – mountain stream

  Cuddy – donkey

  Cuddy wifter – left-handed

  Deek – sly look around

  Donnat – idiot

  Happen – possibly, maybe, it seems

  Hunner – hundred

  Janny – janitor

  Jings – an exclamation

  Keks – trousers

  Ken – know; you know

  Lass – girl, young woman

  Lug – ear

  Ma sel – myself

  Mash – making a pot of tea

  Mithered – bothered

  Owt – anything

  Polis – police

  Skelp – slap

  Sommat – something

  Tup – ram (male sheep)

  Tupping – what rams do

  Yowe – ewe

  And DS Leyton’s Cockney!

  Apples – stairs (‘Apples and Pears’)

  Blow the gaff – reveal a secret

  Bottle – arse (‘Bottle and Glass’)

  Cream-crackered – exhausted

  Dog – phone (‘Dog and Bone’)

  Gaff – property/home

  Geezer – man

  Mincers – eyes (‘Mince Pies’)

  Trouble – wife (‘Trouble and Strife’)

  Two-an’-eight – state (of upset)

  1. FIRST DAY OF SPRING

  Friday, morning

  Since early self-awareness March 21st has held a special meaning for Skelgill. The sun has crossed the equator and is on its way back to breathe life into Cumbria’s stalled landscape. Dog violets raise expectant lilac faces from decayed autumn leaf litter; tench stir from winter torpor, detecting a degree or two of warmth; the first chiffchaff, newly alighted bankside, taps out tentative chopsticks from a crack willow, announcing the auspicious date. Skelgill’s birthday.

  From his boat, far from madding crowds, he turns his face to the sun, still low over Barf, though it is late morning. Bassenthwaite Lake is becalmed, reflecting the scene: two Barfs, two Bishops, two suns that cause him to close his eyes; that warm hint of summer, a frisson – hard to define which senses it fleetingly captivates – a promise of something that, truth be told, never really materialises; it is like a distant vista, smudged and mysterious, that becomes familiar and mundane when finally entered.

  Still, who knows what spring will bring, surely something? Afloat, the plaintive bleat of new lambs reaches Skelgill’s keen ears. This little paradox reminds him it is the cusp of Pisces and Aries, the last and first signs of the zodiac. No mystic – only ever pragmatic – there are nonetheless aspects that please him – the celestial fish, guiding his vocation, his angling bent – and the ram – hereabouts a much-revered creature – who would not wish to be endowed with its legendary traits?

  And the tups have been busy – though it must be said that October is the time for tupping in the Lakes; now, five months on, their carnal heroics bear fruit. Skelgill is fishing the shallower southern reaches fed by Newlands Beck; onshore bloated yowes graze the floodplain, the area known as Green Mire, an alluvial semi-wilderness where an uneasy truce was long ago drawn up between man and Mother Nature. Inundations are recurrent; vegetation untameable; there is treacherous swamp and bog. Such obstacles were turned to advantage – five centuries ago foundations were sunk into the stable underlying moraine; whence arose the isolated edifice of Greenmire Castle – a proper castle with towers and turrets and arrow-slit windows – if bijou by the standards of more noteworthy northern bastions, Alnwick, Bamburgh and Carlisle. Today, with enough ghosts passing within its walls to fill a couple of box sets, it serves as an exclusive country residence for hire by the well heeled.

  Well heeled, but not always well behaved. For some minutes Skelgill has been conscious of a disturbance on the lake. The boat that slid out from Peel Wyke – his Peel Wyke – did not escape his sharp eyes. The tiny secluded inlet, albeit a public launching point, is rarely frequented by anyone other than he. Now his grey-green irises seem to mirror the cold surface as he watches the craft; he estimates a closest point of approach of fifty yards; he pulls down the brim of his Tilley hat.

  There are nine people aboard – four couples, around his age at a guess, and the elderly boatman, crouched in the stern, whom he knows. It is a traditional clinker-built Lakes longboat with an electric outboard fitted; its progress is steady and silent, unlike its occupants, who sound ginned up to the gills and are now popping corks between bursts of raucous laughter. The boatman gives a somewhat apologetic tip of his head; Skelgill reciprocates – they might be motorcyclists exchanging the biker’s nod. The passengers are preoccupied with their booze and banter, until one of the females, distinctive as the only redhead, notices him and cries out to ask whether he has caught anything.
/>   Skelgill makes a noncommittal hand gesture – but suddenly he must suppress an irrational juvenile urge to shout back that it is his birthday. Jolted, he reminds himself that is precisely why he is here – why he does this every year on this same day – takes a day’s holiday – not to celebrate, but to escape from any such attention. Since attaining the grand old age of thirty – announcing he was henceforth ‘retiring’ from birthdays – he now refuses to count or advertise or acknowledge the event – declaring himself suspended in time, in his prime. His pals in his local call him Peter Pan. Water off a duck’s back, it bolsters his determination not to decline.

  When he looks up from his moment of introspection he realises the woman has lost interest in his reply, if she had any in the first place. The wake from the passenger boat laps against his starboard side, gently rocking the craft. The rhythmical splosh of the ripples subsides, and with it the sound of the party; they are nearing the spindly landing stage for Greenmire Castle – the next phase of their adventure beckons and a hush of anticipation descends. “Live Like A Lord” – he has seen the ads for bespoke luxury breaks – most recently in a high-end field sports magazine whilst waiting for dental torture. Over water is the expensive way to arrive (‘pushing the boat out’, Skelgill had mused) – instead of bumping by car along the rough track across the flood plain from Thornthwaite. But they can obviously afford it – passing at dawn he noticed a dew-coated line of prestige marques parked outside The Partridge – the old coaching inn where perhaps they had rendezvoused last night – no expense spared. The cars bear Scottish plates, though the redhead sounds English, well spoken, if not exactly posh.

  2. ‘A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED’

  Sunday, morning

  ‘They all come from Edinburgh, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not respond, but in any event DS Jones is not watching him; she continues.

  ‘Will Liddell, 40 – address in The Grange. Father of two children: a girl and a boy, from his first marriage. Venture capitalist. He’s footing the bill for the entire weekend.

  ‘Kevin Makepeace, 35 – accompanied by but separated from Felicity Belvedere, 38. One child, a girl, lives with the mother in the Ravelston district; father’s address given as Newington, Edinburgh. Kevin Makepeace is employed as a marketing manager by one of Will Liddell’s companies. Felicity Belvedere is an architect, currently works part time.

  ‘Mike Luker, 38 and wife Belinda, 39 – live in the Murrayfield area. Two daughters. Mike Luker is a financial advisor. Belinda Luker is a qualified lawyer but currently a housewife.

  ‘Derek Duff, 40 – some kind of businessman. Wife Suzy, 38, housewife. Four children. Address Blackhall, Edinburgh.

  ‘Finally, Scarlett Liddell, 28. Deceased.’

  Skelgill, driving, stares ahead implacably. There is half a minute of silence.

  ‘Is she a redhead?’

  DS Jones looks up from the roughcast report from which she has been adeptly skimming salient facts, knowing Skelgill’s limited patience.

  ‘It doesn’t say, Guv. Why do you ask?’

  Skelgill shakes his head – he gives the impression that he will not reply – but then he does.

  ‘I reckon I saw her – them, anyway – crossing Bass Lake on Friday morning. The castle must have hired Abel Thurnwyke – must have put his boat in up at the sailing club.’

  ‘That would fit with when they registered, Guv. They’re due to stay until tomorrow morning – though I don’t suppose they’ll want to – not now.’

  ‘What do we know about it?’

  DS Jones dutifully turns a page.

  ‘In a nutshell – they assembled for pre-dinner cocktails on Saturday evening – it was arranged as one of these ‘Murder Mystery’ nights. Scarlett Liddell didn’t appear. Eventually they went to look for her – and found her hanged in her bathroom. There was a 1920s dress theme – she’d looped her feather boa over a coat hook on the back of the door. They administered CPR – Mrs Duff is a trained first aider – meanwhile someone dialled 999 – the paramedics took over and tried to resuscitate her – but she was declared dead on arrival at Cumberland Infirmary.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘The husband was first. But only by a matter of seconds, it seems. Her bedroom door was locked and they’d had to get in through the interconnecting dressing rooms, from his bedroom.’

  ‘And the PM?’

  Skelgill refers to a preliminary post mortem ordered by the Coroner – a standard procedure in the event of a sudden or unnatural death.

  ‘It confirms compression of the neck, consistent with hanging. The time of death corresponds to when they discovered her – although there’s a margin of error of about half an hour.’

  Again there is a period of silence before Skelgill responds.

  ‘So where’s the issue?’

  ‘There’s no one single thing, Guv – the pathologist has highlighted a couple of advisories – when taken together, just enough to sow a seed of doubt.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Skelgill’s acknowledgement has sufficient a hint of a question in it to prompt his subordinate to elaborate.

  ‘The marks on her neck were slightly abnormal – more widespread than might be expected – as if she had thrashed about.’

  ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

  Skelgill seems to be biting at his cheek. He turns his head away however as they cross Derwent Bridge, and seems to be distracted by external factors. The trout fishing season opens on Monday. DS Jones meanwhile is frowning, head down still.

  ‘Also, Guv – and I don’t know what to read into this – she was fully dressed in her outfit, and made up like she was ready to go – but she had on no underwear.’ She glances up, and adds a quick proviso. ‘There was no evidence of sexual assault.’

  Skelgill’s features contract – he looks for a moment like he is about to quip – but it might be to cover a trace of embarrassment. In the event he settles for something rather cryptic.

  ‘Some things you never get to the bottom of.’

  DS Jones furrows her brow – he might almost be joking – but she too looks like she has something to say – and then thinks the better of it. She knows her superior dislikes unfounded speculation. Instead she states a fact.

  ‘The toxicology report indicates she’d drunk the equivalent of a bottle of medium-strength wine.’

  Now it is Skelgill’s turn to raise an eyebrow – his sergeant’s tone is neutral, though he wonders if she is disapproving – on this subject she is a lot closer to teetotal than he. But he is thinking it is more likely a case of steady topping-up than a sudden binge, if what he saw on Friday morning was anything to go by.

  ‘Let’s ask the butler, eh?’

  *

  ‘A Murder Is Announced? – yes, Inspector – it is one of Agatha Christie’s most popular – perfect for a house party event – you know the plot, of course?’

  Skelgill looks nonplussed – he casts a brief glance at DS Jones, seated beside him on a capacious chesterfield sofa, one of a pair set perpendicular to a hearth in which embers smoke. DS Jones appears to respond with a faint nod. Skelgill turns back to the woman who has posed the question.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Oh – well – if you don’t, I shouldn’t like to spoil it for you – you will certainly want to read it one day.’

  Skelgill scowls doubtfully.

  ‘Does it have any bearing on what happened?’

  The woman, who is sitting opposite them with her legs crossed, folds her hands together upon her lap, intertwines her fingers and regards them thoughtfully. Skelgill notices the nails are bitten down severely. After a moment’s deliberation she answers.

  ‘No – I shouldn’t say so, Inspector.’ She looks him in the eye, a curious twisted expression, it seems. ‘I think you shall have to discover your own clues.’

  Skelgill is finding the woman’s manner hard to read – there is a strange kind of eccentricity, inwardly focused – as if she is unaccusto
med to showing empathy – which is odd given her apparent role as hostess. Her bearing is more that of a rather awkward schoolgirl – not yet ‘finished’ as regards decorum, as was the way back in the day. And she looks girlish, too – long dark hair pulled into bunches – plain and a little plump, no obvious make-up – and yet she is dressed in a calf-length tartan skirt of beaver, orange and magenta, brown leather boots, and a formal white blouse beneath a cerise cashmere cardigan. Girlish, yes she is – and yet old before her time.

  As for her statement about clues – it contains an incongruous presumption: that they are here to investigate something more sinister than they know – to all intents and purposes (despite DS Jones’s minor caveats) a straightforward case of suicide.

  Skelgill senses he is in danger of becoming sidetracked. He opts to rewind. He reaches for a clip of papers that DS Jones has placed in front of her on the large square coffee table.

  ‘Madam – I’ve been off duty the past two days – so if you’ll bear with me I’m just catching up with the report submitted by the uniformed officer that attended last night.’

  The woman nods acceptingly. Skelgill squints at the typed page, which tells him he is facing Lavinia Montagu-Browne, 34, described as ‘general manager’ in PC Dodd’s transcribed notes. It is perhaps the aristocratic-sounding name that prompts his first question.

  ‘So – are you the owner?’ He raises a palm to indicate their surroundings – the room itself is built a half-storey above ground level, long and rectangular, with small deep leaded windows set into exposed stonework, and most of its walls lined with bookshelves.

  ‘All of my family’s properties are held in a trust, Inspector – one is merely a caretaker for a subsequent generation. But I have complete responsibility for Greenmire Castle, and the hospitality business.’