Murder on the Moor Page 14

  But there was his unexpected encounter with former classmate Basil – and his remark about Lawrence Melling. “He’s not quite the gentleman he likes to pretend he is.” While Skelgill will not admit to himself why he is troubled quite so severely, and despite its irrelevance to a jewel theft and a disappearing employee, nevertheless the casual revelation has proved to be the tipping point.

  Marching doggedly along Crow Road Skelgill curses under his breath as he puts up another flock of roosting birds – woodpigeons that go off with an explosive clatter of wings. He rues that he is blazing a trail through the wildlife – but at least these watchful sentries tell him there is no one in the immediate vicinity, else they would already have flown. At the intersection of Crow Road and Long Shoot he turns right onto the latter and strikes uphill towards the castle. The woods on his left thin out as he reaches the track that leads down to Garden Cottage. Beside the building a small car, a white five-year-old Mini with an “I Love Karate” bumper sticker is parked on a patch of hardstanding. In the still air hangs the faint reek of wood smoke. Beneath an open porch there is a single light over the front door, and a window on either side. The curtains are drawn and only a very faint nightlight glows from within that on the left, which has a row of trophies on the sill. He makes a circuit, but the one window uncurtained is the kitchen, also unlit apart from a couple of tiny red neon switches. His impression is that the occupants, presumably Karen Williamson and her kickboxing kid Kieran, are sleeping. In darkness at the rear there is a picnic table close to the back door, while a trampoline dominates a patch of lawn; all around are shrubs, dense laurels or rhododendrons by the look of it, and on one side the towering brickwork of the walled garden.

  Skelgill retraces his steps to Long Shoot and continues northeast. Presently, on his right, the topiary lawn unfolds, its sculpted yews frozen like a marauding band of mountain trolls turned to stone by the moonlight. Ahead the old castle looms, a great slab, its pitted face an ancient memorial to the bloody battles that must have been fought out before its blind eyes. But in one of these – a window on the top floor that he calculates must be Miranda Bullingdon’s bedroom – there winks a light, indeed it flickers, and he recalls the lime-scented ornamental candle on the deep sill. The room beside it – with which it interconnects – Lord Bullingdon’s, is in darkness. Skelgill presumes that Daphne and Julian Bullingdon also sleep somewhere in the old keep, but he knows not where. He checks his watch; the time is approaching eleven-thirty. He wonders if he should have expected more signs of the occupants still being awake. Then again Lord Bullingdon insists that he locks up around ten, and retires. It is often the way of these country places, particularly those that have livestock, early to bed and early to rise. Skelgill considers testing out the man’s claim – but it seems too risky; surely any attempt on the main door would resound through the stone halls. Instead he skirts the building and reaches the rear entrance that gives on to the kitchen garden. Now he sees a light in what must be the cook’s quarters above the scullery, and stays close to the building. He tries the back door. It is unlocked.

  Even with his limited knowledge of the layout, he could be in and out and considerably richer within two minutes. Especially if he knew that everyone else was asleep and that Miranda Bullingdon does not lock her bedroom. Then there is the business of sleeping like an angel. Contemplating this scenario, he quickly retreats, before devilment gets the better of him. He follows the path along which Daphne Bullingdon led him. Passing between the herbaceous beds he dislodges wafts of lavender from wayward stems. He continues past the gunroom and its associated VIP entertainment suite – another place he would like to inspect – and on further to the rearing sheds. He can hear the peeping of the young birds – more subdued than during daytime – and he treads carefully, so as not to cause alarm. A sharp metallic click from the side of the main shed makes him start – he draws his torch to reveal the incinerator, of which Daphne Bullingdon is so proud. For Skelgill it is a sombre reminder of what is going on here: despite the cute chirpings of the poults, they are quite literally cannon fodder in a cold-hearted enterprise. Those that perish in the crowded melee before they mature will end up in here; those that make it to the battlefield will later be decapitated, trimmed and plucked, their blind heads and severed feet to be turned to cinders. He wonders what they do with all the ash; he is aware there are regulations about correct disposal. He approaches the sinister device; it is an imposing piece of kit, the chimney some twelve feet high and the cylindrical body nine or ten in girth. It is imprinted with danger triangles and the warning, “Caution Hot Surface”. It also states, “Max capacity 50kgs per hour”. Skelgill prefers imperial, and a quick conversion tells him it is the best part of a hundredweight; a lot of pheasant, even at a couple of pounds a bird; more like an emu. Again there comes the ticking sound and he realises it is the contraction of the metal shell. He steps closer and tentatively puts out a hand. It is still warm from operation earlier.

  Now Skelgill heads for the ‘railway station’ arrangement of the covered game preparation area, the estate office and, beyond, part of the same continuous building, the stables. There is a light over the office door and he feels deterred – there is no easy cover – if someone suddenly emerged he would be exposed – and instantly recognisable. He decides on a brazen tactic. He leans his hazel staff against the wall. He extracts his warrant card from his back pocket and has it ready in one hand, the torch – switched on – in the other. If challenged he will simply say he has followed an intruder from the lake. It is a matter of brass neck, and loosely accurate, if he counts his own shadow. Of course, when you are a policeman with reasonable cause, trespassing is a grey area. Thus armed he advances upon the office – but inside it is in darkness, the door locked. He continues; there is a rank of stable doors, from within the odd muted clump of a hoof and the murmur of a beast; he creeps past, he does not want to spook one of them into a betraying whinny. The last door is marked ‘Stores’. And, finally, at the end of the building is an open entry – his flashlight illuminates a passage leading to a ladder-like stair. These would be the old grooms’ quarters; today the lodgings of the other estate workers. He steps back and realises there is low lighting in a series of small windows on the upper floor, and – now that he listens carefully – subdued voices, laughter and the occasional exclamation; late-night socialising.

  Skelgill retraces his steps. Collecting his hazel staff he is glad of the cover of darkness away from the office. Walking briskly he passes the rearing sheds, the gunroom and then the castle itself. He sticks to the lawn edges, off the gravel, so to walk in silence. Passing the walled garden he again nears the turn for Garden Cottage, now on his right.

  But his peripheral night-vision is attracted by a darker shadow in the trees to his left, a black cleft in the vegetation. He realises there is a diagonal path descending into the woods – judging by the lie of the land it must lead down to Troutmere, the artificial lake. Across the little valley, on the other side, will be the main driveway.

  He approaches the opening and flashes his torch. To his surprise, there is the quad bike, pushed into the cover of the bushes. Skelgill stands and stares, ruminating. The owner of a Triumph motorcycle himself, he is no stranger to this genre of machine. He leans across and carefully puts out a hand to the engine. It is not hot – but neither is it anything like the ambient temperature of under fifty Fahrenheit. The bike has been ridden in the past hour. He feels a quickening of his pulse. And now he commits his first illicit act of the night – trespassing aside. He feels beneath the seat for the fuel tap, turns it to the ‘on’ position, and wrenches off the rubber outlet hose. Immediately there is a pungent reek of petrol, as the tank begins to drain. He suppresses the sudden hysterical laugh that comes upon him along with the notion of setting the quad on fire. Instead, he sets off.

  The path is more of a tunnel through overarching rhododendrons; it is pitch black, winding and steep with treacherous exposed roots. He uses his s
taff like a blind man feeling for obstacles underfoot; his other hand guards his face from unwelcome projections.

  He emerges into the moonlight some twenty feet from the shore of the lake. A strip of mown grass for ease of perambulation rings the perimeter, but the water itself is fringed by vegetation. In daylight Skelgill had noted that it looked surprisingly natural, with well-established reeds, blooming yellow flag and shrubs of sallow. At irregular intervals there are little sandy bays that he had eyed up as angling pegs. A grassed-over dam at the south end, to his right, maintains the water level, and in the angle of the near bank and the dam is the two-storey boathouse. Immediately he sees there is a light showing in the glass frontage beyond the slatted wooden balcony.

  He waits.

  As far as he can tell there is no one out on the balcony, but behind the pale curtains, which are little more than opaque veils, he thinks he sees movements, certainly changes in hue as though figures cross in front of a light.

  In admiring the structure earlier he had calculated that the upper floor, the ‘guest accommodation’ is reached by the door on the dam side; within there must be a stair. The interior can only be the equivalent of a decent-sized hotel room, probably just a bedroom – Daphne Bullingdon’s intended bridal suite. The sliding windows and balcony face over the lake – literally they are over the water, since below is the actual boathouse, the miniature enclosed harbour which has been extended by a pontoon that in turn is covered by a roof that slopes down from the foot of the balcony. Skelgill cannot get much closer on land than his present position. For want of optical aids such as the Vholes’ Leicas, the alternative is to climb from the pontoon onto the pitched roof.

  He circles the lake and cautiously approaches the boathouse. To reach the pontoon he takes a walkway around the side. At its lowest point he swings himself onto the sloping roof and begins to inch up towards the balcony. The gradient is a good thirty degrees and gravity is seeking to dump him into the water, but he tells himself it is no steeper than Hardknott Pass – one in three, so it must be doable. Thankfully it is dry, and the gritty roofing felt gives good purchase. He splays his fingers to maximise the traction.

  The tops of the French windows begin to come into view through the rustic palings of the balcony. Now he can hear the muted pulse of soft music and the occasional murmur of voices – definitely a male and surely also a female. Then he sees indistinct shapes again moving – could it be a couple coming together in an embrace? Is there a moan – of pleasure – or protest? He stretches, the better to see.

  And then the dog barks.

  A short, sharp, warning yap.

  The black working cocker is on the balcony.

  Skelgill ducks his head. He flattens himself, his face pressed against the sandpaper-like surface.

  A door slides open, the music suddenly louder.

  He hears a female voice – but cannot make out what it says, nor identify its owner.

  But of Lawrence Melling’s reply, there is no doubt.

  ‘She disnae bark like that without reason.’

  The man is listening.

  If he comes out and looks over the rail, Skelgill is a sitting duck.

  It will only take the dog to approach and ‘point’. (Skelgill is thinking: it’s a spaniel, it might not).

  But does he hold his nerve – or roll into the water and strike for the far bank?

  Then the man’s voice, sharp, cold.

  ‘Come!’

  There is an excited skittering of claws; the dog obeys. As the door begins to slide shut the man issues a second command, the tone moderated, suggesting that it is aimed at his companion.

  ‘Stay out of sight.’

  The instant the door closes Skelgill springs into action. He slides down the roof and flip-flops onto the pontoon. He snatches up his hazel staff and smears along its length congealed blood from the wound on his palm inflicted by the indignant perch. Two handed like a hammer thrower he hurls the branch across the water. He hears the swish of the reeds as it makes landfall upon the bank along which he came. And now there is no time to waste – boots are thumping down the interior wooden stair. And the outside door bangs open.

  ‘Seek!’

  Lawrence Melling sends the dog about its business. But, while the creature disappears into the night, purposeful footsteps advance along the walkway and onto the pontoon. The boots come to a halt.

  Directly beneath, up to his chin in water, craning his neck, Skelgill can just make out through the gaps in the boards the soles of the boots, unlaced, and the form of the man.

  And the shotgun he holds.

  A torch beam is played cursorily across the lake. Skelgill remains absolutely still so as not to create giveaway ripples.

  The man stands listening. Skelgill can hear his breathing. He knows he cannot dare to breathe himself. The man stoops and begins to tie his laces – their faces can only be three feet apart. He can smell his aftershave. But just when Skelgill thinks his lungs will burst, the dog suddenly starts up barking frantically. It has got wind of the hazel staff. The man rises and hurries away. He leaves, hanging in the air like a putrid stench, a chilling utterance.

  ‘Wait ’til I catch you, ****.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow at the expletive – at its vehemence as much as its inherent offensiveness.

  He pants silently to restore his breath. He realises he is beginning to shiver. He detects faint movements from the accommodation above. He would dearly love to know who is up there. But getting away is the priority. The last thing he wants is the humiliation of being caught and driven at gunpoint like a pathetic peeping Tom to beg before the feudal lord. Or, perhaps a worse fate. Dripping abundantly, he hauls himself onto the pontoon and pauses, on his haunches. Now he can see the torchlight flickering along the bank where he hurled the stick. With any luck the dog will follow his scent back up through the rhododendrons. He creeps around to the back of the boathouse and sets off at a run along the dam in the opposite direction, instinctively ducking down as though it would make a difference (it might if he is fired at). Within about fifty yards he finds the outfall; it pours over the top of a sluice, splashing onto a rocky bed. He clambers into the shallow water and begins to wade downstream. The beck is a tributary of Over Water; from its mouth his boat can be reached by striking south along the wooded bank. It is a sure route to safety, with the added advantage of leaving few traces for a dog to track.

  A minute has passed when a sound arrests him. It is the quad bike starting up. But just as quickly the engine splutters and dies. Then, several times, there are futile attempts to restart it. The starter motor protests like some tortured creature of the night, the engine turns over but does not fire. A second chilling threat, loaded with oaths, filters down through the trees.

  *

  Skelgill checks his watch; it is twenty to one. It was at midnight, the showdown at the boathouse, and now, his teeth chattering and his breath coming in urgent gasps, he hauls his craft onto his trailer at the Over Water slipway. His hands are numb and his body is not far behind, despite the flat-out row across the lake. He has donned his gilet, left behind for his foray – and thankfully so, for it contains his mobile and keys. But, as yet, it is making scant difference to his core temperature; he recognises that the ducking in Troutmere has prompted a cold shock response.

  He needs a piping hot cup of tea. The best option is just yards away – the Irish pair on watch in the birdwatching hide will surely oblige. He can explain his appearance by saying he slipped while he was beaching the boat. But his boots are full of water; he pulls them off and slings them into the hull. And now he hesitates, and climbs into the driver’s seat. He turns on the ignition and cranks the heater and the fan to maximum. From the back seat he grabs an army blanket and wraps it over his thighs. He could brew up a Kelly himself, but it would mean crouching outside; it might be mid May, but the clear sky portends of a frost in the mountains tonight. He begins to feel the first welcome waves of warm air percolating a
round his legs. From the radio emanates the comforting tones of the late-night announcer and the shipping forecast. Dogger; Fisher; German Bight. He reaches across to the glove box and pulls out a half-eaten packet of biscuits – he is cheered: half not eaten, yet.

  Fifteen minutes later, and still thoroughly damp but now tolerably warm, he leaves the car and walks gingerly in stockinged feet across the stony parking area until he reaches the more forgiving surface of the boardwalk. Silently, although not intentionally so, he approaches the door of the hide. He is about to jerk it open when some instinct warns him. He puts an ear to the flimsy wood and listens. His expression becomes philosophical; this would not be a good moment to enter. It sounds like they are a couple. Smiling ruefully he retraces his steps.

  Thinking he is still hungry he restarts the shooting brake and gently pulls away, not wishing to cause unnecessary disturbance. Besides, the stretch of track leading to the metalled lane is severely pot-holed, and he does not want to throw the trailer off the tow bar. The beam from his headlamps leaps about wildly in response to the rutted terrain, illuminating the lush green hedgerows and moths confused by the light – and a little owl swoops down upon one such disoriented insect that has fluttered onto the dried mud surface. Instinctively Skelgill switches off his lights – and, just as he does so, at the end of the track a small yellow hatchback crosses from left to right.