Murder at Dead Crags Read online

  Slowly Skelgill scans around, his gaze moving left from the stilled timepiece. There is the chair in the first corner, the pendulum beneath; the adjacent wall is mainly taken up by two arched windows glazed with leaded glass and towards the next corner an external oak door with a square porthole; beyond, in the descending gloom, Skelgill can see only a narrow expanse of snow-covered lawn, hedged by the dark trunks of conifers. The third wall is lined floor to ceiling with bookcases, and in front of these stands a writing desk, its chair backing on to the shelves and facing into the room across the desk. There is an antique library step with three rungs and a turned hand pole. The final wall houses the fireplace, a substantial stone affair with the date 1666 carved into the mantel. Wood ash smoulders in the grate and infuses the air with a sweet fragrant residue. A pair of old-style leather walking boots rest splayed upon the hearth and a tweed shooting-coat hangs on a hook to one side. Beneath this is a capacious walnut coffer with its hinged lid open, almost full of hewn timber. Skelgill finds himself staring into the gilded mirror above the mantelpiece – he sees a vision of himself, alarmed – it can only be his unexpectedly unruly appearance, his hair matted and spiky, his jowls sporting a weekend’s worth of stubble, his red-rimmed eyes hooded by anxious brows. No wonder the family had regarded him with apprehension.

  He pulls himself away and glares at the external door. He wants to try it but knows he should not touch the handle. There is a key, turned at an angle, which suggests it might be locked. He squats down and squints into the crack between the door and the jamb: sure enough, the dead bolt is engaged. He checks the windows; they each have panels that open, but these are clearly fastened with lever latches. With the jab of an elbow he disengages one such catch; then he reaches up and with the screwdriver blade of his penknife prises open the panel until he can lean right out. The dusk is well advanced and now he produces a small but powerful tactical torch. The snow beneath the windows is unblemished, but between the door and the belt of conifers there is a line of disturbance. However, these tracks are not fresh – at least, that is to say they have already been covered by new snow, and more is falling as Skelgill watches. He pulls in his head and closes the window, reversing his no-touch method.

  Now he turns to consider the room. Immediately he notices that a tumbler – a rocks glass of the type that would be used for whisky – is lying tipped on the floor halfway between the desk and the door. Beside the glass is a damp patch on the rug – and more clear droplets on the wooden tiled surround near the door. Skelgill decides to leave the glass where it is, and moves on to the desk itself. It is of the kind known as a partners’ desk, expansively designed for use by two persons, one working at either side. Only shaded wall-lights and a cowled table lamp illuminate the study, and in the last vestiges of daylight the atmosphere is becoming positively Dickensian. Skelgill rounds to the chair and takes a seat. There is no trace of a computer or laptop, or indeed any electronic device or connections, and the telephone is of the old candlestick variety with a corded receiver; it has no dial and seems merely to be an extension to which calls may be put through, or requested via a switchboard. There is a stack of matching textbooks with pale worn dustcovers – The Handbook of British Birds, Volumes 1-5 – and beside these a pair of binoculars in brown leatherette and black enamelled brass that must date from an era when they would be called field glasses. Before him on a framed blotting pad lies a bound manuscript jotter embossed with the initials, D.T.O’M. Beside it there is a traditional fountain pen. Skelgill opens the cover. In compact handwritten script on the flyleaf are the words, Ornithological Log, Crummock Hall.

  He begins to examine the pages. The first entry dates back almost thirty-five years, and Skelgill for a moment is transfixed – for here are scenes in which he may have figured, a long lost newsreel vignette of the locale, a small boy an unobtrusive extra poking about in the far distance. It takes an effort for him to shrug off the thought – he frowns and flips to the end of the journal and thumbs back until he finds the most recent entry. Now again he stiffens, but for a different reason: it is dated today. He slides the book a little closer to the desk lamp and reads:

  Barnacle Goose c. 20 – small skein N from Buttermere. Raven 8 – unkindness W from Grasmoor End, high to Mellbreak. Fieldfare c. 30 – mutation taking haws at Lanthwaite Beck. Brambling 13 – charm amongst beech mast in copse below Cinderdale Crag.

  Skelgill immediately recognises the topographical aspects of the account; as for the birds, however – he is familiar with their names (if not the traditional collective nouns), and could identify them at a push, although maybe not Brambling. The entry comprises two paragraphs, and now he peruses the second:

  “Mainly overcast; frequent snow showers; wind force 4-5, NNW; temperature 35F; pressure 982mb, rising slowly; 1155 – 1335 hrs.”

  Skelgill stares pensively at the page. His eyes are glazed and it is a good fifteen seconds before he breaks out of his reverie and begins, rather cursorily, to leaf through the journal. It is crammed with entries of an identical format: two paragraphs, one to record the birds, the other the weather and time; and written in black ink in the same neat slanted hand. Although there is not a record for every day, it seems that most weeks there was a sighting worthy of mention. Finally Skelgill returns to today’s entry and reads it once again. Then he takes out his mobile phone and captures his own snapshot of the morning’s events.

  Now he rises and inspects the impressive library that backs the desk. Most of the books are of an antiquarian appearance, frequently in sets. He notes, Familiar Wild Flowers (8 volumes), The Birds of the British Isles (3 volumes), and Cassell’s Natural History (5 volumes). There appears to be a complete collection of Warne’s pre-1960s Observer’s series – and then Skelgill spots something that makes his heart take a little leap: a set of first edition Wainwrights. Dating from between 1955 and 1966, the seven dwarf tomes capture a labour of love that is without parallel, and one that – via their wonderfully intuitive maps, diagrams and drawings – once memorably and explosively illuminated the hitherto alien world of books for a young Daniel Skelgill and his particular brand of dyslexia.

  Skelgill selects Book Six, The North Western Fells. He locates the section on Grasmoor – 2791 feet in this book, he knows it off by heart – and flicks to the page that best features Crummock Hall. Drawn up to one side of the desk is a rosewood harpist’s chair, set on casters for manoeuvrability, and Skelgill sinks down upon it. He ponders over the map for some time, and then traces with an index finger the lines of a paragraph of text. Now he taps the page and looks about, rather aimlessly, it must be said – until his gaze falls upon a polished silver cloche on a tray at the corner of the desk. He reaches forward and with a napkin raises the dome: beneath is a rectangular china plate holding a neat array of sandwiches, white bread with crusts removed, cut into little triangles. He ponders for a moment, and then replaces the silver cover. He returns his attention to the book. After about a minute, still perusing the page, absently he lifts the cloche and eats one of the sandwiches.

  *

  ‘Sir?’ There comes a faltering knock upon the door of the study; the voice is rasping. ‘Excuse me – sir?’

  Skelgill starts, rather in the manner of one who has been woken from an unplanned catnap. He stares with some surprise at the book in his right hand, and the half-eaten sandwich in his other. He jams the latter into his mouth, and rises and replaces the Wainwright in its position between The Northern Fells and The Western Fells. Then he carefully lowers the cloche over what is left on the plate – a truncated pyramid of about one-third its original length.

  He stalks across the room, carefully rounding the body on the carpet, and – pausing to swallow and wipe his mouth on his sleeve – unlocks the door. Thwaites, the manservant, takes half a step backwards.

  ‘There is a telephone call for you, sir – Detective Sergeant Leyton.’ He bows subserviently, his uneasy gaze hovering somewhere about Skelgill’s chest. ‘I didn’t like to pu
t it through on Mr Declan’s line, sir – in case you couldn’t touch it due to smudging fingerprints.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many detective programmes, Thwaites.’

  ‘We don’t have television, sir – neither Sir Sean nor Mr Declan approved of it.’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes – for a moment he looks like he might not concur – however, more likely the man’s ready adoption of the past tense is the source of his reaction.

  ‘That’s fine by me.’

  Thwaites interprets Skelgill’s remark as consent to the redirecting of the telephone call, rather than agreement to the outmoded dogma.

  ‘You could take it in my butler’s pantry, sir – at the end of the hall here.’ Arthritically, as though his neck is fused to his shoulders, he makes a slow quarter turn of his upper body and vaguely extends his left arm behind him. But he seems to detect some discontent on Skelgill’s part and proffers an alternative suggestion. ‘Or there’s the smoking room in the east wing – just along this corridor, sir.’ Now he ratchets in the other direction and indicates with a raised little finger of his right hand.

  ‘That sounds more like it, Thwaites – I’ll need privacy for interviews.’

  Thwaites dips his head in what for him must be an enthusiastic gesture. ‘It should be ideal, sir – I’ll show you in and set a fire.’

  Pedestrian progress now enables Skelgill to take in his surroundings. The walls are mostly panelled in the same dark oak as the study, and adorned with antique guns and swords and armour, and display cases that contain stuffed birds or mammals or fish. He pauses to read the faded inscription on the exhibit of a sea trout, “Mort, 7lbs 13oz – Crummock Water, 22nd July 1934.”

  ‘Caught by Mr Declan when he was a young boy, sir.’ The butler has turned to observe Skelgill’s interest. Now he slowly wheels around and continues on his way, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Of course, sir – all angling was stopped after The Accident.’

  Skelgill would like to dwell upon the fish – it interests him that it has been described by its local name, mort – and not least because Crummock Water is a devil of a place to tempt even a brownie out of, never mind a specimen sea trout. But the manservant’s intonation, capitalising the generic expression ‘The Accident’ as though it were a proper noun obliges him to respond.

  ‘Aye – that were in the eighties, though.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘You worked here then?’

  ‘Since 1959, sir.’

  Skelgill expels a small puff of wonder.

  ‘No thoughts of retiring?’

  Skelgill’s quip is glib and when old man stops and crabs about to face him, there is an expression of pathos that causes him some regret.

  ‘I don’t know what I shall do now, sir – now that both Sir Sean and Mr Declan are gone.’

  Skelgill manufactures an unconvincing grin.

  ‘Surely they’ll keep you on, Thwaites?’

  ‘I doubt they’ll keep the place on, sir.’

  But now the old man seems to pull himself together, and sets off as purposefully as he can muster, as if he realises he has spoken out of turn.

  ‘Better get you to the telephone, sir – it was a mobile your sergeant was using and the signal didn’t seem very regular.’

  ‘Aye.’

  He leads Skelgill through a door on the left side of the passage, into what is a relatively small, narrow room with a fireplace at the far end and a multiple lancet window with a deep sill along much of the external wall. The remainder of the interior is papered in a heavy flock of a fleur-de-lis pattern, in deep blood red. Like the study the lighting is subdued – just three shaded wall lamps – and outside it is now almost dark. Skelgill pauses to stare out into the gloom; he checks his watch: sunset falls at around 3:45 this time of year and he must reflect that the helicopter team will have done well to locate the stray walker.

  ‘If you would care to take the call there, sir – I could get the fire started.’

  The butler refers to a writing bureau, its lid opened out and another old-fashioned telephone on the surface. Skelgill glances about. There are various items of antique furniture, and ranged before the hearth two winged chairs upholstered in dark leather, each with a small side table. He notes there are no ashtrays – nor the lingering smell of stale tobacco; perhaps the designation of smoking room is one that has been brought forward from a bygone era.

  ‘Don’t bother with the fire, Thwaites.’ The old man immediately looks a little crestfallen, which prompts Skelgill to add a poorly considered rider. ‘Tell you what – I could murder a cuppa – wash down those sandwiches.’

  This unfortunate turn of phrase – not to mention the revelation that Skelgill has plundered the comestibles – might ordinarily draw a disapproving response, but Thwaites is evidently long schooled in discretion, and indeed visibly perks up at the prospect of providing some domestic service. He bows once more and shambles away, leaving Skelgill to wrestle with the technology of the 1920s.

  ‘Leyton?’

  ‘Ah – Guv – I was beginning to think you were lost – I’ve been trying your mobile for the past half hour.’

  ‘No signal, Leyton – this place sits below two thousand foot of rock.’

  ‘I’m well on my way, Guv – we’ve got a snowplough – the Chief managed to swing it. Roads boys have taken the right old petrol pump.’

  Skelgill allows himself a wry grin at his sergeant’s imaginative use of Cockney slang. Then unseen by his colleague he shrugs indifferently, as if he considers in any event his need is greater.

  ‘You’re not driving it, I hope, Leyton.’

  ‘Nah, Guv – I’m with a couple of the SOCOs and Dr Herdwick – in his Defender. We’re following the gritter. Seems there’s some farmer with a backhoe loader who’s clearing the worst drift about a mile ahead.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Aye – that’ll be George Robinson.’

  ‘That’s it, Guv.’

  ‘I’ll see you when I see you, Leyton.’

  ‘One other thing, Guv.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I rang the mountain rescue – when I was trying to get you. They told me they’d dropped you off okay – but they never found the woman – the coastguard had to return to base.’

  ‘Aye – but we’ll still have a team out on foot.’

  ‘That’s what they said, Guv.’ DS Leyton now makes an exclamation of alarm, as if the vehicle in which he is travelling has narrowly avoided some danger. But he continues without explanation. ‘Thing is, Guv – I don’t know if you realised – I ran a name check on her – Rowena Devlin, she’s called – she’s a writer, quite well known by all accounts – but that’s not her real name – she’s actually Perdita Regulus-O’More – staying at Crummock Hall.’

  *

  By the time Thwaites returns to the smoking room bearing a tray of refreshments Skelgill has a fire crackling in the grate, and with the toe of a boot is adjusting a sizeable log to catch the flames. The old retainer is somewhat perturbed; a condition exacerbated as Skelgill barges in to pour his own tea and toss a handful of sugar lumps into his cup.

  ‘Get one yourself, Thwaites – and have a seat.’

  ‘Sir – Master Martius was saying he would see you first – now that he is the head of the household.’

  Skelgill has moved the chairs so that they are angled towards one another, and settles down with his hot drink and a generous helping of biscuits. He dunks a shortbread finger and despatches it, nodding approvingly. He glances at Thwaites and affects surprise that the butler is hovering indecisively.

  ‘I’ll talk to you, Thwaites.’

  That Skelgill is riding roughshod over his orders is plainly disconcerting for a man who has spent his entire working life in service. He edges a little closer to the empty seat but still is reluctant to comply.

  ‘I shan’t have tea just now, sir, if it’s all the same – it’s not my regular break time.’

 
‘As you like.’

  Skelgill regards him with calm indifference. He can’t remember if the old man has on the same suit that he wore to the funeral – certainly the black tie, which may now be retained as an extended mark of respect. The outfit is the traditional butler’s morning coat with a grey vest and wing-collared shirt beneath, grey striped trousers and white cotton gloves. It could not, however, be said to be in prime condition. Finally, beneath Skelgill’s unrelenting gaze, the man yields and gingerly lowers himself into the chair – but preferring to perch on the edge of the seat with his hands playing nervously upon his lap.

  ‘Tell me what happened when you found him.’

  Paradoxically, the elderly butler is prepared for this question – he looks relieved at being set a straightforward task. He clears his throat with a chesty wheeze.

  ‘I knew right away he was dead, sir – what with the eyes staring and him not breathing. I must have called out – because it wasn’t long before Master Martius and Miss Cassandra came rushing in, and then Master Edgar. I believe it was Master Edgar that ran and dialled 999. And Miss Cassandra took me along to the drawing room – she insisted I drank a brandy.’ He glances apprehensively at Skelgill. ‘I’m usually teetotal, sir.’

  ‘What time was it – that you found the body?’

  ‘2:15, sir – I went to collect Mr Declan’s lunch things.’

  ‘When did you take them in?’

  ‘12:15, sir.’

  ‘But he didn’t eat.’

  Skelgill’s statement – when it might be expected to be a question – seems to cause a shudder to run through the old man’s bent frame.

  ‘He was bird-watching, sir – he went out almost every day.’

  Again there is the past tense.

  ‘At the same time?’

  ‘It would depend on the weather, sir – and how Mr Declan was feeling. It must have been later today. Ordinarily he would be back for his lunch at 12:30.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’