Murder on the Moor Read online

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Well – I acted as guide.’ She reaches and extracts a brochure from the dispenser on the table and unfolds the map and lays it flat. ‘Basically, I took them around a loop on part of the safe walking route –’ She hesitates and glances suspiciously at Skelgill, as though she wonders if there is some trick in his question. But after a moment she continues. ‘We met Lawrence at the main release pen where he was doing some refurbishment and he explained how the birds are brought in and begin to range freely – and then we gave the visitors afternoon tea in the library. We have our own heather honey – it is one of Julian’s projects.’

  Skelgill smiles inoffensively.

  ‘How did it go down?’

  She seems to understand he does not mean the honey.

  ‘Well – the first thing I should say is that they commented favourably upon the variety and density of our populations of woodland birds – we have breeding nuthatch, tree pipit, green woodpecker.’ Again she pauses, but now she appears to be absorbed by the memory of the event; her tone becomes introspective. ‘And I honestly think – when people understand that the rearing of pheasants is a commercial operation more akin to the husbandry of sheep or cattle – and a net contributor to the local economy – they see the likes of Shuteham Hall in a different light.’

  Skelgill takes a drink and manages to get froth on his nose – but it probably serves to conceal a grimace as he smears it away. This is surely wishful thinking on her part – and he doubts she showed them the gamekeeper’s larder, hung with a dozen wind-dried birds, the mangy brush of a fox and the atrophied corpses of stoats and weasels.

  ‘What about the moorland – the grouse?’

  Daphne Bullingdon frowns; it is an act that seems to crease her entire face, like a currant. She is clearly aware that, as a so-called “rich man’s sport” the shooting of grouse has no such straightforward defence.

  ‘Because of the present sensitivity – the risk of disturbing the harriers – we did not attempt to cross Over Moor – besides, I understand the hide at Over Water is the best place from which to observe them.’

  ‘I was thinking of the politics.’

  Daphne Bullingdon seems to rally.

  ‘Inspector, as one of the party pointed out, the red grouse is Britain’s only endemic bird species. They rely for food on young heather shoots – and it takes a systematic programme of selective burning to create the right conditions. The mature heather would simply blanket the moor over the course of several years. We also provide medicated grit under veterinary supervision to combat strongylosis, which can wipe out an entire population. So if it were not for grouse moor management, the red grouse would decline and disappear.’

  Skelgill is listening pensively; given his local provenance he is no stranger to the dilemma, that many grey areas occupy the porous boundary between country sports and conservation; both are fallible human constructs. But the drift of the conversation enables him to close in on his own priorities.

  ‘Notwithstanding – you’re actively managing Over Moor?’

  ‘Er – yes – of course – although with due diligence as regards the harriers.’

  ‘I understand Mr Melling made regular circuits of the moor – using the beaters’ paths.’

  She regards him a little apprehensively; it is plain he is working up to something.

  ‘Naturally – they are the least intrusive means of getting about. It is important to monitor the wildlife populations – and keep a general eye on the estate property.’

  ‘Who else would use these paths?’

  ‘Well – at this time of year – nobody – at least, not on a regular basis. We might send a team out to repair the butts – or to conduct some controlled burning – but that would be an ad hoc exercise – and it’s too late now for burning, the birds are breeding.’

  Skelgill rubs his eyes with the fingers of both hands; is a gesture of tiredness, or possibly exasperation.

  ‘You see, madam – what I’m wondering is if Mr Melling took the trap, what did he have in mind – was it off his own bat or was anyone else involved – had he consulted with you, for instance?’

  Daphne Bullingdon looks horrified at the prospect.

  ‘We would never have condoned the notion, Inspector – it is inconceivable that any of the family could have been involved.’

  Skelgill notes that she has embraced the collective ‘we’ with her reply; it is a line consistent with that of her father. He holds out a hand to indicate DS Leyton.

  ‘Yet Lord Bullingdon did previously mention to Sergeant Leyton the idea of taking exactly such precautions – in relation to the theft of Lady Bullingdon’s jewellery.’

  Now she looks doubly aghast.

  ‘But, Inspector – you can’t take literally what Daddy says – especially in a moment of stress. He may give the impression of being a hang ’em and flog ’em type – but I can assure you that given the time to consider matters properly he is far more law-abiding than you might imagine.’

  Skelgill further notes that she has left some latitude for indiscretion; and he is reminded of the man’s blustering admission to the accidental potting of protected species, an attitude of shoot first and identify the remains later.

  ‘As regards the incident itself, we’re waiting for various forensic reports – but we have to consider the possibility that this was not an accident.’ That he is being blatantly disingenuous is only apparent to the implacable DS Leyton at his side. He allows a few moments for the gravity of his words to sink in. ‘Lord Bullingdon thinks Mr Melling alone took the device – but he didn’t seem the sort to walk into his own trap – unless it had been moved to somewhere he wasn’t expecting it.’

  Daphne Bullingdon gasps.

  ‘But – that – that would be murder, Inspector.’

  Skelgill tilts his head to one side.

  ‘Aye – well, manslaughter – possibly.’

  The woman appears dumbstruck, but Skelgill waits for a reply.

  ‘But who would do that?’

  ‘If you’re asking me from a point of view of opportunity – it would be a person who was aware of his movements. That’s a list we could make a good stab at ourselves. From a point of view of motive, madam – then that’s what I’m asking you. To put it bluntly – had he made an enemy of someone?’

  She seems entirely shocked by the prospect. She stares fixedly at the map on the table.

  ‘There’s nothing that I could speak of – not to the extent that you suggest. But –’

  But, what, madam?’

  ‘Well – I just mean – that one wouldn’t know if there were a skeleton in his closet – an enemy from the past.’ Again her features contract. She looks up intensely at Skelgill. ‘But the trap – surely that suggests foreknowledge – how could an outsider be sufficiently aware to contrive the incident?’

  Skelgill regards her evenly. She is making a good fist of playing detective.

  ‘What about Mr Stanislav?’

  Daphne Bullingdon shrinks at this suggestion.

  ‘Stan? But he wouldn’t say boo to a goose – he’s our resident comedian – not even – ’

  She cuts short her rejoinder, though Skelgill suspects she was about to cite Lawrence Melling. He continues without pressing for clarification.

  ‘They could have had a set-to.’ He leans back in his seat and turns up his palms in a gesture of enquiry. ‘There has to be something behind Mr Stanislav’s disappearance. And now Mr Melling’s accident.’

  But Daphne Bullingdon is resolutely shaking her head.

  ‘It’s just a coincidence I’m sure, Inspector. At least in the sense of whatever has become of Stan.’ She glances urgently at DS Leyton and then again at Skelgill. ‘You don’t have any news?’

  Skelgill seems a little surprised that she has asked. Now he looks at DS Leyton, as though he himself does not want to get sidetracked by replying. Accordingly, DS Leyton steps into the breach.

  ‘We’v
e got various feelers out, madam – with the Moldovan authorities and the British ports and so on.’

  DS Leyton perhaps says this to make it sound like they are taking the disappearance seriously – but Daphne Bullingdon appears puzzled.

  ‘I’m sure it’s more likely he’s remained in the vicinity.’ She turns questioningly to Skelgill. ‘Don’t you think you ought to be conducting a search?’

  Skelgill regards her pensively. If she is trying to divert the course of the discussion, then with his response he calls her bluff.

  ‘Madam – I’m fully expecting that we’ll have to bring in a search team – with dogs – in relation to Mr Melling’s death. So you might say we’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.’

  He scowls, unhappy at falling victim to what is becoming the cliché of the hour. And now he hauls the conversation back around to the gamekeeper.

  ‘How did you come to recruit Mr Melling?’

  Daphne Bullingdon shifts a little uncomfortably in her chair.

  ‘He became available – at a time I was beginning to undertake succession planning.’

  ‘Was he recommended?’

  ‘Her – er – he submitted his CV – speculatively, to a number of estates, I believe.’

  Skelgill is quick to recognise the utility of such a document.

  ‘Do you still have that?’

  ‘Yes, of course – I keep confidential HR files for all the staff – some are more detailed than others.’

  She glances at DS Leyton – they have had a similar discussion in relation to the Moldovan, Stan, for whom relatively scant detail was on file. When she makes no offer, Skelgill prompts her.

  ‘Could we see it, madam?’

  She rises stiffly and moves somewhat ponderously around behind the service counter. Bending out of sight, from what must be a low cabinet she retrieves a clear plastic wallet file, which she hands to Skelgill upon her return. His immediate reaction is the raising of an eyebrow. The front page comprises a full-length colour photograph of Lawrence Melling, posed with gun and dog like a male model in an outdoor clothing catalogue. Indeed the image has a professional quality about it in all respects – clever lighting that highlights his chiselled features; and perhaps retouching that smooths the tones of his skin and hair and carefully groomed beard. His county outfit is notable for its too-tight moleskin breeks and tattersall shirt casually unbuttoned to reveal hints of a sculpted musculature.

  Skelgill looks sharply at Daphne Bullingdon; she is clearly blushing. Suddenly he is reminded of a certain unease that has troubled him, and which still leaves its lingering traces. Glowering, he flicks brusquely through the couple of pages of appended type and hands the document to DS Leyton.

  ‘Mind if we borrow this?’

  ‘Er – of course not, Inspector – although I’m afraid it has no details of next of kin.’ She again glances at DS Leyton. ‘I explained earlier to your sergeant – that is something we don’t have.’

  DS Leyton taps the pages with the knuckles of his free hand.

  ‘We’ve got someone working on that, madam. We believe there might be connections up in the far north of Scotland.’

  Daphne Bullingdon regards DS Leyton somewhat blankly, and not surprisingly does not respond. Skelgill leans back in his seat and folds his arms.

  ‘I gather bags have been falling in recent years – especially the grouse.’

  ‘Well – yes, that is undeniable – and we are always looking to adopt modern methods.’ She suddenly frowns as though she immediately regrets her answer. ‘But – that, er – is a nationwide phenomenon – indeed a global issue affecting many strands of wildlife – look at the Atlantic salmon, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is the last person who needs a lecture on the king of fish – but he resists any temptation to digress; besides, more salient is that she was initially stung by his remark.

  ‘Your former keeper, Jack Carlops – when was he actually due to retire?’

  Now she looks sharply at Skelgill, seemingly surprised that he has this knowledge.

  ‘Oh, er – it would be this coming autumn – we reached an amicable agreement as regards compensation – and we are maintaining his National Insurance contributions until he becomes eligible for his pension.’

  Skelgill notes that she makes an excuse for an issue he has not raised.

  ‘If you were still paying him – why not have the two of them – get the old dog to teach the young pup some tricks of the trade?’

  Daphne Bullingdon continues to look discomfited.

  ‘Well, you see, Inspector – Lawrence, when I interviewed him, he laid out a very clear practical methodology of how he would run the operation. I think it was only fair to give him a clean slate to work from.’

  Skelgill gets the feeling that he knows just where the balance of power lay when it came to Lawrence Melling negotiating his new terms of employment; and that plain spinster Daphne Bullingdon’s emotions if not her judgement were clouded by matters extraneous to the eradication of vermin. He waits a moment before he speaks again.

  ‘Have you heard or seen anything of Mr Carlops since he left?’

  The woman looks alarmed – as though there is something that springs to mind – and Skelgill pictures an altercation, a scene reminiscent of when he met Lawrence Melling in the woods – the young pretender seeing off the deposed forerunner, drawn back to his old stamping ground.

  ‘Er, no – he has moved in with his sister – over at Scawthwaite Mire.’

  It is not a particularly convincing point – Scawthwaite Mire is probably only ten minutes’ drive from the gates of Shuteham Hall, and no great challenge on foot for a countryman. However, Skelgill merely waits for her to continue.

  ‘You see, Inspector – keepers of Lawrence Melling’s calibre do not become available very often – at the time it was important to take the opportunity.’

  He feels she is overselling her case. But he sees no merit in arguing.

  ‘I’m sure you made the correct commercial decision, madam.’ He sees her visibly relax. ‘Do you know why he wanted to move from Scotland?’

  It is a relatively innocuous version of the question. He could have asked why did Lawrence Melling “drop down a division”, as Eric Hepplethwaite had suggested. Or he might have inquired whether some controversy drove him away from his prestigious position in Hawickshire. These are stones that surely any recruiter worth their salt would not have left unturned.

  ‘Well – I appreciate we may not be the biggest – but Shuteham Hall has a longstanding tradition – and a reputation as one of the finest shooting estates in the north of England. We have a good mix of sport – it provides a year-round challenge for the keeper. You can imagine those estates that primarily depend on grouse – the mountain habitat is monotonous and the season lasts fewer than four months.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Did you sign off on his recruitment – or was anyone else involved in that?’

  ‘Oh, well – naturally, as part of the interview process he got to meet the other members of the household – one wouldn’t undertake such an important commitment without their endorsement – but I dealt with all the technical aspects.’

  Skelgill makes a face that seems to suggest he thinks this was a reasonable state of affairs. He reaches for his drink and drains off the last from the cup.

  ‘Would you like another, Inspector?’

  ‘Er, no – thanks all the same, madam.’

  Skelgill does not speak for a moment – and Daphne Bullingdon begins to look fearful once more. Skelgill gives the impression of there being something of import, and yet uncharacteristically for a moment or two he hems and haws.

  ‘There is one matter, however – on the subject of dogs – we’ve rescued Mr Melling’s working cocker from the moor.’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘She’s in the car.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Daphne Bullingdon sits up – and then begins to rise. ‘I had better come and take her off your hands.’<
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  DS Leyton glances with some alarm at Skelgill – his superior’s expression is impassive. But Daphne Bullingdon abruptly sits.

  ‘If we have finished, that is, Inspector?’

  Skelgill seems distracted. ‘Aye – I suppose so, for now.’

  They move in unison. DS Leyton holds open the door of the estate office – which Skelgill marches through. As Daphne Bullingdon acknowledges DS Leyton’s chivalry, Skelgill abruptly turns on his heel.

  ‘Do you shoot, yourself, madam?’

  10. MORE LADIES

  Tuesday, late afternoon

  ‘I shan’t detain you long, Lady Bullingdon.’

  ‘Oh – I don’t mind, Inspector – be my guest.’

  Miranda Bullingdon sweeps an arm towards the cushioned leather stool beside her dressing table, as she sinks down upon the chaise longue at the window. Skelgill notes that the scented candle is still on the sill; he wonders, was the wick burned yesterday afternoon? He accepts her offer, though he feels rather uncomfortable, the seat being low and his legs reasonably lanky. For her part, Miranda Bullingdon is looking stunning – there are no two ways about it, and Skelgill is a little in awe, that such perfection is possible in a human being, from the gloss of her newly reconstructed toenails to the halo around her reconfigured hair, and all points in between. She wears a simple short dress of fine teal silk that clings to her shapely form; her tanned legs are bare and she wears open-toed stiletto-heeled sandals in a paler shade of aquamarine. Her wide mouth with its full lips carries a relaxed smile and she regards him languidly from within the depths of the almost black pools of her large eyes.

  ‘I suppose it would be indiscreet to ask if there were any news of my trinkets?’

  Skelgill looks unruffled – although in doing so he senses he probably conveys some surprise. Yet he half expected the question. If it is a tactic, it is a clever one. Or maybe she is simply being straight about her priorities. A woman that looks like this really has no need to resort to diplomacy. Though he notices she wears no jewellery, and wonders if this is deliberate.