Murder at Dead Crags Page 3

  ‘That would have been about 8:45, sir – when I collected his breakfast tray.’

  ‘From his study?’

  ‘Yes, sir – he would spend his waking hours there, sir.’

  ‘And how was he?’

  ‘Just as normal, I should say, sir.’

  Skelgill dips another biscuit into his tea and casually stirs it around.

  ‘What happened to the clock on the wall?’

  ‘The clock, sir?’

  Skelgill stops what he is doing and raises a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘The front is open and the pendulum and key are lying on the carpet.’

  The old man looks troubled.

  ‘I can’t say as I noticed that, sir.’ He wipes his brow on the back of a gloved hand – it could be the heat from the fire, which is beginning to roar, compounded by his layers of formal clothing. ‘I imagine I was quite upset by the sight of Mr Declan.’

  Skelgill nods. The soggy end of his biscuit crumbles into his cup, but he ignores it and nibbles pensively at the residual stump. His silence prompts an aside from Thwaites.

  ‘It’s an eight-day clock, sir.’

  He evidently expects Skelgill to know what this means. Skelgill dips his head in such a way as to convey that he doesn’t.

  ‘It was Mr Declan’s custom to wind it on a Sunday – today, sir – that way the clock never needs to stop. I believe it’s never stopped since his mother Lady Elizabeth passed it on to him as a 21st birthday gift, sir.’

  Skelgill appears only marginally interested in this rather extravagant claim. He yawns and takes a sip of his tea. He has removed his outer jacket and now he pats a breast pocket of his shirt.

  ‘This key – it’s usually left in the door of the study?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir. Mr Declan would lock it at night when he went up to bed.’

  ‘What about during the day – when he was in the study?’

  ‘It was generally unlocked, sir. Of course I would always knock when I brought a meal and if he didn’t answer I would know he was out bird-watching.’

  ‘What about the door that leads outside?’

  ‘I believe he usually locked it whenever he went out that way, sir. I couldn’t say for sure what he did about it when he came back.’

  ‘It’s locked at the moment.’

  The butler’s countenance undergoes something of a change. He appears to be wrestling with the possible implications of this fact: his master attacked and it might not have been by an intruder? He seems to will otherwise.

  ‘Perhaps someone could have slipped in while he was out, sir?’

  ‘But where would he hide, Thwaites?’ Skelgill’s tone is unduly scornful.

  The man is forced to concede, there is nowhere in the room that would conceal a person. He nods sadly and does not offer a suggestion.

  ‘Was anything of value stored in the study?’

  ‘Not to speak of, sir. We don’t keep more than petty cash in the house – Hindscarth of Cockermouth delivers all the groceries on account. I’ve once or twice overheard Mr Declan say he’d put all his capital into his books, and warn the maid to go easy with her duster. And neither Sir Sean nor Mr Declan was one for having showy wristwatches and suchlike.’

  Skelgill nods. He doesn’t doubt the literature would make a tidy sum – he couldn’t buy that set of Wainwrights for a month’s wages – but it is not the currency of the common-or-garden thief, who seeks pocketable items. And clearly the study bears none of the usual hallmarks of a burglary, when every drawer and shelf is ransacked.

  ‘What were you doing in the hour before you discovered the body?’

  Thwaites looks alarmed.

  ‘I, sir?’ His voice is rasping and hoarse, but then his words come without hesitation and there is a ring of authenticity about them. ‘It was my own lunch hour between one and two o’clock, sir. I went back to the staff quarters and heated up some soup and took it to my room. I listened to the wireless – there was The World This Weekend and after that Gardener’s Question Time. Just after two o’clock I came back along to my butler’s pantry and polished up the crystal glasses for tonight’s dinner.’

  ‘So you were back on duty for what – ten minutes – before you went to collect the lunch tray?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear or see anything – any disturbance – anyone entering or leaving the study?’

  ‘No, sir – nothing at all, sir.’

  Though Skelgill’s question is narrow in its scope, he poses it in the knowledge of the bird-watching log, which has Declan O’More returning at 13:35. Then there was time taken to remove his outdoor gear and write up his field notes. Only forty minutes later he was found dead by the butler. Furthermore there is the clue of the stilled eight-day clock.

  ‘What about this morning – did anybody visit Declan?’

  Thwaites shakes his head.

  ‘Not that I can say, sir. It’s the maid’s day off – I believe she stayed in the staff quarters – I saw her making some lunch. And as for the family, sir – they weren’t really in the habit of coming to this end of the house. All of the main public rooms and the guest bedrooms are on the north side of the tower.’

  ‘What interaction would they normally have with Declan?’

  The butler appears surprised by this question.

  ‘Oh – none at all, sir. Bear in mind they are uncommon visitors. And of course Mr Declan was a very shy person, you might say, sir.’

  Skelgill takes it that shy is probably not what the butler means – but that the corollary is the same, whether or not this is a euphemism for a less amenable adjective.

  ‘Are you aware of anyone having more than passing contact with him – since the funeral on Friday, say?’

  Thwaites again shakes his head – but then he raises an index finger to indicate a thought has struck him.

  ‘Well, no, sir – except for Mr Mullarkey, of course.’

  ‘Mullarkey?’

  ‘The O’More family lawyer, sir – he’s across from Dublin for the funeral. He was due to travel back yesterday – but of course he’s become snowed in and unable to return.’

  Skelgill nods as he makes the connection with the middle-aged man whom he observed in conversation with the Vicar before and after the service.

  ‘You saw him and Declan together?’

  ‘Mr Mullarkey came to the study on Saturday afternoon, sir. Mr Declan rang for tea at about a quarter to three. Then I noticed Mr Mullarkey leaving the study about three-quarters of an hour later.’

  Skelgill is silent for a few moments. But if this account troubles him, it is something he can easily follow up, given the lawyer is stranded like the rest at Crummock Hall.

  ‘How did Declan react to the death of his brother?’

  ‘It was a long time coming, sir – if you get my meaning? Sir Sean had been ill for over a year and hadn’t been expected to live beyond the summer.’

  Skelgill nods grimly.

  ‘So it was business as usual for Declan – is that what you’re saying, Thwaites?’

  The manservant looks uncomfortable on his late employer’s behalf.

  ‘He wasn’t a sentimental person, sir – kept his feelings to himself.’

  ‘Was there a disagreement, a dispute – between him and anyone else – a member of the family or the staff?’

  Thwaites is slowly shaking his head.

  ‘Nothing that I can call to mind, sir.’

  ‘What about you, Thwaites?’

  Skelgill leaves the question hanging, open to interpretation. The butler’s features take on a cornered expression, that this policeman might suddenly be suspecting him, since he has failed to cast suspicion upon anyone else. He clears his throat with a stuttering cough and speaks, rather more disjointedly now.

  ‘I’m sure Sir Sean – and Mr Declan – both – have been happy with my work, sir – else I don’t know that they would have kept me on all this time.’

 
It is a somewhat oblique rejoinder, but the man has a point – his tenure spans seven decades. Skelgill relents and leans forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, his body language altogether more convivial.

  ‘Thwaites, how did you come to Crummock Hall?’

  ‘My mother worked here, sir – she was a local girl, Mary Ann Thwaites of Lorton – went into service when she were just fifteen.’ Now a haunted expression suffuses his features. He stares into the fire and his brown eyes appear to smoulder as they reflect the flames. ‘Got herself into trouble, sir, in a manner of speaking.’ He pauses, though he does not glance at Skelgill to check that he has understood. ‘But the war had begun and the family took pity upon her. The master of Crummock Hall back then was Mr Padraig – and his Lady Elizabeth – she hailed from a titled Cumberland family.’

  ‘You were born here.’

  Skelgill has correctly divined the nature of the maid’s little difficulty.

  ‘There’s a little cottage near the gates to the estate, sir – very generous they were, to let her stay there. As a small child I didn’t have cause myself to come up to the big house. I remember Mr Padraig calling by occasionally – but he died of a sudden when I was aged ten and the estate passed to Sir Sean.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I went off to do my National Service – Cumberland Rifles, sir. Afterwards I signed up as a Regular – but I was wounded in action – you’ll perhaps have heard of the Mau Mau Uprising?’

  Skelgill nods grimly – his impression of this rather frail old man is perhaps undergoing some conversion. He waits for Thwaites to continue.

  ‘My mother fell ill around about the same time, sir. I was able to come back and Sir Sean was good enough to find me a position. It meant I could look after her at the cottage. When she passed away after a long illness they kept me on – and shortly after that Sir Sean gave me the promotion to butler, sir.’

  ‘Had you known them – Sean and Declan – when you were growing up?’

  ‘Only in passing, sir. They would be seventeen years older than me, sir – so you can imagine, folk of their station, they didn’t ordinarily pay any great attention to a poor lad off the estate.’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes as he regards the faithful old retainer. Perhaps there is something in this sentiment with which he empathises. Whatever the feeling it evokes, it points him to a particular line of questioning.

  ‘What age are you, Thwaites?’

  ‘Seventy-six, sir.’

  ‘Did you go to the village school in Lorton?’

  ‘I did, sir – the church school.’

  ‘Do you remember a girl called Minnie Graham?’

  ‘I do that, sir – quite a character if I recall.’

  Skelgill is plainly uncertain of what he should say next. The Grahams are an ancient Borders clan of considerable notoriety – known down the centuries for their reiving of cattle, thieving of possessions, looting of properties and worse. Also aged seventy-six, also schooled at Lorton C of E, and also still referred to by some under her maiden name Minnie Graham, is Skelgill’s mother.

  3. INHERITANCE – Sunday 5pm

  ‘She’s just walked in, Guv!’

  ‘Who, Leyton?’

  ‘The missing woman – the novelist.’

  DS Leyton – having initially reported to his superior on arrival – has now returned rather breathlessly to the smoking room bearing this news. Skelgill puts down what must be a third or fourth cup of tea and rises from his chair by the fire. He strides to the long window and rests his elbows upon the deep sill. All that is visible are falling flakes of snow, illuminated by the weak light cast from within; beyond a foot or so they dissolve into total blackness. He stares broodingly into the hypnotic scene; it is like a tank filled with a great swirling shoal of tiny pale fish. That the woman has found her way back is no mean feat – through snowstorms and darkness, descending two miles of mountainous terrain from the location of her last distress call – when it appeared that her mobile phone’s battery died. Skelgill swings about, arms akimbo, gunslinger fashion, his features stern.

  ‘Has anyone notified the team?’

  ‘Done it, Guv – got through to your mate, Woody. They’ve stood down. He said to tell you they’ll be in the pub at Buttermere later, if you fancy a pint.’

  Skelgill scowls at this suggestion. He stalks over to the bureau where Thwaites has deposited his tray and selects a shortbread finger from the now somewhat depleted plate of biscuits. DS Leyton watches a little hungrily, but Skelgill offers no invitation for him to partake.

  ‘How is she?’

  The sergeant notes that Skelgill’s first thoughts rested with the mountain rescue team that has been combing the fell in such treacherous conditions.

  ‘Dr Herdwick’s checking her over. Seems like she’s in one piece, Guv – mild hypothermia – but they’ve had to tell her about the death – I don’t think she’s taken it too well.’

  Skelgill is munching and seems in no hurry to reply, so DS Leyton continues.

  ‘Do you want to see her, Guv?’

  ‘What time did she set out?’

  ‘They’d had a buffet lunch in the dining room from noon onwards. She left after that – one of the brothers reckoned about 12:30.’

  Skelgill purses his lips.

  ‘She did well to get so far.’ He finishes the last of his biscuit and begins to fiddle with the teapot, a large antique affair in much polished silver with an ebony handle. ‘We’re going to be asking people where they were in the hour before the body was found, Leyton. I think we know her answer – she’ll keep until tomorrow – no point speaking to her if she’s in shock.’

  DS Leyton nods. His boss is being uncharacteristically sympathetic.

  ‘What next, Guv?’

  ‘Has Herdwick finished in the study?’

  ‘Reckons as much as he can, Guv. He says he’ll need to run tests and do a proper job back at the path lab – but he’s found a substantial blunt trauma injury to the base of the skull – a rounded impact – couldn’t be the edge of that desk or the hearth. Someone whacked him good and proper, Guv.’

  Skelgill is upending the eighteenth century teapot in a manner that would surely bring on palpitations in Thwaites were he watching.

  ‘Leyton – I want you to check around the whole place – all the doors and windows – any signs of a break in – anything unlocked or easy to open – and check the snow for tracks, so we know which entrances have been used recently. Make a list.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ DS Leyton turns towards the door, but then he hesitates. ‘The posh geezer called Martius – the eldest brother – he’s been bending my ear, Guv – champing at the bit he is to talk to the senior officer, as he put it.’

  Skelgill grimaces – though it could be the stewed tea as much as the idea that someone is trying to set his agenda.

  ‘Leyton, you talk to him and the other three siblings – just get the top line on their movements. Send Mullarkey along here, will you.’ This is an instruction rather than a request. He bangs down the teapot unceremoniously. ‘And tell Thwaites to bring a refill for this lot.’

  *

  Skelgill glances cursorily at the business card that precedes Fergal Mullarkey LLB LLM AITI(CTA) TEP; it seems he is something of a man of letters, literally at least. Lacking any such crutch himself Skelgill settles for an extra hard squeeze of the offered hand – not that handshakes, either, are an exchange in which he customarily indulges with interviewees yet to be cleared of involvement in a murder. In his mid fifties, the lawyer is of medium height and trim figure, a pale complexion, freckled, a largely bald head, formerly ginger, with remnants above the ears, deep blue eyes. Yet rather fleshy pink lips and prominent round ears add a clownish effect, contributing to an overall impression that is at once friendly and slightly sinister. However, it is plain from the family solicitor’s manner that he considers himself on the side of the law, and not by any stretch of the imagination a suspect. Indeed, he seize
s the initiative with an opening question that reveals his lawyer’s mind has been at work.

  ‘I take it you’re treating this whole thing as suspicious, Inspector?’

  Skelgill indicates the seat opposite his. It goes against the grain to be informed what he might be thinking – never mind to reveal to a civilian his perspective in such a circumstance – but there is some endearing quality about the unaffected Irish pronunciation – ‘d’ for the soft ‘th’ of this, and ‘t’ for the strong ‘th’ of thing. He raises his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug.

  ‘We received a call that there had been a murder, sir.’

  ‘But I understand there’s no witness – and certainly no one confessing.’ The lawyer seems to have a twinkle in his eye – that he understands Skelgill’s obligation to be taciturn.

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill grins ruefully. ‘We shall have to wait for our pathologist’s report.’

  The man nods understandingly.

  ‘The family is sticking together.’

  Skelgill shoots a sharp glance at the lawyer.

  ‘What I mean to say, Inspector, is that they’ve gathered for safety in the drawing room. They are concerned there might be an intruder at large.’

  This clarification seems to disappoint Skelgill.

  ‘My sergeant is checking the place over. We’ve got two uniformed officers on the way. They’ll have a scout round outside – make sure no one’s hiding in a storeroom or stable.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be tracks you can follow?’

  The suggestion is made with the same unassuming enunciation as his opening question. Skelgill glances doubtfully at the window.

  ‘What there are – they’re fast disappearing – if you could even follow them in these conditions. We might get something in the morning. These snow showers are due to die out overnight.’

  ‘That’s assuming it was an intruder, of course, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is staring into the fire. Unhurriedly he picks up a cast iron poker and gives the nearest log what seems to be an unnecessary prod.

  ‘Do you have reason to believe otherwise, sir?’

  ‘If this were a detective novel I most certainly would.’ The man chuckles at his own joke. ‘I’m no criminal lawyer, Inspector – inheritance and taxes are my bag – but I know enough that you’ll need to eliminate everyone, myself included – provided of course it turns out to be foul play and not just an accident.’