Murder on the Moor Read online

  Not so. A woman who does not seem to be expecting him opens the door. She regards him with surprise but without hostility. She must be of about his age, a little above medium height, slim, with dark hair held in a band; dark irises and regular features with clear, fair skin. She wears flat black pumps, black tracksuit bottoms and a black vest top that exposes her bare shoulders and arms, sculpted without being muscle bound. In one rubber-gloved hand she holds a yellow cloth daubed with honey-coloured polish. If her general appearance is somewhat unexpected – though it seems she must be a cleaner – more extraordinary is that she has a black eye.

  Skelgill displays his police credentials.

  ‘DI Skelgill. One of my colleagues telephoned to arrange for me to meet Lord Bullingdon at two o’clock. I’m a few minutes early.’

  The woman smiles pleasantly, and in sliding back to admit him he notices she casually looks him over.

  ‘Teddy normally sees visitors in the library. If you’d like to come in, I’ll take you through.’

  Her accent is local, though fairly mild, and Skelgill cannot immediately place it on his county map. He duly steps past her and waits while she heaves the heavy door to. They are in a darkened vestibule which he realises is a kind of defensive gate keep, in which it would be possible to entrap an intruder. The walls are of bare stone; there are spears and shields and other medieval paraphernalia, including an ancient cast iron mantrap with horrible rusted jaws, and ahead on the right in a niche a suit of armour with its gauntlets clasped around the hilt of a sword in the pose of a sentry.

  ‘This way, please.’

  The woman walks lightly with distinctly good balance. She takes him around a corner and up three worn steps into the atrium of the central bastion of the original castle; overhead, two concentric balconies run around the rectangular tower house, and above a beamed ceiling from somewhere admits shafts of sunlight. The ground-floor walls are all of bare stone, though decorated here and there with ancestral portraits. But the woman attracts Skelgill’s attention now. On the back of her singlet where the garment curves out at the base of her spine is the single word, “Karen”, and between her shoulder blades, a second transfer reads, “Karate North”.

  ‘Does that explain the shiner?’

  The woman keeps moving but turns to look over her shoulder, her ironic raising of her eyebrows telling him she understands and that his detective work is accurate. She does not, however, offer any elaboration, but Skelgill is sufficiently encouraged.

  ‘You should see the other lass, eh?’

  ‘I was fighting a man.’

  They have reached a further oak door, which is open, and she leads him through. It is an internal room, windowless, lit poorly though cosily by shaded wall lights. Ahead is a massive stone hearth, swept clean. All other wall space is lined with shelves of books of uniform antiquity, en masse giving an impression of rich binding and gilt, though on closer examination many are in need of repair. At either side of the hearth sits a heavy cracked leather armchair, but otherwise a massive oak table takes up the centre of the room with Regency chairs ranged around it. On the table, with its lid off, stands a trade-sized tin of traditional furniture polish. Evidently the woman has been working here. She turns to face Skelgill, and he looks with some concern at her wound; he feels so entitled now that the ice is broken. That she admits it was perpetrated by a male has set ringing a little policeman’s alarm bell; and he is reminded of the weird and wonderful excuses that women come up with to protect their underserving partners; an accident with the hoover, the hairdryer, the hamster – “I head-butted his fist” – they have all been pressed into service to explain ‘self-inflicted’ injuries. He notices she wears no rings – although that might be a function of her job, or indeed her hobby. He questions her with a note of reproach in his voice.

  ‘I thought in karate you weren’t supposed to hit your opponent.’

  She regards him evenly.

  ‘You don’t have to make contact to score – but if you do you’re not meant to injure. In the heat of the moment it doesn’t always work out.’

  She continues to hold his gaze; he gets the feeling she is being straight with him. His demeanour softens.

  ‘Do you represent the North?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I used to – I just coach and train with them now. Do some sparring. It’s my son Kieran that competes. I spend most of my spare time ferrying him around to competitions. We were in Glasgow yesterday.’

  Skelgill wonders: now that he sees her more clearly he would be surprised if in fact she is over thirty.

  ‘What age is your lad?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Eight! He must be good – what’ll he be like when he’s bigger?’

  She looks pleased; not just in her renewed smile, but in the proud glint in her lanceolate eyes. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue and slides both hands behind her back and makes a movement like she is flexing her spine. Skelgill finds himself wanting to straighten his hair, or do something to it, and has to resist the involuntary urge. For a moment they both seem lost for what to say next. But then a casement clock that is hung just behind the door strikes two; its notes hang chidingly in the ether, and the woman gestures with the gloved hand that holds the duster.

  ‘I’d better let Teddy know you’re here. He’s got a habit of disappearing.’

  She lowers her gaze and brushes past Skelgill; he inhales a waft of polish and perfume and perspiration that he doesn’t mind.

  ‘Thanks – Karen.’

  She glances back, rotating easily at the hips at the sound of her name, and flashes him what is this time a more enigmatic smile.

  Left alone, he stands pensively. The ticking of the clock seems loud now, when he had not noticed it before, and the pungency of turpentine from the open tin of polish gains ascendency in the still air. He feels watched; there is a period portrait over the fireplace. It could be a woman, although on reflection beneath a cape the subject is clad in armour, and the big hair is probably a fashionable wig. He tries the experiment of moving across the room to see if the eyes follow him, and they do. Or, at least, that is how it seems. He finds himself standing beside an exhibit case, positioned upon an antique sideboard, about three feet high and a little more in width. The glass is sparkling and the oak frame in tip-top order, qualities that he attributes to the just-departed Karen. Inside, however, the collection of avian taxidermy does not reach the same high standards, and has deteriorated badly. The case has been infiltrated by dust; colours are faded, plumage moth-eaten; artificial eyes bulge unnaturally. There are predominantly game birds ranged upon a rising foreground of rock draped in desiccated moss and heather. He recognises most of them: pheasant, woodcock, golden plover, and both species of grouse, red and black. On lichen-covered branches are some smaller passerines, rather jauntily posed – meadow pipit, stonechat and wheatear, characteristic of the local moor – and behind these, perched ominously upon sturdier logs, are the predators, raven, buzzard, merlin – and he is wondering if there is what could be a hen harrier. He is just about to slip his phone from his pocket to steal a clandestine photo when he is jolted by a voice.

  ‘Grandfather took every specimen single-handedly. Those were the days, my man!’

  Bringing his empty hands out by his sides Skelgill wheels around to see framed in the doorway a broad if crooked silhouette. Immediately any doubt about the person he encountered in Bullmire Wood being the laird is dispelled. Besides, the accent is that of the upper classes. Moreover, as he comes forward with a slightly shambling gait Skelgill sees that the man must be in his seventies. He wears brogues and shapeless maroon corduroys, and a green jersey beneath which a college tie is loosely knotted and from which one dog-eared collar of a shirt protrudes. His features are in the Churchillian mould, those of the bulldog, seemingly crowded into a round countenance and displeased for it; the mouth is downturned at one side as though in special protest. He has a head of tousled sandy-
grey hair, and bushy brows, and his lop-sidedness extends right through to a kind of one-eyed bearing, as though he has long favoured a dominant side and his bones have become calcified in the pose. Skelgill thinks he would probably be his own height were he to straighten.

  ‘You’re not from the Forestry?’

  Skelgill is questioning what sort of message has reached the man about his appointment.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Ministry of Agriculture?’

  ‘No – I’m not, sir.’

  Skelgill wonders if he is testing him out, or putting him in his place in the scheme of things. He takes the bull by the horns.

  ‘What I am, sir – is that, firstly, I’m from Buttermere – where I grew up – and, secondly, I’m from Cumbria CID. Detective Inspector Skelgill.’

  It is an unconventional introduction and the man – Lord Edward Bullingdon, or “Teddy” – regards him penetratingly, staring through his leading eye, the right; the left half-closed as though he might be squinting along the barrel of a shotgun.

  ‘They’ve been trying to confound me with red tape all morning. But if I hear you correctly I think what you’re telling me is that you’re pretty darned good at sitting on the fence.’

  Beneath the avuncular delivery Skelgill detects an undertone of entitled coercion.

  ‘I never sit on the fence, sir. But I’ve got a clear view of both sides.’

  The man hesitates, and then shrugs. Thwarted in part, he adopts a more equivocal manner.

  ‘Well – if that’s the best you can do, I’ll take it. CID, you say? Has there been a murder?’

  It appears there is going to be no suggestion of sitting down for a leisurely meeting, as the man now stands his ground. It suits Skelgill to come to the point.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want a patrol car parked in your driveway, sir. Besides, it’s something that’s come across my desk – and I was passing this way with a couple of my colleagues.’

  ‘It being?’

  ‘A buzzard shot above Bullmire Wood was filmed by some birdwatchers early on Sunday morning.’

  Lord Bullingdon slaps his protruding hip like he might be whipping a steed.

  ‘Pah – nonsense! Half the idiots don’t know what they’re talking about. They’ve been trying to tell me there are harriers on Over Moor – utter poppycock! Sent up a deputation a few weeks ago. Interfering blighters.’

  ‘So you know about the hen harriers, sir?’

  The landowner leans towards Skelgill, now screwing up even his good eye.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re in on it, too? The deputation failed, so they’ve cooked up a reason to send in the police.’

  He is not so far from hitting the nail on the head. Skelgill realises he must ‘caw canny’ as his Scots friend and erstwhile colleague DS Cameron Findlay would counsel. He opts to deal with the less contentious aspect of Lord Bullingdon’s complaint.

  ‘I’m no bird expert – but I’ve had it on good authority. It seems you’ve got the only pair in Cumbria. I should have thought that’s a feather in your cap, sir?’

  As he speaks these words he immediately wonders if it is an unfortunate turn of phrase. Realising his fears, the man half turns away and flaps an arm in the air, and harrumphs something approaching, “It’ll be that, alright”.

  Skelgill recognises the potential quagmire and backtracks to firmer ground.

  ‘Regarding the buzzard, sir – if an alleged wildlife crime – like any other – is reported, we’re duty-bound to investigate it. I’ve seen the evidence myself, and there doesn’t seem to be much doubt that it was shot from your property.’

  The man hems and haws for a moment or two. Skelgill notices he makes no attempt to deny that it could happen on his estate. But he has shown himself to be sharper than the impression he gives, and perhaps he is cognisant of the get-out clause that is implicit in Skelgill’s charge. Anyone could have fired the shot.

  ‘Pah – you’ll need to speak with Daphne – she makes all the sporting arrangements these days.’

  Skelgill waits for clarification, but to no avail.

  ‘And where might I find Daphne, sir?’

  His question is answered not by the man but instead by a soprano voice that carries from the hallway. Rapid footsteps are accompanied by a shrill cry.

  ‘Daddy!’

  Into the library bustles a short, stout woman – Skelgill guesses in her mid-thirties – breathless, and clad in a two-piece suit of checked wool tweed, matching olive stockings and sensible shoes. In contrast to the venerable peer she has a tight helmet of glossy chestnut hair – but there can be no doubt of her pedigree, for facially she bears an extraordinarily close resemblance to her pater; indeed Skelgill realises the crooked, one-eyed expression is not merely an acquired characteristic, but a hereditary trait, and an ascendant one at that. Somehow it is more disconcerting in the much younger, female member of the family. She ignores Skelgill altogether, such is her focus upon her mission (or, he reflects, maybe she simply considers him unimportant).

  ‘Apparently a bird of prey has been shot!’

  Edward Bullingdon waves a dismissive hand.

  ‘My dear – the earth is not about to open up and swallow us.’

  ‘Daddy – we have the police here!’

  He gestures at Skelgill.

  ‘Quite right – this fellow’s a Chief Superintendent – something like that.’

  Now she seems to register Skelgill’s presence. She gawps at him, rendered speechless. Her father steps into the breach.

  ‘Daphne. In poor light a darned buzzard’s no different in profile to a crow. Common mistake to make. Probably potted a good couple of dozen in my time. Can’t be helped.’

  The young woman looks aghast.’

  ‘Daddy – we have our reputation to think of. It will feed the clamour for licensing.’

  Now Lord Bullingdon scoffs dismissively.

  ‘Daphne, my dear – this good chap’s on our side – we were just discussing – you know, sweeping and carpets and all that.’

  The young woman glances sharply at Skelgill to see his reaction does not remotely correspond to her father’s claim. At this she seems to pull herself together.

  ‘Daddy – it appears Miranda is leaving shortly – she telephoned asking for the Aston to be brought round to the stables. Meanwhile I have radioed for Lawrence to come up. Let me reunite the Chief Superintendent with his colleagues at the office and I can deal with this matter.’

  Upon mention of “Miranda” Edward Bullingdon looks suddenly vexed, and positively distracted.

  ‘Dammit.’

  Muttering under his breath he hobbles away without word of explanation or farewell. Skelgill is left alone with the man’s daughter.

  ‘Chief Superintendent – I must apologise – Daddy can be rather abstruse – I should take what he says with a substantial pinch of salt.’

  Skelgill shuffles rather self-consciously from one foot to the other.

  ‘It’s just plain Inspector, madam. DI Skelgill. Based out of Penrith.’

  In her congenitally lopsided manner, she fronts up and offers a firm hand, which Skelgill is obliged to shake.

  ‘Daphne Bullingdon. I run the estate office and all affairs of a sporting nature. I have ordered some tea for your colleagues. Come this way, please – we can go through the kitchen garden.’

  She leads him from the library and across the atrium and through a stone passage that, from a kind of scullery gives on to a half-courtyard, flanked on their left by a somewhat less ancient wing of the property. The kitchen garden appears neglected, its beds dominated by leggy clumps of low-maintenance lavender, rosemary and sage. Their path merges with the gravel driveway that skirts the castle and runs directly towards a succession of buildings, some of the same old reddish sandstone, and others of a more utilitarian farming type. As they pass one of the former, vertical iron bars on its windows attract Skelgill’s eye.

  ‘In there is our gunroom – attached is
a malt whisky bar, a humidor and a billiards room with a championship-size table.’

  Skelgill nods comprehendingly, but does not remark. Now they approach a more modern construction, steel-framed and clad in green-painted aluminium.

  ‘These are our rearing sheds. We have brooder huts with free-range runs at the back. Our birds are organically nurtured in full compliance with the code of practice issued by DEFRA – the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. We export most of our meat to Belgium and France. It provides winter employment for three of our hands and contributes directly to the local economy.’

  Skelgill senses that he is hearing an excerpt from a well-practised monologue; as her father had intimated, no doubt they receive probing visits from the authorities, such as those responsible for animal welfare. At the side of the building to which the woman refers he notices a commercial incinerator.

  ‘All waste is disposed of according to the highest standards of hygiene. That is a DEFRA-approved model.’

  Such an insider view as this casts the game shooting industry in a different light from the popular notion of a bucolic pastime in which a few old birds are downed for the pot. Skelgill has heard it said that more pheasants are reared in Britain than sheep, which is a mind-boggling statistic to anyone who frequents the fells.

  Ahead of them an older property stretches along on the right of the track, which is walled-in on the left; arching above and uniting the two sides is a glazed canopy that runs the length of the building. It reminds Skelgill of a traditional country railway station. The canopy is in need of repair, and his gaze is drawn to a shattered pane that looks like it has been holed by an impact. He is thinking twelve bore.