Murder on the Moor Read online

  ‘That was a pheasant.’ Clearly she is alert to wherever his scrutiny falls. ‘It was shot from the bank beyond. It crashed right through the glass.’

  Skelgill looks afresh. There are apocryphal tales of hunters knocked out by the birds they have winged – it is said that red grouse can reach eighty miles an hour downwind. It would be quite a clip round the ear.

  Beneath the hole, by ironic coincidence, there is a row of rusted iron hooks driven into the crumbling brickwork, no doubt for hanging game – for beneath stands an old table (rather incongruously ornate in its style and probably a valuable antique if restored), pressed into use as a plucking bench; beside it a rough timber and plywood hopper; strewn about in the dust are stray feathers. Close at hand are a tree-trunk chopping block, an axe upon it, and a manually operated guillotine. This is evidently the meat-processing end of the operation; it is practical, if primitive.

  It seems Daphne Bullingdon would willingly continue her commentary. Further along there appear to be stables, but they have reached the office; indeed this section of the building has a glass frontage, rather like a retail outlet – and Skelgill can see his colleagues seated at a coffee table. DS Jones is pouring tea from a china service. DS Leyton surreptitiously palms a finger of shortbread to an overweight chocolate Labrador. They look up expectantly at Skelgill as he enters; he seems to give a curt shake of his head; he might be refusing tea, but it is hard to be sure. Daphne Bullingdon makes as though to offer him a seat, but he saunters across to a reception counter; on the wall beside it is a noticeboard displaying photographs, some of them captioned. The subjects include tweed-clad ‘guns’ taking aim in the heather; the ‘guns’ shooting high overhead in a forest ride, the ‘guns’ posed at ease around the tailgate of a Range Rover, raising celebratory nips of whisky; and a crate of dead pheasants from which the head of a springer spaniel sticks out like that of a child submerged in a soft-play ball pit. There is nothing especially new to Skelgill, but he is reminded this is a pastime for the well heeled and probably even more well connected.

  Daphne Bullingdon breaks the silence.

  ‘I have summoned Lawrence Melling – he is our head keeper. He may be able to shed light on the unfortunate matter of the buzzard. Indeed, I should like to know what his explanation will be.’ She hesitates, and cocks an ear towards the entrance. ‘In fact, that sounds like him now.’

  Indeed there comes the popping of an engine as it is throttled back and a quad bike slews to a halt outside, throwing up a cloud of dust, and a black working cocker bounds from the dog box and darts across to inspect the vicinity of the plucking bench. The rider cuts the motor and hauls off his full-face helmet and Skelgill immediately recognises him as the red-bearded man he encountered in Bullmire Wood. So he is a gamekeeper, after all.

  The spaniel is a marvel of perpetual motion and is back across the yard in the twinkling of an eye, nosing through the gap the second the man unlatches the door. It makes a rapid round of the occupants, effusive and fawning in its greetings.

  In contrast Lawrence Melling enters with the calm, self-confident bearing of an admiral summoned to the bridge to deal with a crisis beyond the wit of his underlings. Preceded by the tang of cologne, he wears a freshly pressed version of the countryman’s ensemble Skelgill had observed yesterday. If Daphne Bullingdon had led them to expect a forelock-tugging scapegoat resigned to an unfavourable hearing before their kangaroo court, they could not have been much wider of the mark.

  Skelgill remains standing at the back of the room. His immediate impression is of a mutual aversion between the landowner’s daughter and the newcomer. They exchange no words of salutation and instead Daphne Bullingdon makes a collective introduction as Skelgill’s two sergeants rise. There ensue nods rather than handshakes – it is apparent to all this is not the kind of amicable meeting in which potential sporting clients are wooed.

  Skelgill notices the man’s narrowed eyes linger appraisingly on DS Jones – but this changes to a flash of apprehension when he senses he has not taken in Skelgill’s presence – and now does so. The look of alarm becomes one of recognition, but he makes no acknowledgement. Instead he turns pointedly to Daphne Bullingdon as she requests, for his benefit, a replay of the video on DS Jones’s electronic tablet.

  The group still on their feet, the man watches implacably. He shows no flicker of emotion, despite that he is being presented with something of a smoking gun. He responds only when the recording ends.

  ‘Like I say, we’ve had problems with poachers of late.’ He is looking at Daphne Bullingdon, though his words might be directed at Skelgill, as if by reference to their previous exchange. ‘Nor would I put it past the sabs.’

  ‘Lawrence, what on earth do you mean?’ Daphne Bullingdon’s tone is incredulous. ‘That this is some kind of subterfuge?’

  ‘It’s well known they plant pole traps and poisoned hawks – Ma’am.’

  The delayed “Ma’am” conveys a note of defiance. Daphne Bullingdon inhales between gritted teeth.

  ‘Are you suggesting the buzzard was shot in a deliberate attempt to blacken our reputation?’

  Skelgill seems content to let her do their job for them, in interrogating the man. Of course, they are not to know what words were exchanged by prior radio contact. He must allow for the small possibility that this is a choreographed exchange – but if so it is proficiently acted. The gamekeeper raises a hand and rubs a thumb and forefinger against his neatly groomed beard.

  ‘Convenient, how they filmed it. There could have been an accomplice in the wood who did the shooting. Have they produced a carcass?’

  It is a challenge issued for the ears of officialdom, knowing that, without this evidence, the police would be batting on a very sticky wicket. Daphne Bullingdon looks questioningly at Skelgill. Now he is obliged to speak for the first time. He responds in an offhand manner.

  ‘We’ll have a scout round for that – with your permission, of course, madam.’ He senses that Lawrence Melling is regarding him with a glint of triumph in his eyes. The woman nods cooperatively, but Skelgill moves quickly on. ‘As for the authenticity of the footage, I understand the couple are members of Allerdale Natural History Society. I believe you know they’re monitoring the hen harriers that are breeding on your land.’

  ‘We take our conservation responsibilities very seriously, Inspector.’ She casts a censorious glance at the gamekeeper, but he merely regards her unsympathetically. ‘We are fully compliant with the strictures of the Wildlife and Countryside Act.’

  Skelgill is no birder, as the modern parlance goes, but of the species that haunt the fells, lakes and forests he has acquired a working knowledge. Yet it has always struck him as curious that townsfolk, dedicated urbanites – wealthy hedge fund managers that wouldn’t even know a hedge if they fell into one – are handed a gun and a hip flask and encouraged to blast away at whatever flies in their direction. He has seen dedicated ornithologists, trained observers armed with state-of-the-art optical equipment, struggle to make the kind of split-second decision that distinguishes fair game from a protected hawk. But along such lines he finds an avenue reasonably to emphasise his point. He looks squarely at Daphne Bullingdon.

  ‘As Lord Bullingdon pointed out, in the heat of the moment it’s an easy misjudgement to make. Inexperienced guns told there’s pheasant or grouse being driven towards them. But it could be a costly case of mistaken identity.’

  Daphne Bullingdon reacts somewhat plaintively.

  ‘But we have no shooting until at the earliest the twelfth of August.’

  ‘Aye – but by then this pair of harriers you’ve got breeding could have three or four youngsters flying about their territory. They won’t know the date. One trigger-happy client could put you in the national newspapers.’

  Daphne Bullingdon shudders with revulsion; but she seems lost for words. Skelgill continues.

  ‘I suggest you meet with the Allerdale Nats to come up with a plan. Better you work together than be at l
oggerheads.’

  Lawrence Melling visibly sneers – it is plain he has disdain for the conservationists, and he makes no pretence at interest in reaching some accommodation. Now he tosses a small hand grenade into the midst of the discussion.

  ‘There’s nae guarantee the nest will be successful.’

  Daphne Bullingdon glares with indignation – yet Skelgill senses there is some impediment to her pulling rank and insisting upon the proposed compromise. It might be she lacks the authority, but it seems closer to a failure of self-confidence in the face of a mutiny. The simmering standoff is defused, however, when Lawrence Melling plainly becomes distracted – for he is first to recognise what, in a sudden crescendo, becomes a clatter of hooves in the yard.

  A rider arrives at a canter and, spying the party in the estate office, reins their steed around with aplomb. Skelgill finds himself staring with all the others; the glistening bay stallion is a handsome beast, but the aristocratic equestrienne in the saddle comfortably eclipses it. Immaculately clad, she slips off her riding hat and shakes out a cascade of raven tresses; it is something of a Lady Godiva moment. Her gaze penetrates the glass, and she beckons with her crop.

  Lawrence Melling responds to the summons with no word of excusing himself from present company. Skelgill sees that Daphne Bullingdon literally stamps her foot, though she attempts to conceal her petulance by marching across to the counter and picking out a leaflet from a plastic dispenser. She brings it back and opens it out before him, demanding his attention.

  ‘This is a map of the estate. It is designed as an orientation guide for our guests. It shows the locations for driven shooting, along with a recommended safe walking route. I am sure that with carefully considered planning we can designate an area of Over Moor as a wildlife refuge.’

  The map is accurately drawn, with some quaint local detail. It is the sort of illustration that would ordinarily engross Skelgill, but he has half an eye on the window. He sees that the woman on horseback makes no effort to dismount and instead waits for the gamekeeper. When he takes hold of the bridle and offers up a hand, she leans upon him and brings her face close to his ear. She must whisper some confidence, for the hint of a smile reveals itself at the corners of his hitherto inscrutable mouth. A few more words then pass between them. He leads the horse away, out of sight. The woman nonchalantly enters the office, ignoring the dogs that crowd her. She similarly disregards Daphne Bullingdon and DS Leyton. Though she casts an interested glance upon DS Jones, she makes directly for Skelgill.

  He sees now that she might be in her early forties, but she is a woman that knows she commands the male eye; indeed he finds himself fighting such an instinct. She is tall, and slim yet shapely, her figure delineated by slick black riding boots, skin-tight white jodhpurs and a white short-sleeved nylon show shirt with diamond buttons and a choker collar. Such snug tailoring does not leave a great deal to the imagination. And her centre parting frames an equally striking countenance; sultry Mediterranean features that are pursued by photographers the world over.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  Her voice is husky and her accent refined. And while the gamekeeper had brought with him a brashness that extended to his intrusive aftershave, the woman at close quarters exudes a subtle, floral scent, jasmine with undertones of sandalwood. Her question intimates some knowledge of who they are.

  ‘A sporting matter, Miranda – there is no need for you to concern yourself.’ It is an irate Daphne Bullingdon that interjects, as though now she fears being doubly usurped.

  The woman turns to her.

  ‘Darling – why would I be concerned?’ She uses ‘darling’ in the non-familial sense, the platitude of the celebrity classes. ‘Your father tells me you are just beginning to make a fist of things.’

  Stung by the backhanded compliment, Daphne Bullingdon bristles; her prominent nostrils flare. Her habit of becoming lost for words under stress is something with which Skelgill can identify; in his youth a swift left hook always enabled him to let off steam. But any such resolution is circumvented: the door bangs open and Lord Bullingdon shambles wheezily into the office. He has donned a threadbare wide-brimmed waxed-cotton hat and a cape of similar fabric and vintage, and leans heavily upon an antler-topped thumbstick. Ignoring the rest he approaches close to the tall woman, who regards him rather pityingly.

  ‘Miranda – what’s all this about taking the Aston?’

  Miranda Bullingdon waves a careless hand.

  ‘Teddy Bear – you know I don’t like driving the Defender – it’s such a big awkward beast – and so slow to overtake.’

  Edward Bullingdon shows no embarrassment at this public revelation of his pet name, though Skelgill sees his subordinates exchange a look of mild wonder. Neither the epithet, nor her soothing tone, however, appears to allay his disquiet, and he glares lopsidedly at his wife.

  ‘Besides, where are you off to in such a hurry?’

  She pouts forgivingly, rather as a mother over the forgetful antics of a child.

  ‘I’m sure I told you – there’s a fashion show this afternoon at the Sharrow Bay.’

  Lord Bullingdon shakes his staff at her.

  ‘What – dressed like that?’

  ‘Teddy Bear – it doesn’t matter what I wear – I shall be modelling. Besides, it is a private function, exclusively hunt wives – in advance of the May Ball.’

  Before he can muster a reply there comes a further distraction; outside a gleaming midnight blue Aston Martin slides into view. Lawrence Melling rises athletically from the driver’s seat and walks around to stand beside the passenger door. It seems to Skelgill he makes eye contact with Lord Bullingdon and gives a faint nod. In the landowner’s shoes he would be tempted to interpret it as a sign of insubordination. Lord Bullingdon clears his throat somewhat ominously.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Oh, Teddy Bear – I offered Lawrence a lift. He has some business with the gunsmith in Cockermouth.’ The woman reaches forward and places a calming hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘But I must dash. The county await my presence. Mwah – mwah.’ She ducks in with rapid air kisses, and he sways belatedly. She steps lightly away, but pauses before Skelgill and meets his gaze. With a shrewd smile she glides from the office.

  Amidst a stilted silence Skelgill watches as she approaches Lawrence Melling. The man reaches to open the car door, but she evidently says something; he clearly adjusts his intention and climbs into the passenger seat himself. She takes the driver’s side and a moment later the car surges away.

  ‘I should never have put her on the darned insurance, dammit!’

  But now Lord Bullingdon seems to become aware of those around him – and he looks distinctly like he wishes he were not there. He turns brusquely to Daphne Bullingdon.

  ‘Where the hell’s Julian got to? I haven’t seen him since breakfast. He was complaining about there being a surfeit of devilled kidneys and a dearth of mushrooms.’

  Daphne Bullingdon visibly steels herself in order to answer.

  ‘He’s working on his entomological survey, Daddy. He says there’s only a short window of opportunity – at this time of year – for the orange tip butterfly.’

  ‘Pah – darned fool.’ He glares at Skelgill and then his colleagues, as if wondering who they are. ‘If a man doesn’t want to shoot, he could at least get a proper job in the City. Tantamount to treason. Leaving a woman to fill his shoes. Pah!’

  He storms out, waving a dismissive hand, which may be aimed at his daughter. By clear inference the circumstances of succession are not working out to his satisfaction. DS Jones manages to attract Skelgill’s eye, and gestures to her wrist. He nods, and addresses the preoccupied Daphne Bullingdon, her soured expression ironically a virtual carbon copy of her father’s.

  ‘Madam – we’ve got about twenty minutes before we need to leave. My colleagues will take some details from you.’ He brandishes the leaflet, still opened out to display the map of th
e estate. ‘I’ll just have a quick wander, if you don’t object.’

  His inflection does not in fact invite opposition, and he makes for the exit, but in any event the young woman is obliging.

  ‘Be my guest, Inspector.’ She scuttles ahead of him, to hold open the door. ‘And be assured that I shall conduct a thorough investigation into this matter. I shall not rest until I get to the bottom of it.’

  Skelgill conjectures that behind the lopsided Bullingdon countenance resides a dogged resolve that could one day prove to be the nemesis of some antagonist. He nods befittingly and takes his leave.

  When his colleagues return to his car, parked before the old hall they are a little surprised to find him apparently napping in the driver’s seat, the window rolled down. DS Leyton slaps a hand on the roof – a little more rudely than he perhaps intends – and Skelgill’s eyes jerk open.

  ‘Forty winks, Guv?’

  ‘I was thinking, Leyton.’

  His superior is plainly irked, but DS Leyton continues as though it is of no concern to him.

  ‘I could do with a spot of Bo Peep myself, Guv – the littlun had us up in the middle of the night, teething the missus reckons.’

  Skelgill looks like he has little concept of what his sergeant might be talking about, and still in something of a stupor he starts up the engine and, his colleagues on board, he pulls away without offering a rejoinder. As they skirt the expanse of lawn with its great topiary chess set they spy a youngish dark-haired man upon a high stepladder, clipping with garden shears at the limits of his reach.

  ‘That don’t look very – ’

  Before DS Leyton can complete his analysis – presumably with “safe” or “stable” or other such adjective – the ladder begins to wobble and the man, making an early decision to take charge of his fate jettisons the shears and leaps backwards into mid air. It must be a good six-foot drop from the level of his boots to the ground, and he sprawls face down upon the closely mown turf. However, what at first seems like a successful escape manoeuvre – as he begins to raise himself up on all fours – is summarily thwarted when the stepladder, having rocked towards the yew, now rebounds and topples completely, flooring him with a blow to the base of his skull.