Murder at Dead Crags Page 6

  Though she likens him to the multi-tasking protagonist of the eponymous movie, a clichéd figure of fun in rural parts (and apposite given his dual role as rescuer and policeman), Skelgill’s ego chooses to interpret the allusion as a direct compliment. Now he must play down his greatness.

  ‘It wasn’t exactly an abseil – and you wouldn’t normally have got a helicopter.’ He shrugs casually. ‘We’d just stretchered a climber off Scafell Pike and taken him to Carlisle. On another day the chopper could have been two hundred miles away.’

  ‘I was really just hoping for advice with a bearing – but then my battery died.’

  ‘Did you have a compass?’

  ‘I’m afraid I was trusting to the app on my phone – but the data signal was intermittent and I got all sorts of wonky readings.’

  Skelgill is wearing a thermal base layer beneath his shirt, and now he hooks a finger into the turtle neck and draws out a grubby length of nylon cord to which is tied a small rectangle of transparent plastic – a field compass – and an alloy mountain whistle.

  ‘Essential kit – as important as your boots – no battery needed.’

  She bows in deference to his expertise.

  ‘Inspector – anywhere else I should have gone prepared – I even have avalanche reflectors built into my jacket – but, in spite of my accent, I first climbed Grasmoor when I was knee-high to a grasshopper – I thought I couldn’t go wrong.’

  There is a degree of consternation in Skelgill’s expression. Her explanation is reasonable, if not entirely an excuse; however it also contains a piece of information – the implication that she does not recall him from her childhood. His features harden.

  ‘You still could have walked off Dove Crags – then we’d have been bringing you down on a stretcher, if you were lucky.’

  She lowers her eyes and again bites her lip in contrition – it is a ploy that causes Skelgill to relent.

  ‘How did thee get down, lass?’

  She glances up in surprise: that he has suddenly lapsed into the vernacular.

  ‘I waited at the summit – I squatted in the lee of the stone shelter – I thought another walker might appear. But after a while I got a faint glimpse of the sun – I guessed it was about 2pm – I knew if I went carefully due north I could descend into Gasgale Gill – and then follow Liza Beck to our packhorse bridge.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow – but it is a grudging recognition of her competence – and at least she had ventured out adequately clothed – albeit she hardly looks strong enough to have battled through deepening drifts and swirling squalls.

  She may detect that such matters of practicality sidetrack him – for now she seizes the initiative and brings the exchange full circle.

  ‘So you see, Inspector – I said I was Rowena Devlin without really thinking about it. I suppose it’s a lot easier to shout out in the midst of a blizzard – and to be honest, for work purposes I mainly go by it these days – it’s quite a relief after being saddled for thirty-odd years with a real name like mine, I can tell you.’

  Skelgill regards her broodingly – she has a point, at least. And now she takes advantage of this little hiatus to address her own concerns. She looks imploringly to Skelgill and then to DS Jones and back.

  ‘Is my great uncle’s death really a murder?’

  That the family came straight to their own conclusions has not yet received any corroboration from the police – but now Skelgill breaks the embargo.

  ‘It’s hard to see it any other way, madam.’ This abrupt switch to formality – to madam – plainly discomforts him, but there is the matter of professional distance. ‘The autopsy has confirmed he was struck before he fell.’

  The woman is silent for a moment. She is not outwardly distressed, but her demeanour is one of helplessness – that something has been taken from her.

  ‘He was alive and kicking when I last saw him.’ She shakes her head ruefully. ‘At his cantankerous best.’

  ‘When was that, madam?’

  ‘Just before lunch – it must have been 11:40, thereabouts.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  ‘In his study – I went to see him.’

  ‘What for?’

  She smiles in a considered way.

  ‘You might say I received the imperial summons, Inspector.’

  She hesitates; Skelgill is impatient.

  ‘What did he want?’

  Now she shakes her head – perhaps a demonstration that she herself is still a little bemused.

  ‘To give me a dressing down, it would seem.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘My books, Inspector.’ She grins self-consciously. ‘I’m a writer?’

  Skelgill makes a faint inclination of his head to confirm that he knows this. He looks pointedly at DS Jones – for the first time properly acknowledging her participation – and now only for the purposes of passing the buck, so to speak – for plainly he expects her to be informed on the subject of Rowena Devlin’s literary output, should the need arise. DS Jones folds her arms. Skelgill turns back to Perdita, who is observing this little exchange with some interest.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘It seems I am in danger of invoking the family curse – he said I am my mother’s daughter – even if I don’t know it – he called me a witch.’ Now she folds her hands upon her bare knees and leans forwards in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘On reflection I think he meant it as a statement of fact rather than an insult.’

  That the course of the conversation has taken an unexpected, even surreal turn, robs Skelgill of any familiar landmark to guide his next question. He glances expectantly at DS Jones, but she seems determined to withhold her reaction. However, Perdita begins to elaborate of her own volition.

  ‘I don’t imagine you have read any of my novels, Inspector,’ (she does not wait for confirmation) ‘but I write romantic historical fiction – I write about the plantations and slaves and their masters and mistresses in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.’

  Skelgill is seated with his forearms resting upon his thighs, and now he regards his fingers as they entwine. He might be reflecting that there are sufficient digits to count the novels he has read – or, at least, started.

  ‘Inspector, if Great Uncle Declan were to be believed then back in the mists of time the O’Mores had a hand in such events – and that one of our more ruthless forbears double-crossed an African slave trader – who in turn enlisted his tribal witch doctor to lay a curse upon the family.’

  Now her accented eyes narrow in a decidedly feline manner.

  ‘Great Uncle Declan claimed the curse strikes among every generation – that my mother was the most recent victim.’ Her eyes suddenly widen and she opens her palms as though she is appealing to the detectives that they should believe her. ‘I have researched plantation society in the British and Irish colonies – but I have never come across anything in the family history that suggests such a connection.’

  Skelgill grins somewhat inanely.

  ‘Happen there’s your next plot.’

  She regards him pensively.

  ‘To be truthful, Inspector – I was thinking just that. Until –’

  ‘Until what?’

  ‘Until – a couple of hours later – I became disoriented on a mountain I ought to know like the back of my hand.’

  ‘Even the shepherds struggle when they can’t see which way’s up.’

  ‘And then Great Uncle Declan dies?’ She looks imploringly from one detective to the other.

  But Skelgill is unwilling to entertain this line of speculation. His face is the mask of a man who suspects he is being sold a tin of snake oil, albeit a by a salesperson whom he finds far from objectionable. He sits upright and folds his arms, and manifestly composes his features.

  ‘I believe his collection of books is valuable.’

  Perdita is quick to react to this change of tack; and her tone is cooperative.

  ‘I’m su
re it is, Inspector. It’s a life’s work.’

  ‘Did he say anything about it?’

  There is just the smallest hesitation while she brushes a strand of hair from her cheek.

  ‘Now you mention it... not directly – but he did ask if I still have my Bible.’

  ‘What’s the significance of that?’

  ‘Well – I don’t remember this, of course – but when I was Christened he gave it as a present – he did so for each of my siblings – a valuable illuminated antique edition.’

  ‘And do you still have it?’

  She nods – now she smiles sadly.

  ‘It has pride of place beside my bed.’

  ‘And what did he say about it?’

  ‘That was all, really – that was when he started to lecture me about my writing – he began to get agitated and shouted at me.’

  ‘How did you respond?’

  ‘I’m afraid I swore at him and stormed out. I told him he was a feckin dinosaur.’ Now she combs the fingers of both hands through her hair, revealing small delicately pointed ears that contribute further to her elfin appearance. ‘I’ve got a bit of a temper, now. It was with good reason that the others used to call me Paddy and not Perdy when I was a wee girl.’

  Skelgill looks rather blank.

  ‘I thought feckin wasn’t considered as swearing.’

  ‘Well, to be sure – in Ireland it’s a regular minced oath – but it was the best compromise I could come up with at the time.’

  Skelgill inhales pensively.

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Great Uncle Declan? To be honest, Inspector – ridiculous as it might sound I didn’t really know him – I’ve only met him on a handful of occasions since my childhood – and then barely to have a conversation. I was only three when my parents died – after that it was always Grandpa Sean who hosted us when we came for the holidays. Great Uncle Declan kept to himself, and you might not see him for days – except perhaps at a distance, out in the grounds with his binoculars.’

  Skelgill seems more comfortable with this line of interrogation.

  ‘So you left him, what time was that?’

  ‘I was only at his study for a few minutes, Inspector – I should say, 11:50.’

  ‘Did you see Thwaites?’

  Now she appears puzzled.

  ‘I don’t believe I did – though you never know when he’s secreted himself in that butler’s pantry of his – Grandpa Sean used to tease us that there were spyholes and secret passageways – so the adults always knew what mischief you were up to.’

  Skelgill follows her gaze as she turns to look at an oil painting hung to one side of the chimney breast. It is a full length rendering of a youngish man dressed in the manner of a country squire, with tweeds and a shotgun and a dog at his heel, a backdrop of forested fells that Skelgill does not recognise. The legend, hand painted on a brass nameplate, states ‘Padraig Willoughby O’More, 1878-1949’. It is Perdita’s great grandfather, a figure to whom she bears no great resemblance – except perhaps the dark eyes, which Skelgill scrutinises as if he half expects them to blink as a silent watcher lurks behind the wainscot.

  ‘So, how come you’re Irish?’

  His question suggests his musings have been clambering about in the family tree.

  ‘I’m one of those people for whom nationality is more difficult to define. My parents were English, naturally. Indeed, on the O’More side I don’t think our branch has been born Irish for ten or more generations.’ Now she grins rather impishly. ‘But my mother contrived to be staying in Dublin with a distant cousin when I put in an unscheduled appearance. So I dropped a little anchor there. To be sure, much of my childhood was in London – but at eighteen I returned to Ireland to read English literature at Trinity. I’ve lived in Dublin ever since – fifteen years altogether now, Inspector.’

  It would be like Skelgill to be mulling over the respective merits of Britain and Ireland, and indeed his rejoinder confirms such.

  ‘What do you reckon to it over here?’

  His question, however, is ambiguous, for he could refer to the entire island of Great Britain, or to the more finite estate of Crummock Hall, or to anything on a sliding scale in between – England, Cumbria, The Lake District, the Vale of Lorton – but Perdita chooses to interpret his meaning as their present locus.

  ‘I shudder to think of the upkeep, Inspector – but it’s a house that holds a deep attraction for me – in spite of everything.’

  Skelgill nods – as if he appreciates the rider. His manner becomes sympathetic.

  ‘What will happen to the place now?’

  ‘In what respect, Inspector?’

  Skelgill pauses as he chooses his words.

  ‘Your family solicitor told me about Sir Sean’s will.’

  ‘Oh – I see.’ She meets his inquiring gaze with convincing inscrutability. ‘I don’t know what will happen, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Don’t you have to decide, as a family?’

  Now she nods compliantly.

  ‘On Saturday at dinner there was a lively debate, Inspector. Rather too lively – we agreed to postpone proceedings until Sunday night – but then of course there was Great Uncle Declan’s death. Martius has proposed we each think about it and reconvene – in order to reach a consensus.’

  ‘What’s your vote?’

  Skelgill’s question is to the point. Accordingly there is something guarded about the way she allows her hair to fall across her face, forming a partial veil. Her tone becomes somewhat detached.

  ‘It would be a shame to see the old hall go out of the family after three hundred years.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  Now she shrugs and inhales slowly, and lets out a small sigh.

  ‘It’s a matter of practicality, Inspector – they’ve forged their careers, made their lives – they’re tied to London and its environs – nor has any of us been groomed, “to the manor born” – as the saying goes. It has always felt like Grandpa Sean and Great Uncle Declan would go on forever.’

  Skelgill might be expected to press for her siblings’ stated preferences – but there are times when he is obstinate if it means revealing something of his hand – and perhaps for this reason he changes tack.

  ‘What are your plans?’

  She glances at DS Jones – and for a moment her eyes linger upon the younger woman’s athletic form – and then she turns her gaze back upon Skelgill.

  ‘Well, to be sure, now – I was going to ask your advice, Inspector.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘You see, I’ve driven from Dublin – I came by car ferry to Liverpool. We’re assuming there will be a funeral for Great Uncle Declan at the end of the week. I’d no sooner get home than I’d need to come back – so I was thinking I might as well stay.’ She presses her palms together in the manner of prayer, and regards him with a supplicating stare. ‘If you feel it is safe?’

  Skelgill’s posture stiffens just perceptibly. Her coyness aside, it is a challenging question: should he advise her to remain alone in this great rambling mansion where a murder has just been committed and no suspect identified?

  ‘You might find it more agreeable down at the inn at Buttermere – I could have a quiet word with the landlord if they’re busy with bookings – or I know folk hereabouts who’d open their B&B for you.’

  Perdita responds with a gracious smile and a flicker of her lashes. It would appear to be an acceptance of his offer.

  ‘I should like to do something for you, Inspector.’ She sees uncertainty cloud Skelgill’s eyes and qualifies her statement. ‘For the mountain rescue – if you would recommend what would be an adequate donation for the trouble I caused – perhaps I could give you a cheque – if I could see you for a few moments before you depart?’

  Skelgill is conscious of DS Jones’s gaze upon him. He sweeps back his hair with the fingers of his left and then tugs at the knees of his trousers as he rises. It seems he is ready to conclude th
e interview.

  ‘The team’s funded by the generosity of the public – they’d have my guts for garters if I don’t take your hand off.’

  ‘Inspector, then I shall trust your bite is not as sharp as your bark.’

  6. MARTIUS – Monday 10.45am

  ‘Reckon I was hard on her, Jones?’

  DS Jones breaks away from her examination of the clock in the late Declan Thomas O’More’s study. Such soul-searching is not a sentiment she would normally associate with Skelgill, however minor. He has his back to her as he peruses the bookshelves that line the opposite wall.

  ‘Perdita? Not really, Guv – I would have said the opposite – especially considering what she said about the argument – and her temper – and that she’s the only person other than the butler who admits to seeing Declan yesterday.’

  Skelgill appears reluctant to turn face about. He continues to stare at the rows of books, and folds his arms. He and DS Jones have ducked under the police tape in the hallway and entered with the key obtained from the safekeeping of DS Leyton. It seems that Skelgill wanted to inspect the clock before enlightening his colleague. Now she is apprised of his conundrum: that despite the forensic photographer’s unequivocal image of the old timepiece stopped at 12 noon, when Skelgill arrived the hands (he swears) were pointing to 2 o’clock. If only he had photographed it as well as the logbook. Slowly and deliberately he places a finger on the spine of a Wainwright, as though by touching it he makes some psychic connection.

  ‘Fact is, Jones – we’ve got her distress call logged at 1:45 – plus we’d used a search and rescue app to get her grid reference – so the pilot knew where to drop us. If 2 o’clock is the real time of the murder, she was the best part of an hour’s yomp away – and that’s on a summer’s day.’

  DS Jones regards her boss uneasily.

  ‘Are you certain, Guv? I mean – 2 o’clock could easily look like ten past twelve – or even just twelve at a glance.’

  Now Skelgill spins on his heel. There is a wild cast in his eyes and though he glares in the direction of his colleague he seems to see straight through her.