Murder at Dead Crags Read online

  Now she regards him rather coyly.

  ‘Third, actually.’ She tips her head briefly to one side – it is a gesture of mea culpa – and raises her glass in a ‘cheers’ motion. ‘I don’t mind admitting – in town it’s a name that opens doors – and comes with an account at Harrods – so I’ve hung onto this one – if not the husband.’ She winks ostentatiously, and the detectives would be forgiven for thinking the cocktail is not her first of the morning.

  ‘You’re more at home in London.’

  Skelgill’s remark is bland, but she looks puzzled – as if she has never seriously considered the idea.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – when I think back to our salad days. Nanny read us Swallows and Amazons and we believed it was about us.’ She turns earnestly to DS Jones – politely acknowledging that she is the newcomer to the situation. ‘Until the accident: a rather unpalatable dose of reality. And such bad luck – Daddy came so rarely.’

  There is a silence, until Skelgill finds a few words of commiseration.

  ‘Can’t have been easy – for children to understand.’

  She tosses her hair and simultaneously closes her eyes, as if the action will dislodge a long-filed memory.

  ‘In some respects it was not so difficult. I was only seven and had already been despatched to prep school. Up until then I saw more of Nanny than my parents – what with Mummy treading the boards so successfully, she was often working away. And Daddy was home even less so – he had an apartment near his office and a regular seat on Concorde.’

  Skelgill is gnawing pensively at a thumbnail.

  ‘What happened after – the accident?’

  ‘In spite of this place the O’Mores were forever on their uppers – while the Regulus clan had oodles of cash. So we were nominally brought up in London under the eye of a maiden aunt – though a good part of the year was spent at boarding school. We still came here for summer – but there arrives the day when the lure of London society trumps the joy of squelching about in soggy wellingtons – notwithstanding the local attractions.’

  Now she casts a conspiratorial glance at DS Jones, who in turn looks at Skelgill – but he is pretending to read the notes, and indeed rather disjointedly he jumps to matters of the present.

  ‘Your great uncle was definitely attacked. Can you think of any reason why someone might have done that?’

  ‘Miss Scarlett with a candlestick in the study.’

  Her glib retort catches him off guard. He looks up with a jolt, but Cassandra is already sipping demurely at her drink, a mischievous glint in her eye.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Well – the study is correct, at least – but, seriously, Inspector,’ (she puts emphasis upon his title) ‘I haven’t a clue – aren’t you the expert in these parts? Surely you have a suitable village idiot you can scapegoat?’

  Skelgill deposits the photograph and notes on the coffee table and sits back rather woodenly.

  ‘Happen we haven’t ruled that out.’ He darts a sideways look at DS Jones, as if he seeks corroboration. ‘But there’s no evidence it was an intruder, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then I suggest you look among the domestics – Thwaites has always been a shifty character.’ But she makes a doubting click of her tongue. ‘Though he hardly has the strength to mix a gin and tonic – so he might be eliminated. However, I don’t imagine the prospect of Great Uncle Declan as master of the hall filled the staff with glee, no matter how short lived his tenure was to be.’

  Her somewhat blasé acceptance of the idea that the crime is an ‘inside job’ is in marked contrast to her elder brother’s indignation, and seems to contribute further to Skelgill’s unusually tense manner.

  ‘What will become of the place now?’

  She appears surprised that he asks this, and regards him more closely, as though she suspects some disingenuousness on his part.

  ‘Oh – we have to decide – don’t you know? Stick or twist.’

  He looks rather pained.

  ‘And what’s your inclination?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not the gambler in the family.’ She chuckles mysteriously. ‘But it doesn’t matter what I think, Inspector – I’m sure Martius will have his way – whatever that turns out to be.’

  Skelgill nods. He already has a good idea of what Martius Regulus-O’More thinks of the financial viability of Crummock Hall. Meanwhile Cassandra drains the last of her cocktail, and then slides the glass onto the table, a slow, deliberate movement that draws his eye. In bending forwards she exposes sufficient of her cleavage to suggest that her bra – if she even wears one – is of a decidedly low cut variety. Somewhat languidly she stretches and reclines into the sofa, like a cat that has determined to make itself comfortable beside the hearth. There is a healthy blaze burning in the grate and, while the room is cool, the radiated heat warms them. Skelgill is overdressed – although it may not be the sole cause of his flushed complexion.

  Indeed, now he rises and restores the photograph to its place on the grand piano by the window. He turns and rather formally addresses Cassandra.

  ‘I think that will be all for now.’

  Again he drops ‘Madam’ or ‘Miss’ or some version of her name, and she seems amused by this omission. With a degree of reluctance she rises and straightens her hem. She nods politely to DS Jones, and begins to move away from the settee, leaving her empty glass upon the table. She stops at the point of equidistance between the exit and Skelgill.

  ‘I shouldn’t imagine you have finished with me yet, Inspector.’

  Her tone hints at disappointment – and there is a certain regal insistence that she expects him to take her statement as a command. Skelgill clears his throat.

  ‘What are your travel plans?’

  She shrugs casually.

  ‘Oh, I expect Edgar has arranged the train up to London – though of course we shall need to return for the second funeral.’

  Skelgill nods – he seems a little relieved that she provides this get-out.

  ‘We’ll keep that in mind, then.’

  She smiles with satisfaction and gives a little bow of her head, maintaining eye contact as she slowly turns and drifts towards the door. She begins to hum a tune, and then – just before the click of the latch cuts her off – she breaks into song, a pleasant voice, clear, almost angelic – and there comes the line, “Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.”

  DS Jones glances at Skelgill; she catches his expression – at once sheepish and remorseful.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  Now he glowers and turns to stare out of the window.

  ‘Danny Boy.’

  8. THE TWINS – Monday 11.15am

  Skelgill’s first impression of Brutus is coloured by DS Jones’s reaction, which it is plain she tries to suppress. Shock and awe overtakes her features and she sinks onto the settee – whereupon she scrabbles for their papers and buries her head in an exaggerated pursuit of some point. Skelgill becomes immediately suspicious. Certainly the fellow is handsome, despite bearing something of the family resemblance – however, in contrast to his elder brother and sister his physiognomy is altogether more sculpted; beneath dark wavy hair worn boyishly, angled brows, high cheekbones and an aquiline nose combine with tanned skin and a carefully cultivated five-o’clock shadow to create a Mediterranean appearance. Yet it is a look strikingly offset by piercing powder-blue eyes that seem to penetrate the thoughts of those upon whom they settle. His physique is trim, his musculature revealed by informal but expensive attire, a skin-tight black merino pullover, and snug stressed skinny jeans that do not leave a great deal to the imagination. Despite heeled boots he is probably an inch or two below average height – but it is no impediment to his self-confidence, and he carries himself with a certain swaggering narcissism.

  Indeed, his natural expression is pre-set at the hint of a smirk, and it is thus that he regards DS Jones, while paying lip service to Skelgill’s introduction. Once seated, his gaze unashamedly wan
ders to appraise her, apparently intrigued that she could be a police officer. He is further amused when she wriggles out of her leather jacket and twists her slender waist to lay the garment over the back of the sofa. She fans herself with the sheaf of notes, and casts a resigned glance towards the hearth.

  It is possible, of course, that Skelgill’s antennae have become over-sensitised: engaging in quick succession with Perdita, Martius and then Cassandra he has ridden a testing rollercoaster – and first impressions of Brutus offer little prospect of respite. However, he seems more than content to follow the undulating pattern and dispense with any niceties as far as Brutus is concerned.

  ‘You gave Sergeant Leyton an account of your movements yesterday – basically that you were in bed until you went to the drawing room at 2.30pm.’

  Skelgill’s tone is loaded with doubt – but Brutus merely yawns, as if theatrically to illustrate his response.

  ‘I’m in the Guinness Book of Records for late afternoon lies, Inspector.’ He flashes an insouciant glance at DS Jones. ‘I imagine the lack of company eventually drove me downstairs.’

  Skelgill declines to acknowledge the lascivious insinuation.

  ‘So you’re not in a position to corroborate the movements of other members of the household – prior to the discovery of your great uncle’s body?’

  Brutus’s smirk extends upwards from the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Surely you wouldn’t expect me to snitch on one of my siblings?’

  ‘I’d expect you to tell me the truth, sir – it’s an offence to obstruct an investigation, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  ‘I am being facetious, Inspector – I don’t for a moment believe my family had anything to do with Great Uncle Declan’s death.’

  He leans forwards and regards Skelgill with a certain curiosity – as if he is assimilating the details of his character for a future role – a rather slow-witted country detective, blind to the shortcomings of his parochial existence.

  Skelgill obligingly conforms to this stereotype.

  ‘Who might you suggest then, sir?’

  Again there is a conspiratorial glance from Brutus at DS Jones – an invitation to join a game of bluff for their mutual entertainment. He flexes his biceps, and tilts backwards, hands behind his head, leaning against the threadbare silk antimacassar in order to contemplate the ornate ceiling – though its gilt paintwork is in need of restoration. Then he jerks upright, articulating at the waist, demonstrating impressive abdominal control. His features are quite transformed – perhaps it is the actor’s practised malleability – for now he presents a most forthcoming countenance, a little excited even.

  ‘What about old Gilhooley? I saw him and that hideous wife of his gloating from their pew at Grandpa Sean’s funeral – perhaps he thought he’d sneak in and finish the job. Wasn’t there a family feud – generations back?’

  Skelgill looks irked – and perhaps it can be deduced that here is a fragment of local knowledge of which he ought to be in possession (but is not). Indeed, his next question, couched with casual indifference, could be a crafty attempt to appear better informed.

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  Brutus gives a flick of his hair and grins at DS Jones; she responds with an encouraging nod.

  ‘As youngsters we were warned not to stray onto their land – up through the oak woods. The story rang like something out of Brothers Grimm – the old crone was barren and on the lookout for a child to misappropriate.’

  Skelgill shakes his head dismissively.

  ‘More likely you were told that because there’s a dangerous pit up there – Lanthwaite zinc mine. To scare you away.’

  Brutus shrugs nonchalantly.

  ‘Well, I rather liked the notion of a gingerbread house – so the threat was counterproductive as far as I was concerned – much to Gerbil’s dismay.’

  At this unexplained reference – to Gerbil – Skelgill seems to register some recognition; however he declines to become sidetracked.

  ‘And if it’s not the Gilhooleys?’

  Now Brutus reiterates what is emerging as the family line.

  ‘I buy into Mart’s random intruder theory – what other explanation could there be? Aggravated burglary, you call it, I believe?’

  ‘There’s no indication of anything being taken.’

  ‘Perhaps the fellow panicked before he could bag the O’More silver plate.’

  ‘The evidence points to your great uncle as the target.’

  Brutus tosses his head rather indifferently.

  ‘He was a reclusive old stick – it’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to bump him off.’

  ‘What did you do yesterday afternoon?’

  Brutus unhurriedly settles back into the sofa and folds his hands upon his stomach. It is the demeanour of a diner, replete having consumed a sumptuous meal.

  ‘Of course – you arrived in some style not long after I had joined the others.’ He squints at Skelgill with affected admiration. ‘We decided we no longer needed the protection of Mart and his gun – so I hopped into bed with Cassie.’

  A flicker of disapproval creases Skelgill’s features, which seems further to please Brutus.

  ‘To keep warm, naturally.’ He winks at DS Jones. ‘This old place gives one the shivers at the best of times – and Cassie has commandeered the only electric blanket. Not to mention the brandy. A conjunction of kindred spirits, one might say.’

  Skelgill regards him obdurately.

  ‘I believe you’re travelling back to London by train with your elder sister and twin brother?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt Gerbil has it all arranged – seating plan and all.’ He pouts, as though he is bored by this idea. ‘But I am considering otherwise.’

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  Languorously Brutus stretches out his legs before him, admiring his own form – then he glances sharply at DS Jones and catches her watching him. She averts her eyes and he smirks with satisfaction.

  ‘Oh – I’m resting until late January – London’s one big party in the run-up to Christmas – I might give the old liver a break and stick around for a while.’ He looks pointedly at DS Jones. ‘See what I’ve been missing all these years.’

  Skelgill’s expression has been progressively darkening, but now he is distracted by a tentative knock on the door, followed by the appearance around its edge of the anxious-looking face of DS Leyton.

  ‘Sorry, Guv – word in your shell-like?’

  Skelgill hesitates. Then he begins to rise, and glares at DS Jones. Without excusing himself he stalks across the room and exits, keeping hold of the handle and pulling the door not quite to behind him. DS Leyton hovers close by.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Thought I should let you know, Guv.’ DS Leyton clears his throat and inhales rather wheezily, as though he has come along at a lick and has yet to recover his breath.

  ‘I’ve had Thwaites looking around in the study – like you said.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Nothing gone what you’d call valuable – not that he’ll admit to – but there is one thing.’

  Skelgill is agitated and not properly concentrating. He cocks an ear to the crack in the door, for voices now emanate from within.

  ‘Get to the point, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton wipes his brow but it is more of a nervous tic.

  ‘Seems old Declan kept a favourite walking stick beside the garden door of his study.’ DS Leyton has his notebook in one hand and now he refers briefly to it. ‘Antique – made from the root of sandalwood. Thwaites reckons he called it his shillelagh – Irish, know what I mean? Just the ticket for bashing someone’s brains in. And it ain’t there, Guv.’

  Skelgill, still trying to eavesdrop, is forced to pay full attention to DS Leyton.

  ‘What about Forensics?’

  His question might seem oblique, but he refers to a small arsenal of ancient weapons removed from the walls of Crummock Hall for testing, sh
ould they reveal fingerprints or traces of blood and DNA. The act was perhaps optimistic – it seems improbable that a murderer might have returned his weapon to its display.

  ‘I just called ’em – they’ve drawn a blank on the gear they took. Odds on it’s the shillelagh, Guv?’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘We’re talking needle and haystack until this snow melts.’

  DS Leyton nods glumly.

  ‘Even worse if it’s sunk in the lake, Guv.’

  ‘Leyton –’

  A burst of laughter from the drawing room diverts Skelgill from an unjust (and perhaps misinformed) rebuke of his sergeant for his stupidity concerning the relative densities of sandalwood and water. Instead he begins to push open the door and back away.

  ‘You know what we’re looking for, Leyton.’

  ‘Righto, Guv – what shall I tell –’

  But Skelgill turns and re-enters the drawing room. His alarm intensifies – for DS Jones is standing alongside Brutus before the hearth, and the pair step apart for all the world as though they have just taken a selfie, and that DS Jones is surreptitiously slipping her mobile phone into her back pocket. Her cheeks seem to colour, but Brutus shows no such discomfiture, and indeed saunters to intercept Skelgill.

  ‘I was just telling your colleague,’ he bows and makes something of an ostentatious sweep of the hand in the direction of DS Jones, ‘Emma – that should you ever be in town and wish to get tickets for the West End, I have some exceptionally reliable connections – all above board, naturally – and tables at the top restaurants.’

  While he beams widely, Skelgill cannot conceal his displeasure – that Brutus has induced DS Jones to introduce herself – but before he can fashion some appropriate complaint the man melodramatically launches into a suggestion.

  ‘One can’t help drawing the parallel between our situation and The Mousetrap.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I refer not to the anti-rodent device – but to the Christie play, of course. A gathering entombed by the snow in a great country house – the dramatic arrival on skis of the local police detective.’