Murder at Dead Crags Read online

  Skelgill senses he is being filibustered – but before he can muster a response Brutus makes a telling quip.

  ‘And we all know who did that one, don’t we?’

  This draws a compliant chuckle from DS Jones, and Brutus glances at her rather proprietorially. Skelgill, for his part, simply bristles – and, if he has any more questions, puts them into abeyance. He folds his arms and draws himself up to his full height, as if to emphasise his advantage in this minor respect.

  ‘An important piece of information has just reached us.’ He inclines his head in the direction of the door. ‘I shall need to discuss this with Detective Sergeant Jones.’ His enunciation of her title carries extra stress.

  Brutus understands he is being dismissed. However, he nods gracefully at Skelgill, as though acknowledging the officer’s profound thanks for his assistance – and bows again to DS Jones, who stands a little unbalanced, cross-legged and with her hands behind her back. To Skelgill’s eye she appears to respond with a flutter of her lashes.

  As soon as Brutus has left the room and closed the door behind him, Skelgill rounds to face his colleague. He thrusts his hands into his pockets and glares at her as though he expects her to wilt beneath his gaze. But though she is certainly red-faced there is some stronger urge that gets the better of her.

  ‘Guv – you know who that is?’

  ‘Aye. Brutus Regulus-O’More. Smarmy little git.’

  But DS Jones is undeterred by Skelgill’s antagonism.

  ‘You must have heard of Owain Jagger?’

  ‘I’ve heard of owing money.’

  It is plain he is being uncooperative, and DS Jones smiles patiently.

  ‘He plays the heartthrob in the new TV adaptation of Empty Hollow – he’s been on all the chat-shows – he’s all over the media – the magazines – and the newspapers.’

  Skelgill glowers disparagingly.

  ‘Not the Angling Times, he’s not.’

  *

  If Edgar Regulus-O’More is not actually smaller than his identical twin Brutus, then here is a phenomenon that would fascinate the psychologists: that persona alone can manifest itself in physical impression. Where Brutus exudes a powerful aura of suave self-confidence, projecting his presence upon those around him, Edgar is but a pale shadow of his photogenic brother, a sterile doppelganger stripped of make-up, wig and costume. Thus, while Skelgill is no great student of character – preferring to judge people on what they do, rather than what they pretend – the stereotypes of actor and accountant must seem apposite.

  The man wears a grey business suit that is a tad too roomy – off-the-peg when he could surely afford bespoke? – and wire-framed NHS-style spectacles with circular lenses. His features certainly match those of his twin, but his complexion is wan and his countenance lifeless, his eyes less piercing. But the most striking contrast is that he ignores the presence of DS Jones entirely.

  He perches upon the edge of the settee in a way that makes the onlooker feel uncomfortable – like a person who keeps on a coat indoors. He chooses the position directly opposite Skelgill, and a silence descends upon the trio. Edgar stares, unblinking. His only movement is the twitching of his fingers – nails bitten short – upon his knees. It would not at this moment seem untoward if he were suddenly to blurt out, “I did it – I murdered my great uncle.”

  Into this stand off, Skelgill rolls a little hand grenade.

  ‘Why do they call you Gerbil?’

  Edgar’s features are now revealed to be capable of hidden depths of expression, contorting as though he literally swallows some bitter pill. For a fleeting moment there is a much closer likeness to his twin. His fingers pinch into the cloth of his trousers.

  ‘It is not they, Inspector – it is Brutus – the others let it drop twenty-five years ago.’

  Skelgill leans forwards with interest, and this action is sufficient to encourage Edgar to continue.

  ‘It was when we were at prep school in Surrey. I was aged about seven. Despite our academic differences they always placed us in the same form.’ He sniffs dismissively, his gaze fixed on the table between them. ‘One day Brutus and I were given permission to play with the class pet. Two pupils, and one... gerbil.’ He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘The equation doesn’t resolve – small mammals being indivisible, unlike whole numbers.’ He removes his spectacles and rubs an eye with the heel of one hand. ‘We lifted the lid of the cage and simultaneously made a grab for the creature as it darted from its lair. Brutus has always been damned careless. I got the body. Brutus got the tail. Except he wouldn’t let go.’

  At this juncture DS Jones – perhaps still star-struck, and thus not fully in command of her faculties – is unable to suppress an involuntary giggle. Edgar affects not to notice. Skelgill, meanwhile, is more interested in the outcome of the tug-of-war.

  ‘So what – the tail came off?’

  Edgar nods helplessly.

  ‘I don’t mean the entire structure – the bone – but the sheath of skin and fur was stripped clean away – in a split second.’

  ‘Aye – it would be a natural defence against predators.’

  Edgar regards Skelgill with what is a look of gratitude.

  ‘Precisely, Inspector – in time it grew back – but can you believe we were both caned for that? I – caned for my brother’s selfishness.’

  His resentment is plain for all to see – but his story does not end here. There is the legacy.

  ‘The caning lasted five minutes and my buttocks were raw for a week. However, Brutus contrived to tar me with the brush of his misdeed – and the epithet Gerbil. It was a nickname that quickly gained traction and he made sure it stuck. I had to carry it all through my school years – and to this day he resurrects it whenever he can.’

  Skelgill creases his brow in sympathy, and spreads his palms in a way to suggest there is a silver lining – but it is his hunter’s instinct at play.

  ‘At least you did catch the actual gerbil, sir.’

  For a moment Edgar appears annoyed – that Skelgill has missed the overarching point and prefers to champion a pyrrhic victory. But, as DS Leyton has noted, Edgar is the least combative among the Regulus-O’More clan, and after a little consideration he nods ruefully. Skelgill, meanwhile, stares blankly at him (which must be disconcerting) – but in fact he replays distant memories: of Lakeland summer days, the long school vacation, when he would observe from some heathery hidey hole or treetop vantage point as the children played a game of tag or rounders or unruly clacking croquet, calling one another’s names aloud – diminutives as they have been employing during these interviews: Mart or Marty, Cass or Cassie, Perdy, and Teddy for Edgar – but, yes, there was the occasional shrill, “Gerbil you’re pathetic!” yelled out in a boy’s treble. Brutus.

  ‘You were first to find the body, sir.’

  It is a statement rather than a question – but Edgar jolts and seems to shrink into himself. His rejoinder is hasty.

  ‘No – no, Inspector – the others were before me. Martius and Cassandra were there with Thwaites.’

  Skelgill looks baffled and gathers up the notes and glances cursorily at the top page, affecting to read.

  ‘Aye – my mistake – that’s right – that fits in with what the others said. Did they call you directly?’

  Edgar shakes his head.

  ‘I heard raised voices – I have set up office in the attic room of the tower – I went down to investigate.’

  ‘And what did you see – what were they doing?’

  Edgar has replaced his glasses and now he pushes them back onto the bridge of his nose with a forefinger.

  ‘It looked just like a scene from a murder mystery play – the three of them froze as I entered – Cassandra was clinging on to Martius – Thwaites was holding onto the edge of the desk as if he were disoriented. I saw Great Uncle Declan lying spread-eagled – I said I would telephone for an ambulance and turned away – you can’t ring out from the extensions in the roo
ms. Martius shouted after me – to make it the police – that he was dead.’

  ‘You didn’t check, sir?’

  Edgar is not expecting this suggestion.

  ‘I took Martius’s word for it.’ A looks of alarm grips his features. ‘He was dead?’

  From deep in his repertoire Skelgill pulls another of his bewildering facial expressions.

  ‘The autopsy puts the time of death at around noon.’

  ‘Noon?’ Edgar is further confused. ‘But – I thought –’

  Skelgill waits but Edgar is not forthcoming. DS Jones recognises that Skelgill is playing some sort of game – but she finds the silence disconcerting and begins to scribble methodically. Edgar at last pays her some attention and glances worriedly in her direction, but she holds the notebook upright and he cannot see that she is merely doodling, florally embellishing the words ‘Empty Hollow’. Eventually Skelgill breaks the impasse.

  ‘You thought what, sir?’

  Edgar looks again at Skelgill; for a second he seems startled to find himself being interviewed.

  ‘Well – I assumed – that it had just happened – that he must have cried out – for help.’

  ‘Thinking back, to earlier on – you didn’t hear anything unusual, sir?’

  Edgar folds his arms and concentrates his thoughts; once more he focuses upon the table before him.

  ‘It’s three flights up to the attic in the tower. My door was closed – and I have been employing a rather noisy electric fan heater. If the study door were also closed – the sound would have a good distance to travel – the hall, the staircase, and a thick oak door at either end.’

  ‘And you went to lunch at – what – 12 noon?’

  Edgar still has his eyes downcast. He looks like he wishes there were an alternative to this inauspicious time of day.

  ‘I knew the buffet would be laid out from midday – I had intended to take a plate back upstairs – but I got into conversation with Fergal Mullarkey.’

  Skelgill casts a cursory glance over DS Leyton’s briefing notes – they have this information, of course, although Edgar does not protest the repetition, unlike elder brother Martius.

  ‘What about after you rang 999? What did you do then?’

  ‘Your Sergeant Leyton called back. He advised that we lock the study and gather together. It seemed to be sensible advice. We all went to the drawing room. We had known since morning that we were cut off by the snow – there had been a message from the gamekeeper that the lane was impassable. But you came within minutes – we weren’t expecting that.’

  ‘So then what happened?’

  Now Edgar glances up. He must wonder that Skelgill is asking him about the period when he was himself present. But, of course, having ascertained there was no imminent danger Skelgill had promptly made for the study.

  ‘Everyone began to drift away. Martius said he had work to do – and Fergal Mullarkey the same – so I felt it was reasonable to return to my own administration.’

  Skelgill regards him evenly. While Edgar looks to a small degree apologetic, his emotional reaction equates roughly to that of a person coming upon a road accident: a certain human empathy, but no great vested interest. Mysteriously, he seems to divine Skelgill’s perspective, and offers an excuse.

  ‘It wasn’t as though any of us really knew the man – Great Uncle Declan – and once you arrived we realised the attacker must be gone – that we were safe to return to our own devices.’

  He looks at Skelgill in a rather submissive manner – as one might regard a more competent elder brother. Skelgill, however, is unmoved by this minor adulation.

  ‘What made you think he was attacked?’

  Behind the lenses Edgar’s eyes widen.

  ‘But he was, surely?’

  ‘Aye – but how could you tell? It’s not uncommon for someone keel over and die from the impact injury.’

  ‘But – did I say attacked?’

  ‘When you called for assistance, you told the operator he’d been hit on the head.’

  Edgar looks confused – now he stares at Skelgill with a rather pained expression. Skelgill might imagine him as a seven-year-old stuttering before a stern schoolmaster, tucked behind his back an incomplete gerbil that gasps and kicks in his tight little fist, while Brutus (with Edgar’s ‘alibi’) is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Perhaps I said hit his head? Martius must have –’ He checks himself. ‘When Martius shouted to call the police they all began yelling – Cassandra and Thwaites – one of them may have given me the idea – Thwaites, I expect – he found the body. I probably put two and two together – I panicked and bolted for the telephone.’

  Skelgill holds fire for a few moments. His tone, if businesslike, has been neither aggressive nor accusatory.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Declan alive?’

  Edgar seems more comfortable with this line of inquiry.

  ‘As I told Sergeant Leyton – to the best of my recall, it was at the reading of the will – on Friday evening after the funeral.’

  ‘How was he then – how did he react?’

  ‘Well –’ Edgar seems perturbed – that he doesn’t know the answer to this. ‘I can’t honestly say that I noticed, Inspector. I mean – I took it for granted that he already knew – that my grandfather would have discussed it with him. It seemed the logical arrangement, since Great Uncle Declan had no heirs to confuse the situation.’

  ‘And what advice did you give him?’

  Edgar looks bemused.

  ‘I’m sorry – I’m not with you, Inspector.’

  ‘You being an accountant – didn’t he want your opinion?’

  ‘Oh – I see.’ The tension in his shoulders diminishes. ‘There is a firm of land agents – based in Cockermouth – I assume they handle the estate management and the accounts.’

  ‘That’ll be Foulsyke & Dodd.’

  Edgar does not reply. Skelgill looks pensive.

  ‘And what do you expect to become of the place?’

  Edgar understands he refers to the terms of the will.

  ‘I think it’s too early to say, Inspector.’

  ‘I gather you had a discussion on Saturday night.’

  Edgar is about to answer, and then he hesitates and makes a face of distaste. Now he chooses his words with evident care.

  ‘It was not constructive – and I felt disrespectful to Great Uncle Declan to be debating the future of the hall while he was still alive...’

  He tails off – for of course a change in the status quo quickly came to pass. However, Skelgill remains silent and in due course Edgar continues, his tone gaining an edge of bitterness.

  ‘But someone will always play devil’s advocate – just for the sheer hell of it.’

  Skelgill regards Edgar patiently. But it seems he has no more to add.

  ‘So who’s the troublemaker?’

  Edgar now backtracks.

  ‘Oh, it was a bit of a free-for-all – I couldn’t really say – on reflection there was probably too much wine consumed for it to be taken seriously.’

  ‘You must have a sense of which way the wind is blowing, sir? How about yourself, for instance?’

  Edgar looks patently uncomfortable.

  ‘I had not given it proper consideration – and now it has been overtaken by the death of Great Uncle Declan.’

  This would appear a reasonable get-out – but Skelgill is gently persistent.

  ‘Would you not fancy being the country squire?’

  Edgar glances with alarm at the papers that Skelgill casually brandishes, and then at DS Jones’s notebook – as if he suspects they have compiled some secret dossier on him.

  ‘I have a thriving practice in Hampstead, Inspector.’

  Skelgill nods accommodatingly, but he must register that the reply skirts his question. He consults his wristwatch – the time is getting on – and perhaps he wonders if very shortly Thwaites will bang the gong, or whatever he does to signal that luncheon is s
erved. A man must eat, and Skelgill more often than most. Additionally, he has plans that will be better served by some mode of refuelling. As he rises, a little stiffly, Edgar is watchful, and takes this cue that the interview is concluding. He mirrors Skelgill’s action and gets to his feet, and eagerly offers a palm. Skelgill grudgingly accepts, but now it his turn to be disconcerted, for Edgar prolongs a rather limp handshake. In prematurely detaching himself, Skelgill perhaps feels obliged to offer a parting crumb.

  ‘Happen the coroner will release the body today – so you can tell the others – and make plans for the funeral.’

  Edgar looks pleased – indeed pleased with himself: that he has been chosen to bear the news. For the first time he smiles, revealing two rows of uneven teeth – a further contrast to his beautified twin.

  9. HISTORY LESSON – Monday 1pm

  Of the five hundred-odd recognised fells in the Lake District, Grasmoor is arguably the single biggest solid lump of rock. Designated by Wainwright as a “monstrous monolith” its looming presence darkens the southern reaches of Lorton Vale, its western slopes sliding precipitously into the depths of Crummock Water. In one variation of a little game Skelgill sometimes plays, in which the mountains are animals and Blencathra a maned lion and Skiddaw a horned rhino, Grasmoor is a great brooding bull elephant. In fact its name – on the face of it a touch oxymoronic, that ‘grass’ and ‘moor’ can be juxtaposed – tells a tale of another creature altogether, since the prefix ‘gras’ (correctly spelled with a single ‘s’) is merely a derivative of the Old Norse word ‘grise’, which means wild boar.

  Munching pensively on his packed lunch – smoked ham sandwiches as it happens – Skelgill gazes down upon the place of its origin, a smudge of grey slate rooftops ringed by shadowy conifers, fine columns of wood-smoke rising from chimney stacks: Crummock Hall. It is a remarkable day, blue and white and crystal clear, and he must reflect on his good fortune to combine occupation with the love of his locality. However, at such times there is always a feeling of the ‘busman’s holiday’ – or, at least, a peculiar inverse of it – for he ought only tread such paths as prescribed by his need, and not roam entirely at will. He has inspected the cairn shelters – where there are walkers’ tracks aplenty in the fresh snow, though nothing to excite his curiosity – and has moved a little north, off the broad plateau-like summit (“rather dull”, according to Wainwright) to obtain his current perspective.