Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Has anyone notified the team?’

  ‘Done it, Guv – got through to your mate, Woody. They’ve stood down. He said to tell you they’ll be in the pub at Buttermere later, if you fancy a pint.’

  Skelgill scowls at this suggestion. He stalks over to the bureau where Thwaites has deposited his tray and selects a shortbread finger from the now somewhat depleted plate of biscuits. DS Leyton watches a little hungrily, but Skelgill offers no invitation for him to partake.

  ‘How is she?’

  The sergeant notes that Skelgill’s first thoughts rested with the mountain rescue team that has been combing the fell in such treacherous conditions.

  ‘Dr Herdwick’s checking her over. Seems like she’s in one piece, Guv – mild hypothermia – but they’ve had to tell her about the death – I don’t think she’s taken it too well.’

  Skelgill is munching and seems in no hurry to reply, so DS Leyton continues.

  ‘Do you want to see her, Guv?’

  ‘What time did she set out?’

  ‘They’d had a buffet lunch in the dining room from noon onwards. She left after that – one of the brothers reckoned about 12:30.’

  Skelgill purses his lips.

  ‘She did well to get so far.’ He finishes the last of his biscuit and begins to fiddle with the teapot, a large antique affair in much polished silver with an ebony handle. ‘We’re going to be asking people where they were in the hour before the body was found, Leyton. I think we know her answer – she’ll keep until tomorrow – no point speaking to her if she’s in shock.’

  DS Leyton nods. His boss is being uncharacteristically sympathetic.

  ‘What next, Guv?’

  ‘Has Herdwick finished in the study?’

  ‘Reckons as much as he can, Guv. He says he’ll need to run tests and do a proper job back at the path lab – but he’s found a substantial blunt trauma injury to the base of the skull – a rounded impact – couldn’t be the edge of that desk or the hearth. Someone whacked him good and proper, Guv.’

  Skelgill is upending the eighteenth century teapot in a manner that would surely bring on palpitations in Thwaites were he watching.

  ‘Leyton – I want you to check around the whole place – all the doors and windows – any signs of a break in – anything unlocked or easy to open – and check the snow for tracks, so we know which entrances have been used recently. Make a list.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ DS Leyton turns towards the door, but then he hesitates. ‘The posh geezer called Martius – the eldest brother – he’s been bending my ear, Guv – champing at the bit he is to talk to the senior officer, as he put it.’

  Skelgill grimaces – though it could be the stewed tea as much as the idea that someone is trying to set his agenda.

  ‘Leyton, you talk to him and the other three siblings – just get the top line on their movements. Send Mullarkey along here, will you.’ This is an instruction rather than a request. He bangs down the teapot unceremoniously. ‘And tell Thwaites to bring a refill for this lot.’

  *

  Skelgill glances cursorily at the business card that precedes Fergal Mullarkey LLB LLM AITI(CTA) TEP; it seems he is something of a man of letters, literally at least. Lacking any such crutch himself Skelgill settles for an extra hard squeeze of the offered hand – not that handshakes, either, are an exchange in which he customarily indulges with interviewees yet to be cleared of involvement in a murder. In his mid fifties, the lawyer is of medium height and trim figure, a pale complexion, freckled, a largely bald head, formerly ginger, with remnants above the ears, deep blue eyes. Yet rather fleshy pink lips and prominent round ears add a clownish effect, contributing to an overall impression that is at once friendly and slightly sinister. However, it is plain from the family solicitor’s manner that he considers himself on the side of the law, and not by any stretch of the imagination a suspect. Indeed, he seizes the initiative with an opening question that reveals his lawyer’s mind has been at work.

  ‘I take it you’re treating this whole thing as suspicious, Inspector?’

  Skelgill indicates the seat opposite his. It goes against the grain to be informed what he might be thinking – never mind to reveal to a civilian his perspective in such a circumstance – but there is some endearing quality about the unaffected Irish pronunciation – ‘d’ for the soft ‘th’ of this, and ‘t’ for the strong ‘th’ of thing. He raises his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug.

  ‘We received a call that there had been a murder, sir.’

  ‘But I understand there’s no witness – and certainly no one confessing.’ The lawyer seems to have a twinkle in his eye – that he understands Skelgill’s obligation to be taciturn.

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill grins ruefully. ‘We shall have to wait for our pathologist’s report.’

  The man nods understandingly.

  ‘The family is sticking together.’

  Skelgill shoots a sharp glance at the lawyer.

  ‘What I mean to say, Inspector, is that they’ve gathered for safety in the drawing room. They are concerned there might be an intruder at large.’

  This clarification seems to disappoint Skelgill.

  ‘My sergeant is checking the place over. We’ve got two uniformed officers on the way. They’ll have a scout round outside – make sure no one’s hiding in a storeroom or stable.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be tracks you can follow?’

  The suggestion is made with the same unassuming enunciation as his opening question. Skelgill glances doubtfully at the window.

  ‘What there are – they’re fast disappearing – if you could even follow them in these conditions. We might get something in the morning. These snow showers are due to die out overnight.’

  ‘That’s assuming it was an intruder, of course, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is staring into the fire. Unhurriedly he picks up a cast iron poker and gives the nearest log what seems to be an unnecessary prod.

  ‘Do you have reason to believe otherwise, sir?’

  ‘If this were a detective novel I most certainly would.’ The man chuckles at his own joke. ‘I’m no criminal lawyer, Inspector – inheritance and taxes are my bag – but I know enough that you’ll need to eliminate everyone, myself included – provided of course it turns out to be foul play and not just an accident.’

  Skelgill cranes around inquiringly.

  ‘Did you see the body, sir?’

  ‘I did not.’ The man shakes his head, closing his eyes as he does so. ‘As a matter of fact I was in my room. By the time Martius came knocking to tell me what had happened they’d already telephoned your good selves. It seemed sensible to follow the officer’s instruction to keep out of Declan’s study.’

  Skelgill nods and Fergal Mullarkey deems this is an opportune moment to provide his alibi without being pressed.

  ‘There are some complex issues – where English tax law differs from the Irish – I was working on these from after breakfast until noon, when I came down to the buffet in the dining room – after a short while I took a cold platter back up to my room and stayed there until the alarm was raised, as I said.’

  ‘Did you see Perdita – at lunchtime?’

  The lawyer nods.

  ‘She looked all set to go out – at least that’s one small crumb of comfort – that she’s home safe. Two deaths in a week are enough for any family to take, estranged or not.’

  Skelgill furrows his brow.

  ‘So how come you handle their affairs – from a foreign country?’

  Skelgill’s blunt diplomacy brings a rueful smile to the Irishman’s lips.

  ‘I suppose you could say we were all part of the same country when my firm first represented the family – at least we had shares in King Charles.’

  Skelgill stares rather blankly at his Celtic cousin; it is evident that this genealogical marker does little to enlighten him. He opts for silence.

  ‘Naturally we have offices in the UK – Glasgow, Liverp
ool, Bristol – places with strong historical Irish connections. There was a time when we even had a branch in Whitehaven. So I can call upon expert assistance on local law when I require it.’ He makes a gesture with his hands to indicate his immediate surroundings. ‘But as far as the family goes, old habits die hard. They say a man’s more likely to change his wife than his lawyer, Inspector.’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes.

  ‘If the lawyer’s any good a man might find himself changing them both.’

  Fergal Mullarkey gives Skelgill a knowing look; it sounds like a pearl of wisdom that stems from bitter experience. However, Skelgill’s hardened countenance deters him from further inquiry; instead he elucidates as far as his own clients are concerned.

  ‘We’ve served the O’Mores since the seventeenth century; they were successful merchants from Dublin. Among other British ports they traded through Whitehaven, and bought Crummock Hall in 1720. A branch of the family has lived here ever since. These young folk are the twelfth generation.’

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘As regards inheritance, Inspector?’

  ‘Thwaites mentioned Martius is now head of the household.’

  The lawyer visibly baulks at this suggestion.

  ‘Ah, Inspector – it is not so simple as that – this is not a titled estate – we’re not talking Downton Abbey.’

  ‘That’s not in Cumbria.’

  ‘Yorkshire, I understand, Inspector?’

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  Again the man grins, though he is clearly unsure if Skelgill is being flippant.

  ‘No matter, Inspector – my point is that ordinary rules of inheritance apply – not primogeniture. There is no such requirement or right under English law – or Irish, come to that. Indeed in Ireland there was a time when it was positively prohibited if you were a Catholic family – though I digress. Suffice to say Sir Sean was at liberty to leave his property to whomsoever he wished.’

  ‘So who did he leave it to?’

  At this juncture there is a tentative knock on the door, and a familiar clearing of the throat: Thwaites. If he were hovering, eavesdropping even, then he has declined the opportunity to loiter longer and learn something he presumably does not know. Instead he enters bearing a large silver tray and fresh supplies. Fergal Mullarkey hops briskly to his aid; there is only room on the bureau for one tray at a time – he removes the original and waits and hands it to Thwaites, who bows several times as he backs away. Skelgill espies sandwiches and swiftly makes himself acquainted with their fillings while the lawyer pours tea. Armed according to their wants they resume their seats.

  ‘You were saying, sir – about the will?’

  In fact the lawyer has not used the word, and a flicker of doubt crosses his eyes.

  ‘To answer your question, Inspector, I should perhaps take a moment to explain the family tree?’

  Skelgill indicates his agreement.

  ‘Padraig Willoughby O’More died shortly after the second war, 1949 if I recall correctly. He bequeathed the estate to his son, Sir Sean. I don’t know the reasoning, but he was the elder twin. Declan received an index-linked income. In turn Sir Sean’s linear successor was his daughter Shauna O’More. Sadly she died together with her husband Edward Regulus in a boating accident when their own five children were very young.’

  Skelgill is nodding, but he refrains from revealing his extreme local provenance. The lawyer continues.

  ‘Sir Sean’s last will and testament decreed that the estate should continue intact while his brother survived – to be held in trust until Declan’s demise. This has of course come to pass – so soon as to obviate the need for a trust to be established. The succeeding provision is that the family are to decide – the five grandchildren are each allocated one vote. They can chose to maintain the estate, to appoint one person as nominal head – or even to cede the estate to that person and their descendants. Or they can sell it – and the proceeds are to be split into five equal parts. Their decision must be in a simple majority, at least three votes to two.’

  Skelgill hesitates as he digests this information.

  ‘What would it be worth – a fifth?’

  The Irishman turns out his bottom lip; now he looks like a sad clown.

  ‘I shouldn’t imagine a person would need to work again, Inspector. The equivalent of a generous lottery win.’

  Skelgill sighs, perhaps thinking of his own bad luck as far as raffles and sweepstakes go.

  ‘When did the family find out about this arrangement?’

  ‘On Friday evening – after the funeral. I convened a meeting – it was the secondary purpose of my trip, Inspector. The primary being to pay my respects on behalf of the firm.’

  Skelgill nods amenably.

  ‘Could they – or any of them – have known about the will beforehand?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector, it is possible that Sir Sean – or indeed Declan if he knew – told one or more of them, but –’

  The man shakes his head, gainsaying his words with his actions.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I have read a good number of wills to expectant families, Inspector – and I would say that Friday’s reading was no different. Universally the reaction was one of innocent surprise. If someone knew, they concealed their feelings.’ He brushes a palm over his shiny crown. ‘And, in any event, it is not as though Sir Sean’s last wishes were contentious – unusual, perhaps – but certainly not controversial. They provide for a fair allocation of the inheritance.’

  ‘Is that how Declan saw it?’

  ‘He seemed quite content in that respect. After all, he leaves no heirs.’

  Skelgill takes a bite of a sandwich followed rather too swiftly by a swallow of tea.

  ‘You went to see him in his study on Saturday afternoon – what was that about?’

  The lawyer momentarily looks like he feels Skelgill has done the dirty on him – going easy, but now suddenly throwing in a curved ball. He takes a measured drink of his tea, perhaps to buy a little time in order to compose his rejoinder.

  ‘He wished to be reassured that his own position would be unaffected during the remainder of his lifetime.’ And now Fergal Mullarkey sends one back to Skelgill. ‘He also wanted to make a will.’

  Perhaps intentionally, Skelgill looks unimpressed.

  ‘There can’t be much in that, sir?’

  ‘There is no heritable property, of course, Inspector – no real estate – but his moveable property has a value that is more than inconsequential.’

  ‘His books.’

  The lawyer is nodding.

  ‘A lifetime’s work – a collection that he did not wish to see dispersed.’

  Skelgill is frowning.

  ‘That sounds more like sentimental value. What about a museum, a library, a university?’

  Fergal Mullarkey shifts in his seat; perhaps he is wondering if he should discuss this confidential matter.

  ‘I made a similar suggestion – and in fact there is what you might call a back-stop provision in place, if I may use such a crude term.’

  Skelgill now grins.

  ‘A back-stop to me is what you need when you’ve got a dodgy wicketkeeper. If you don’t want to embarrass him you call it fine leg.’

  This is a cricketing analogy, and though Fergal Mullarkey is Irish, where the game has no great tradition, he probably has the proper schooling.

  ‘Quite, Inspector. In this case we have a comparably ancient library in our Dublin offices – mainly books of law, of course – some years ago Declan entrusted us via a legal instrument with guardianship during any emergency, or period of abeyance or deadlock over the fate of the collection.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘It is nothing on the scale of the entire Crummock Hall estate – but certainly a small fortune – and I say that literally, Inspector. There must be several thousand books – some of them are worth over a hundred pounds apiece
– let alone the complete sets. We’re certainly talking six figures.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow; perhaps he considers this a conservative estimate.

  ‘What did he decide?’

  The lawyer puts down his cup and saucer and turns to look at Skelgill.

  ‘He said he would make a draft and hand it to me. I have received no such draft.’ He spreads his palms in an imploring gesture. ‘You may know better than I if there is such a thing, Inspector.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘We haven’t searched the study with that in mind, sir.’

  The lawyer nods.

  ‘He may not have got around to it – he may not even have reached a decision.’

  ‘What else was he considering – who else?’

  ‘The family, naturally – his great nephews and nieces.’

  ‘Did he have one of them in mind?’

  ‘He confessed to knowing them little. Their lives were led in London and abroad. It is more than twenty years since they last spent their summer holidays here. And then – he was something of a recluse. He asked my opinion.’

  ‘What did you say, sir?’

  The Irishman inhales and lets out the breath in a sigh.

  ‘I find myself equally in the dark, Inspector. Until now, during my working life – my entire lifetime – the estate has been under the stewardship of Sir Sean Willoughby O’More. I have had no cause to deal with any of the younger generation.’

  Skelgill remains pensive. If he suspects the lawyer of being economical in his answer he chooses not to press the matter.

  ‘What about their parents – did you know them, sir?’

  Fergal Mullarkey shakes his head.

  ‘I was little more than a trainee at the time of the accident. My uncle – one of our partners – the O’Mores were his client at that time.’

  Skelgill glares into the fire, as if he is dissatisfied with some aspect of its combustion.

  ‘If Declan did write a draft – would that be legal, sir?’