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, should 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.’
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?’
<
br /> ‘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 rooms. 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 look 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 woul
d 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?’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 60
