‘A penny for your thoughts, Inspector.’
The soft Irish accent seems to infiltrate his reverie like a ripple over sand, and it is a moment before he swallows and slowly looks upon Perdita’s upturned countenance. If he has not noticed her beauty to date then he cannot fail now to be captivated, for the solemnity of the occasion seems to lend to her a tragic allure. He appears a fraction overawed.
‘I was just thinking about bird-watching.’
‘Of taking it up?’
‘No – no.’ Absently he combs the fingers of his free hand through his hair. ‘I’ve got enough daft hobbies to last a lifetime.’
He doesn’t add anything more and there follows a slightly awkward silence. But Perdita is unfazed, and she seems to be taking some pains to choose her words. Over her shoulder Skelgill notices that Thwaites, holding a decanter top and bottom in his white-gloved hands, is looking at them rather anxiously, and seems to be trying to decide whether he may come across and interrupt. In the event – to his evident chagrin – he is diverted by a request from the maid and sidles crablike from the drawing room, casting a somewhat anguished glance back in their direction. Now Perdita finds her voice.
‘Remember we said, “some other time”, Inspector?’
‘Aye?’
She grins impishly – now cheered it seems.
‘I thought, perhaps – to escape from this rather stifling atmosphere – would you accompany me on a walk down to Buttermere? We could slip out unobtrusively.’
Skelgill’s first reaction is to glance about the room, as though concerned for eavesdroppers – but then he leans back and examines her footwear: she still has on the après ski snow boots she wore for church. She moves to allay any objection he might make.
‘I shall be fine with these if we stick to the road – but oughtn’t we go – before it gets dark?’
Skelgill regards her through narrowed eyes. There is a hint of admiration in his expression, for she closes like a skilled saleswoman.
‘Fine by me – my car’s there anyway – I hitched a lift up with that Vellum character in his Spitfire.’
She inclines her head by way of understanding. Then her manner becomes a little more conspiratorial.
‘Just one thing, Inspector – I believe there are two pubs in the village – would you object if we tried the other?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘Good ale, all the same.’
‘And good company, I hope?’
She affects to be offended by his priorities. He reddens a little.
‘Aye – right – I meant –’
But now she interrupts him with a little peal of liquid laughter, and she moves towards him and stares at him quizzically. He is obliged to speak.
‘What is it?’
She touches her chin lightly, a glint in her brown eyes, like she is daring herself to act. And then, before he can recoil, she reaches and wipes something from his chin and slowly sucks it from her fingertip. She giggles mischievously.
‘Cranberry sauce, Inspector.’
15. THWAITES
Saturday 8am
‘Guvnor?’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s me – Leyton.’
‘What do you want?’
Skelgill’s voice, crackling and hoarse, sounds like he has just woken.
‘Where are you, Guv?’
‘Where am I?’ Now he could be asking himself. He clears his throat with some difficulty. ‘Buttermere.’
‘Stay at your Ma’s, Guv?’
There is a momentary hiatus before Skelgill replies.
‘Get to the point, Leyton.’
Skelgill has inserted a graphic adjective before the noun. His irritation, elevated at the outset, now rises to cause DS Leyton to become even more tentative.
‘It’s the butler, Guv – Harold Thwaites.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s dead, Guv.’
*
By the time Skelgill reaches Crummock Hall it appears its occupants have been roused and have gathered in the drawing room. He pokes a cursory head around the door to see them clustered on the sofas before a weak fire, tousle-haired and bleary-eyed and wrapped in dressing gowns, cupping mugs of coffee that may be fortified with the cognac that is conspicuous in their midst, cap off and half consumed. They pay little heed to him, or that he wears the same outfit in which they last saw him at the funeral – if indeed they paid any attention then. But he wastes no time and stalks away; the staff quarters are situated on the upper floor of the old stable block, converted in Edwardian days, when Padraig Willoughby O’More acquired the first motor car in this part of Cumberland. Skelgill is taking the narrow stairs two at a time when a shadow falls across his path. It is the bulky figure of police pathologist, Dr Herdwick. He stands, arms akimbo, a battered leather Gladstone bag held at one side, his rough-hewn features twisted in mock censure.
‘What kept you, lad – thought this was your local patch?’
Skelgill affects a simper but does not offer an explanation. The doctor seems intent upon descending, and there is a momentary awkwardness. Now the doctor sets his jaw.
‘That said, don’t reckon there’s owt for thee, lad.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Carbon monoxide poisoning – died between midnight and two.’
Skelgill suddenly winces and raises a hand to his brow as though he suffers a jag of pain.
‘Are we talking suicide?’
The older man shakes his head decisively.
‘We’re talking poor ventilation, lad. Plus a coal fire.’
Of course, while it is for Skelgill and others to establish such practical facts, his medical colleague is no stranger to events of this nature, and Skelgill knows better than to question his judgement without basis. He notes, however, that the doctor’s reply does not dismiss outright his suggestion. He takes a step upwards.
‘I’ll have a butcher’s, as that Cockney layabout Leyton would say.’
‘Enough to spoil your Saturday morning, eh, lad? I might just go and join that lot in a brandy. Decent stuff they keep, these toffs.’
Skelgill flashes a wry grin and presses himself against the bannister to allow his well-padded colleague to descend. As they squeeze past one another, the doctor holds up a little device – it is a portable detector.
‘Safe in there now.’
He departs with a chuckle, and seems to Skelgill to be muttering something about “hair of the dog”.
*
The first thing that strikes Skelgill about the little bed-sitting room is the extreme cold that enfolds him as he cautiously pushes open the door. Although the time is past eight a.m. the sun has not yet risen; the sash window has been flung up – presumably by the doctor – and an empty black rectangle admits freezing air. Somewhere beyond a robin regales him with its mournful winter song. He fumbles for the light, and finds a Bakelite toggle switch that activates a naked bulb dangling from the cracked ceiling. To his immediate right is a plain oak wardrobe, warped and standing a little askew, beneath the window a modest dresser with a few unremarkable accessories, and directly ahead the brick hearth. The single bed with its nightstand and shaded table lamp is on the left behind the door. At the end of the bed Thwaites’ threadbare butler’s outfit is neatly arranged upon a valet stand, a hollow ghost watching over the old retainer.
Skelgill is sniffing extravagantly – though he knows carbon monoxide has no odour – and all he can detect is the faint hint of soot from the grate, where the fire is apparently extinguished. But first he turns his attention to the bed. Dr Herdwick has pulled the top-sheet over the old man, and Skelgill hesitates before inspecting the corpse, perhaps debating whether he need do this at all. It would seem to be his duty – and is not a task from which he ordinarily shies away; however on this occasion it is with a pained countenance that he lifts the covers.
If a dead man can be reassuring, however, then Skelgill seems to take some solace from what he sees
. The elderly butler lies at peace, his long years of service now over, his travails at an end. His usually pallid complexion is rosy – healthy, even – and Skelgill recalls a little ditty from his mountain rescue first-aid training (for carbon monoxide poisoning threatens campers and cavers alike, who use their burners in enclosed surroundings). It refers to one of the classic symptoms, “when you’re cherry red – you’re dead.”
He replaces the coverlet and turns with an expiration of breath to inspect the room. He shivers, and pulls his jacket about his torso, and then decides to close the window. He notes that the casement is fitted with self-adhesive foam draught strip; it is yellowed with age, and partially compressed, but nonetheless forms a tight seal: the sash, once lowered, does not rattle, despite his best efforts. The glass still bears some condensation, perhaps Thwaites’ last breath intermingled; the paintwork is flaky and stained with black mould where such droplets have drained over the years.
He checks the door. It too is taped for draughts, both jambs and the head, but there is a good three-quarter inch gap at the foot: it would afford ample ventilation provided there was a half-decent draw on the fire. However he notices pushed against the side of the wardrobe a traditional tapestry door draught stopper, washed-out silk embroidered with a bird pattern. He prods it with his toe; it feels sand-filled and must have been swept aside by the maid, when she came to wake the ostensibly oversleeping butler. Skelgill stares broodingly at the object: the faded flocking birds appear to be corvids.
Now he crosses the room to the small hearth and stoops down before it. A pair of antique brass firedogs guard the grate, and across them rest matching irons. Skelgill lifts the poker and stabs at the fused mass of cinders; it shatters to reveal no glowing embers – indeed there is fresh glistening anthracite, matching that in the copper scuttle. It is a further indication of the incomplete combustion that produced deadly carbon monoxide, when much-maligned CO2 would have been a blessing. He replaces the poker and rises with a little groan. Still facing the hearth he flexes his ever-troublesome spine. Then he realises he is looking into a tarnished mirror, and some fresh pain has him pressing his temples. He does not approve of what he sees, and with a grimace he turns and departs, taking the key from inside and locking the door behind him.
*
‘They’re all packing, Guv – this one’s really spooked ’em – they’re like rats leaving a sinking ship.’
Skelgill scowls somewhat disparagingly but does not comment. Together with his sergeants he has temporarily commandeered the kitchen; traditionally laid out with its long work table, great hearth where a wood fire smoulders, and a log-fired range, it is by far the warmest room in the house at this time of the morning. The cynic might suggest Skelgill has chosen the location for other reasons – and indeed he has prevailed upon the cook to provide them with appropriate sustenance before dismissing her. Now both he and DS Jones watch DS Leyton, who continues.
‘Can’t blame ’em, I suppose, Guv – and we’ve got no cause to detain anyone.’
‘Have we not?’
Skelgill casts a look upon his subordinates that is at once expectant and censorious. It is DS Leyton that responds first.
‘They were supposed to have their meeting about Sir Sean’s will last night, Guv – but it turns out Perdita went AWOL so they couldn’t do it.’
Skelgill raises a hand in reflex, but then he merely rubs at one eye with his fingers.
‘She’s been lodging down at Buttermere, Leyton.’
DS Leyton looks suddenly deflated – as if in Perdita’s hitherto unexplained absence there was cause for suspicion. DS Jones, on the other hand, is curiously animated – though at first she represses her response, until the words seem to escape of their own volition, together with an almost hysterical laugh.
‘She’s never here when they die, Guv.’
‘Happen she had nowt to do wi’ eet.’ Skelgill’s retort is snappy, doubly emphasised by his lapse into the vernacular.
But now DS Leyton seems to realise he might be operating on a different wavelength, and determines that he must tune in to the conflict that troubles his colleagues.
‘Guv – what are you pair saying? That there’s something suspicious about Thwaites’ death? I thought Dr Herdwick insists it’s accidental.’
‘Aye – and he reckons Declan died when we know he was out bird-watching.’
Skelgill glares at DS Leyton, who folds his arms and frowns with consternation. For a while they all three sit in brooding silence. It seems the invisible tensions that bind them also pull in disparate directions, and hinder any coherent progress. In the end it is DS Jones who speaks.
‘Why didn’t he die every night?’
Taken literally, her words are nonsensical, but from Skelgill’s reaction it is apparent she makes a profound point. He watches her, his eyes unblinking through narrowed lids. After a moment she shrugs in the manner of one resting their case, and Skelgill turns his gaze upon DS Leyton.
‘Let’s get that maid back.’
DS Leyton nods and rises and jerks a thumb behind him.
‘Won’t be tick, Guv – reckon she’s in the scullery.’
True to his word DS Leyton returns within a minute followed by the stout woman Skelgill had last set eyes upon stoically serving the buffet. He indicates a chair opposite.
‘It’s Betty isn’t it?’
The woman nods once rather apprehensively.
‘I’d rather stand if it’s all the same, sir.’
Skelgill makes what he probably considers a sympathetic face, although by most people’s standards it is a less-than-endearing expression.
‘We shan’t keep you long, Betty.’ It looks for a second that he is searching for a diplomatic form of words, but if so these elude him and he reverts to blunt type. ‘Mr Thwaites died of poisoning from carbon monoxide – caused by his coal fire and the lack of ventilation.’
Again the woman gives a single nod, and her own expression remains fixed, suggestive of her having already heard this information. But she offers no comment.
‘What we can’t understand, Betty – is why it happened last night – why not before? He was a man of habit, wasn’t he?’
‘He was that, sir.’
‘Do you clean his room?’
There is now a fleeting look of alarm in her eyes.
‘I clean everywhere, sir – the whole of Crummock Hall, including the servants’ quarters. There’s only me that does, sir.’
Skelgill nods encouragingly.
‘So you’d notice anything different?’
She remains anxious.
‘I don’t know, sir – I don’t know what you mean.’
Skelgill suddenly rises and indicates to his colleagues to do the same.
‘We’d just like you to take a look for us, Betty – we can get up these back stairs, can we?’
He leads the way and the woman automatically begins to follow him – although her discomfort is apparent; understandably she is reluctant to return to the room. DS Jones places a kindly hand on her shoulder and guides her by the elbow as they mount the staircase.
Skelgill unlocks the door of Thwaites’ room and flicks on the light switch, although it is ineffectual now that insipid northern daylight prevails and shows the modest quarters to be even more austere than before. He crosses the floor to stand beside the hearth. The maid has slowed almost to a stop and shuffles to one side of the door, her back against the wardrobe. Considerately, DS Jones and DS Leyton range themselves in front of the bed, so as to block her view as best they can of the human form beneath the covers. Skelgill meanwhile indicates with a circular movement of one hand the arrangement around the grate.
‘He normally burned coal, did he?’
The woman seems a little relieved by this question – that she is not in fact going to face some sort of impossible third degree – but actually be questioned on facts with which she is familiar.
‘We use coal in all the bedrooms, sir – the fir
eplaces are too small for logs – happen they don’t give out a deal of heat, or last so long.’
Skelgill nods encouragingly.
‘Did he light a fire every night?’
‘He’s been complaining something terrible about his chilblains, sir – since this cold snap set in. I’ve had to clean out his grate every morning for the last three or four weeks, sir.’
Skelgill inclines his head in the direction of the window.
‘I take it he kept the window closed?’
‘Yes, sir – at least, I’ve never come in to find it open in the morning.’
Skelgill begins to look like he is struggling for something else to say, then he realises he is turning over the key with the fingers of his left hand. He holds it up for inspection.
‘What about locking his door – what did he usually do?’
Now the maid shakes her head with some determination.
‘He never locked it as far as I know, sir – perhaps when he were getting dressed. There’s no reason for anyone to lock their rooms –’
She stops abruptly.
‘Aye?’
‘Least – not until – Mr Declan, sir.’
Skelgill nods, understanding her point.
‘So the door was unlocked this morning?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Was it like him to sleep in?’
‘Oh, no, sir – we thought he must be ill – he’s had a bad chest lately, sir. And the cook, she sent me to check on him – and I found him – but he weren’t –’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 69
