Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  There is no sign yet of Fergal Mullarkey. Skelgill decides to visit the bathroom – although all he does is look around and scrub his fingertips of gloss paint. He retraces his steps and stands silently in the corridor. Gauging by the positions of the doors, the Boardroom would seem to be of similar proportions to the meeting room. He tries the handle, but it is locked – and now he hears clunking and whirring noises, followed by the tread of feet upon the staircase. He slips back to his coffee and is seated when Fergal Mullarkey backs in and rather breathlessly dumps two weighty legal storage boxes upon the table. However, the lawyer beams triumphantly.

  ‘Here you go Inspector – that’s everything from 1700 to 1750 – should comfortably cover the period you’re after.’ He lifts the lid off the upper box and extracts a manila file, and then opens this upon the table and slides it across to Skelgill. ‘But – as I warned you last evening – it is all in longhand.’

  He grins rather inanely and then he dusts off his hands and takes a step backwards towards the door.

  ‘Well – I shall bid you goodbye for now, Inspector. The alarm code is 1916 – not so tricky, hah-ha! – just press the ‘exit’ button after typing it in – and there is a good strong Yale on the door that when you pull it shut should suffice until tomorrow morning.’

  Skelgill, already scowling at the page of impenetrable gothic scrawl before him, glances up distractedly.

  ‘Aye – no bother – I’ll send you a text when I’m done.’

  ‘Ah – excellent idea – and are you heading directly back to England this afternoon?’

  The answer is yes but for some reason Skelgill plays it cagily. He glances casually at the legal boxes.

  ‘Reckon I’ll see how I get on.’

  Fergal Mullarkey nods – but now he hesitates – he feels the top of his head in an exploratory manner – as if he is checking that hair has not magically returned since his last inspection.

  ‘And, er – just how is it going? Overall, I mean – are you any further forward with the investigation into Declan’s death?’

  Skelgill looks up quickly.

  ‘Aye – much further.’

  His reply carries a note of indignation, that Fergal Mullarkey would assume otherwise, and the lawyer’s mouth falls slightly open.

  ‘Oh – well – jolly good.’ (There is more checking for hair.) ‘You see, Inspector, the family are rather impatient to get the books over here into safekeeping. Since Declan has died intestate, it may take some months to resolve his will – and irrespective of what they decide about the future of Crummock Hall, now that Thwaites is sadly no longer with us it looks like the place is going to have to be mothballed. The heating system will be drained down – and there is a grave risk that the collection could deteriorate if it becomes damp. Here in our own library we have controlled ambient humidity and temperature, and ample space. I have explained to them, however, that until the police have finished with the crime scene there is little we can do.’

  Skelgill is listening evenly – though now he homes in on one particular remark.

  ‘So they’ve not settled yet?’

  ‘Concerning the fate of the estate?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Fergal Mullarkey shakes his head.

  ‘I suppose it is understandable – it is not a decision to be taken lightly.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  Skelgill’s bluntness seems to catch the lawyer unawares. But, though his pale cheeks flush, to his credit he provides what would appear to be an honest answer.

  ‘Well – if I am being frank, Inspector, it is in our interest that they keep the estate in the Regulus-O’More family – they represent a sizeable client measured over a period of years – and, of course, there is a sentimental aspect in our long association.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘When do you think they’ll make up their minds?’

  Now Fergal Mullarkey contorts his pliable features into a resigned grimace.

  ‘I was rather anticipating they would have decided yesterday, Inspector – but of course – events took over – you understand?’ (Skelgill nods; he means the unfortunate passing of Thwaites.) ‘We shall be reconvening next week.’ Somewhat reverently he folds his hands on his breast. ‘Let’s hope it is the last funeral for a long time.’

  ‘Aye – I’ll second that.’

  Now the lawyer edges closer to the exit.

  ‘Oh – and these documents – don’t worry about putting them back in their boxes – you see, you’re not the only person who wants to peruse them.’

  Now he flashes Skelgill a look that is emphatically conspiratorial.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Our mutual friend, Perdita – or perhaps I should say Rowena, given the nature her interest – I understand she has an idea for her next plot – and wishes to add a touch of authenticity. She is calling in tomorrow – although I fear she will be disappointed – I fancy that history will not live up to her vivid imagination when it comes to her characters’ romantic liaisons.’ He taps the side of his nose in a suggestive fashion, and smirks. ‘For my part, I must head off and lay out the hymnbooks.’

  Skelgill nods and raises a hand, as if in farewell – but in fact his gesture becomes a detaining index finger.

  ‘Just one thing I’ve been wondering about?’

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘How did you recognise me last night?’

  For a moment Fergal Mullarkey looks nonplussed – he is clearly unprepared for this question, and he glances anxiously about the room – and then his gaze falls upon Skelgill’s discarded garments. He waves a hand loosely at the chair.

  ‘Inspector – there can only be one hat like that in the whole of Ireland.’

  He chuckles fretfully and raises both palms in an apology-cum-wave and makes what might be considered a hasty exit. Skelgill is left staring at the door, but after a few moments he turns his attention to the file that lies open before him on the table.

  It takes him under a minute to confirm what he has suspected all along – that he is not going to read the documents. Even were they printed in fourteen-point type, double-spaced, set in beautifully legible Times Roman or Garamond or Athelas, Skelgill would have found the two towering boxes of material a testing mountain – so the page before him penned in archaic quilled cursive script with elaborate swirls and loops (not to mention obsolete legal terms that would even defeat a lawyer) represents a precipitous literary scree in which his boots gain not an inch of traction. He slumps back in his chair and folds his arms, dark furrows lining his brow. If Fergal Mullarkey harbours any secretly malicious intent beneath his superficial helpfulness then he has succeeded – for the task he has casually inflicted is so overwhelming as to be almost suffocating, indeed Skelgill rises and strides to the window and raises the lower sash to admit fresh air, cold or not.

  He marches back to the refreshments corner and makes himself another coffee. And now that his host has departed he attacks the biscuits with gusto, perhaps a small act of revenge, which he augments by using up all of the sugar. As he sits and slurps he must rue the absence of DS Jones – for if anyone could digest the material before him it is she. Indeed he casually finds her number on his mobile phone – but then he has second thoughts and rises again and begins to empty the boxes. Neatly, he lays out the documents in successive piles, ranging them around the table as though he has examined them in chronological sections. He looks at his phone once more and engages the camera app – but when he experimentally composes a photo he decides the exercise is futile. He wanders to the window and for a while he stands gazing out. Then he makes a small involuntary jolt and some purpose grips him: he slips the handset into a hip pocket, retrieves his gloves from the back of the chair, returns to the window, hauls the lower sash to its upper limit, and clambers out.

  Thirty seconds later he is inside the ‘locked’ Boardroom. His hunch that it, too, is being painted proves correct. Here, also, the window catch has been removed. He scan
s about – at first sight it appears little different to the meeting room – perhaps a better class of table and chairs, but otherwise the same nondescript carpet and newly emulsioned walls. There is, however, a stack of about a dozen large framed photographs at one end of the table. The decorator has evidently removed them from the walls to do his job. Skelgill begins to work his way through the collection – group shots of members of staff – a historical record of the partners and their underlings, their names listed beneath, taken at intervals of roughly ten years. While the oldest pictures, dating from the early 1900s hold most intrinsic interest – brilliantined hairstyles, elaborate moustaches, starched collars and unintentionally hammed poses – it is to the more recent images that Skelgill gives his attention. He lays out the latest four in chronological order – and now he removes his gloves and takes snapshots with his mobile. When he has finished he spends some time poring over the originals. Then he replaces his gloves, re-stacks the frames, and climbs out onto the flat roof, shutting the window and returning to the meeting room whence he came. Having restored the sash to its closed position, he lays his phone upon the table and transmits a call, engaging the speaker when he hears the recipient pick up.

  ‘Jones – where are you?’

  ‘Oh, Guv – morning – er... in London, actually.’

  ‘London?’

  Skelgill sounds as indignant as if his subordinate had said New York or Rio de Janeiro or Shanghai.

  ‘I travelled down yesterday afternoon – I went to see a show – with a college friend.’

  It takes Skelgill a moment to collect his thoughts.

  ‘What brought that on?’

  DS Jones sounds a little guarded.

  ‘The tickets came up – it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  Again Skelgill hesitates.

  ‘When are you heading back?’

  ‘I’m on the six o’clock express from Euston – it gets into Penrith at nine.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Are you sure, Guv?’

  ‘There’s a couple of things I want to bounce off you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  There is ostensibly a note of reluctance in her voice – but perhaps Skelgill can sense there is something else – that she is building up to an inconvenient revelation. He remains silent, and his intuition proves correct.

  ‘I might have some news by then, Guv.’

  ‘What kind of news?’

  ‘Well, er... about Brutus.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He keeps texting me, Guv.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve agreed to meet him at lunchtime – just for a coffee.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s The Ritz, Guv.’ She blurts this out, as if doing so will diminish its impact. ‘I thought I might learn something.’

  ‘Aye, a lesson to regret.’

  ‘But, Guv – I think he wants to talk to me.’

  ‘That’s not all he – ’

  As Skelgill checks himself DS Jones simultaneously interjects.

  ‘Guv – I can handle it – don’t worry – I’m a big girl, you know.’

  ‘Jones – I’ll see you at nine.’

  Skelgill cuts off the call and stares at the handset. He leans over the table, his two hands resting on their heels. His expression is hard to fathom, but it could be assessed as a mixture of concern and irritation, with just a hint of jealousy. And perhaps there is a semblance of self-reproach for what he has said. He hauls on his jacket, and stuffs his gloves into the pockets. He takes his fur-lined trapper hat in both hands and gives it a shake, and then he holds it at arm’s length and regards it pensively. The last time he wore it was on the ferry from Holyhead, when he clambered up on deck in the freezing night air to see the lights of Dublin.

  19. RECONSTRUCTION

  Monday 10am

  ‘Tell Leyton what you told me last night.’

  DS Jones looks apprehensively at Skelgill, and then at the newly arrived DS Leyton. They all three have travelled separately to Crummock Hall – to be admitted by the maid, Betty – and are now convened in Declan’s study, still technically ‘their’ territory as a designated crime scene. DS Leyton is the last to arrive, bringing with him a black pilot’s case from headquarters. He closes the door but remains standing against it; perhaps he detects a certain tension in the air.

  DS Jones looks rather sombre, dressed all in black – leather jacket, ankle boots and stretch jeans and, unusually for her, a beret and scarf. The zipped waist-cut jacket emphasises her figure, and the fashionable ensemble gives her a continental look, her large dark eyes blinking soulfully behind hair pushed down by the beret. She is framed by one of the two arched windows to DS Leyton’s right, standing rigidly with her fingertips pressed into the inaccessible front pockets of her jeans; directly ahead, across the room Skelgill half-sits against the edge of the desk, his arms folded.

  ‘I spoke with Brutus yesterday – lunchtime.’ She glances apprehensively at Skelgill, and then raises her shoulders to signify that her complicity was inadvertent. ‘He got in touch with me.’

  ‘Sounds interesting, girl.’

  DS Leyton grins encouragingly – he must sense her predicament and that Skelgill’s hackles are up. His response seems to relax her, and she takes a couple of paces towards him. Skelgill watches on censoriously.

  ‘He told me about the family’s decision – regarding Sir Sean O’More’s will.’

  DS Leyton makes an exclamation of suppressed anticipation.

  ‘He says he and Cassandra want to sell Crummock Hall as soon as possible.’

  ‘Cor blimey – I should’ve put a few nicker on that one.’

  DS Jones responds with a wry smile, though she holds up a qualifying palm.

  ‘But Martius and Perdita want to keep it – as a going concern – to appoint some kind of live-in estate manager.’

  DS Leyton looks decidedly intrigued by this news. Though he knows little of Perdita, by living abroad she demonstrates scant interest in Cumbria – and in the case of Martius, certain financial indicators would lead one to suppose he too favoured a sale. DS Leyton counts off silently on the fingers of his free hand.

  ‘We’re missing Edgar.’

  DS Jones nods eagerly.

  ‘That’s the thing – it’s a stalemate – the split has effectively given him the casting vote – and apparently he won’t reveal his hand. To quote Brutus, “That little runt Gerbil has got us over a barrel.” Brutus doesn’t know why he’s holding out – but he says he’s loving the power trip.’

  DS Leyton rolls his eyes.

  ‘Reckon he wants a bigger slice of the cake?’

  Now Skelgill intervenes. ‘What do you mean, Leyton?’

  DS Leyton puts down the pilot’s case and has a small battle with his somewhat ill fitting overcoat, which has managed to slip around sideways.

  ‘Well, Guv – Edgar’s due a fifth, right? – same as each of them. But if he wants to play them off – he can go to either side – say he’ll throw in his lot with whoever comes up with the best offer. He’s the accountant, after all, Guv – like you said.’

  Skelgill’s tone is sceptical. ‘I can’t see Martius standing for that. He’s brassed off as it is – not inheriting the whole estate.’

  DS Leyton shrugs.

  ‘So, what happens if they can’t strike a deal?’

  ‘It would have to go to court, Leyton. Then it’s anyone’s guess – you know what judges can be like. They might not want to take that chance – never mind that it could last for years. I’ve spoken to Mullarkey – he’ll be hassling them to come to a decision. If this place is mothballed the value starts to plummet.’ Skelgill pushes off from the desk and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Plus these books will deteriorate if they don’t get them into proper storage.’

  DS Leyton seems dissatisfied. He glances at DS Jones and then looks back at Skelgill.

  ‘Why is Brutus telling us this? He might be a coc
ky little geezer, but he’s not stupid. Reckon it’s a double bluff?’

  ‘In what way, Leyton?’

  ‘Coming clean about his intentions – since we’re likely to suspect anyone who wants the cash – stands to reason, Guv.’

  Skelgill remains pensive.

  ‘Does it?’

  DS Leyton is nodding.

  ‘Think about their movements – if the murder was 2 o’clock like you say, Guv. Brutus is nowhere to be seen until 2:30 – Cassandra claims she can’t remember where she was – yet she’s on the spot when Thwaites finds the body – and Edgar’s handily placed up the staircase in his secret attic.’

  Skelgill seems unconvinced – his expression is growing increasingly pessimistic.

  ‘What about the others? Martius. Mullarkey. Thwaites. What about Perdita, for that matter?’

  Now it is DS Leyton’s turn to frown. He waves a hand approximately towards the windows.

  ‘But, Guv – she was lost up the mountain.’

  ‘Leyton, I can easily imagine how Perdita could have been here at 2 o’clock.’

  Skelgill’s countenance is grim – and his subordinates are startled, for surely this is a sizeable volte-face on the part of their boss. Of course, he may be playing devil’s advocate for good purpose – but for the hell of it is just as likely. His frustration is plain; however he offers no further explanation and a silence prevails. Although there is apparently some background heating the room temperature is far from ideal, and none of them shows any inclination to shed their outdoor garments. After a minute, DS Leyton tries a more oblique tack.