‘Grubs, probably, Guv.’
‘It’s all good protein.’
DS Jones shakes her head, but before she can reply, ahead a white notice with printed black lettering catches her eye. It warns that ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’, and is fastened onto a wall that gradually takes shape through the trees, and which must tower a good eight feet above the ground.
‘What’s this, Guv?’
‘Blackbeck Castle. We need to circle round to the right to break out onto the fell.’
‘I thought this was all Access Land, Guv?’
Skelgill scowls.
‘It doesn’t apply to the castle grounds.’
DS Jones nods.
‘I suppose they have to draw the line somewhere.’
Skelgill regards the sign pensively and does not reply. The issue of to whom land morally belongs is a controversy that rumbles on in his own thoughts – never mind in many a pub argument – and his opinion depends upon which hat he might be wearing at any one time. Public access in the Lake District falls somewhere between Scotland’s more or less unfettered ‘right to roam’ and England’s general policy that restricts ramblers to marked rights of way. As a fisherman and fell-runner Skelgill is often frustrated by the limitations the landed classes are able to place upon his freedom; but as a police officer and member of a mountain rescue team there has been many an occasion when he has cursed the temptations that draw unqualified or delinquent citizens into his ambit. At this moment, while his ideal route would take a beeline more or less due south, the high stone barrier forces a detour.
Although the ground now begins to rise quite steeply, beside the wall there is easier going underfoot. In its shadow grows little vegetation – just decurved ferns that spill from crevices, and creeping liverworts glistening like seaweed exposed by the ebb tide. After some ten minutes they reach a grey-painted gate set into the stonework. Skelgill stops to stare at the construction.
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘Don’t remember this.’ He reaches to give it a push; but there is no ironmongery on the outside and nothing yields. ‘It’s a year or two since I’ve been this way, mind.’
The door is in good repair, and it fits flush with the stone jambs and lintel. Despite his best efforts to find a crack Skelgill is defeated, and he is unable to see what lies beyond. He sizes up the wall, as if he is thinking about scaling it to peer over. But then he examines the ground below the step – there is no indication of wear, just an even scattering of rotting leaves and twigs.
‘Doesn’t look like it’s used.’ He shrugs and turns in the direction of their travel. ‘Come on – I’ll show you something more interesting.’
Still in woodland they continue for another minute or so to a point where the hillside on their right climbs into a vertical cliff. There is perhaps the semblance of a path along the foot of this miniature escarpment, and after maybe thirty yards it abruptly angles left into a great fissure: a gorge about ten feet wide, its walls as high as a house. Upon first impression this appears to be a natural feature, for a stream trickles out from its shingled floor, and mosses and creepers trail down the damp rock faces; the atmosphere is thick with the peaty humidity of a botanical hothouse. But, as the eye follows the tiny beck to its source some fifty feet into the crevice, the jagged black mouth of a cave reveals man’s hand in this creation. Skelgill purposefully splashes the sole of his left boot into the rippling water.
‘Some folk consider this to be the original Black Beck – it comes right through the mines and joins another tributary further down the valley.’
He sets off into the gully, watching the ground ahead of him as he goes. But the stony surface is unforgiving, and if he seeks tracks he is disappointed – only near the entrance is there a trace of life, and that is an indistinct cloven hoof print in a patch of silvery sand.
‘What would it be, Guv?’
Skelgill ponders for a moment and shakes his head.
‘Roe deer, most likely – coming to this pool to drink where it’s deeper.’
‘I hope they can’t read, Guv.’
‘Come again?’
DS Jones indicates towards the entrance of the cave. Set back by a couple of yards, and thus invisible to their approach, the tunnel is blocked by half a dozen planks wedged diagonally across the passage. On these is hung a notice, “Danger Keep Out” – but DS Jones refers to additional graffiti – a more curt Anglo-Saxon exhortation to go away (although this might equally be directed rebelliously at the official sign writer). Skelgill smiles grimly and shakes his head.
‘The places folk bring marker pens never ceases to amaze me.’
DS Jones grins.
‘So, what is this, Guv?’
‘The lowest outlet of the copper mine. This part was closed over a hundred-and-fifty years ago. There’s shafts coming down seven hundred feet, chasing the veins through the rock.’
DS Jones takes a couple of tentative steps inside the mouth of the adit.
‘Here.’ Skelgill hands her his torch. It is small – about the size of a Churchill cigar – but when she switches it on it floods the recess with its brilliant light. She approaches the makeshift barrier, finding a gap through which to shine the flashlight. ‘Slide the hood – it focuses the beam. You’ll be able to see further down the tunnel.’
She does as directed – and immediately recoils with a shriek and a grimace of revulsion.
‘Oh, my God – what is that?’
Skelgill takes the torch from her and pokes it between two of the planks, holding its base against his left cheek. In the slick wet darkness of the cave, seemingly hovering just beneath the arch of the roof, a demonic visage gleams bone-white, the ebony hollows of its eye sockets staring ghoulishly from beneath great curled horns. It is the skull of a Herdwick ram.
‘Bloody kids.’
DS Jones shudders and backs out into the half-light of the fissure.
‘That’s more than enough to keep me away, Guv – never mind the danger of falling down a pit.’
Skelgill grins. He clicks off the torch and slides it into his back pocket. Then he takes hold of one of the planks in both hands and gives it a hard shake, but it refuses to budge. He tries a couple of others, but they appear to be firmly wedged, and nailed together where they overlap.
‘I don’t reckon our Leonid came this way.’
He bows his head and ducks out into the fresh air. DS Jones’s complexion appears pale, despite their brisk walk up through the forest; Skelgill seems to notice, for he leans sideways and pulls a half-eaten packet of glucose sweets from the map pocket of his trousers.
‘Here – the best I can do in lieu of brandy.’
She grins self-consciously.
‘Sorry, Guv – I wasn’t expecting that – it really spooked me.’
Skelgill shrugs and steps past her.
‘Come on – let’s get up to the top. They mined the slate up there as well – there’s some big chambers – that’s where folk tend to knock around if they’re exploring.’
*
‘This is like being in a secret Covenanters’ chapel, Guv.’
Skelgill glances about proprietorially.
‘Aye, well – you’re not so far wrong – they call this the Apse.’
DS Jones nods appreciatively. They are speaking in whispers, and have halted at an aperture that leads into a huge domed chamber. Skelgill has switched off his torch, for there is a fracture in the roof through which a shaft of sunlight illuminates a rockfall of gigantic flakes of slate. The biggest of these points back skyward like a jagged standing stone, and in front of it one great slab the size of a bed lies flat – together they give the impression of a primitive altar and reredos, mysteriously floodlit amidst the crowding shadows. Beyond, the darkness gathers, even blacker for the light that streams down into the centre of the cavity. But before the shadows consume all, it is evident that a large pool of water stretches from behind the rock formation to the back of the cave, and the consta
nt timpani of drips and plops make an eerily echoing fugue.
‘This is as far as you can go – or you can abseil in and walk out the way we’ve come.’
Skelgill directs his flashlight so that its beam reflects off the black water and highlights the naturally vaulted ceiling, a succession of arched ribs like the interior of a great pharynx, taking a greenish hue from the once sought-after slate. At either side of the chamber are horizontal shafts, known as drifts, but these are blocked with rubble – whether by accident or design it is impossible to know. As they begin to retrace their steps other side-passages beckon, and Skelgill inspects them as far as is possible. In due course he leads them along one such corridor; killing the torch reveals a bend some seventy-five yards ahead, with daylight filtering from just beyond.
When they emerge DS Jones stretches with relief, turning her face up to the sun.
‘I’m not good with the dark, Guv – these tunnels give me the creeps.’
‘Aye, well – I’m no big fan of caving myself – though we have mock rescue exercises in these places – I’ve done them right here in days gone by.’
DS Jones, despite the ambient warmth of the fine day, visibly shivers.
‘Imagine being trapped underground – I think I’d die of claustrophobia – if you can do such a thing.’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘The worst scenario is when someone gets stuck roof-sniffing and then it rains – and the water level rises.’
DS Jones seems to understand his caving slang; she winces and brings her palms together in prayer fashion. Skelgill waves a hand to indicate that she should follow him. They walk across the smooth bedrock of an opencast section of former quarry, to the entrance they had originally taken. There is an official notice warning members of the public that they enter at their own risk, and that group activities require prior permission of the National Trust.
‘Why would he have come up here, Guv?’
‘Same reason as we did.’
DS Jones looks perplexed – but perhaps as she considers her superior’s answer she comprehends his logic: armed with similar information, Leonid Pavlenko might naturally have reached an identical conclusion.
‘I suppose so, Guv.’
‘Maybe he didn’t – but I think it made sense to look first. If that wording means Black Beck, it’s not such a long shot.’
‘Why stay at Keswick though, Guv – why not Ambleside or Coniston?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘Keswick’s easy to get to – handy stopping-off point – he only took the room for one night. He might have a contact in the town – someone who could have given him a lift.’
DS Jones begins to read the small print on the information board. There is mention of helmets, head-torches, ropes and harnesses.
‘Guv, it’s hardly a regular tourist attraction – and by the sound of it he was wearing ordinary clothes.’
Jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket and trainers had been the description provided by his landlady; none of these items were among the possessions left in the holdall. Skelgill nods, and casts about with a rather dejected air.
‘There’s a couple of properties we can ask at on the way down. If he came here looking for something – or someone – then he might have knocked on doors.’
‘When do you think he left the B&B?’
Skelgill exhales somewhat resignedly.
‘It could have been any time between five yesterday afternoon and eight this morning – but there’s no indication he hung about – yesterday seems more likely.’
‘What time would it have got dark, Guv?’
Skelgill folds his arms and looks to the heavens.
‘Sunset last night was more or less bang on seven. But it was clear – it was light until about eight.’
DS Jones is pulling down her lower lip with her middle finger.
‘Still, he wouldn’t have had a lot of daylight, Guv.’
‘Maybe not. Look – he might turn up yet, Jones, wanting his bag – for all we know he went out in Keswick, met someone, got lucky –’ Skelgill hesitates as he gauges his colleague’s reaction. ‘It’s not unknown.’
DS Jones turns away and takes a few steps towards the rock face. She puts her hands on her hips and leans back to look up the cliff.
‘Or unlucky.’
Skelgill stoops and picks up a rhombus of slate. He regards it for a moment before skimming it left-handed into the opening of the mine. There is a hollow echo as it skips over the floor of the stone passageway and comes to a silent halt. His arms drop down by his sides, and for a moment he seems lost for what to do next. But DS Jones has gathered her thoughts and pirouettes to face him.
‘The thing is, Guv – if he has done a runner from the B&B, why would he leave his passport?’
4. BLACKBECK CASTLE
‘This is private property.’
‘It’s mainly Access Land.’
‘It ’int where tha’ be standing.’
‘Aye, well, maybe I’ve got a reason for that.’
Skelgill fishes his warrant card from his hip pocket and pushes it close to the man’s face.
‘I take it you’ve got a licence to use Larsen traps?’
The man eyes Skelgill suspiciously. A couple of inches the shorter, he is nevertheless of a muscular build, shaven headed, his demeanour hostile. Though probably in his mid-forties he wears faded combat fatigues and a soiled olive t-shirt with dark patches of perspiration at the armpits, army surplus boots in need of polish, and an oily bandana around his forehead. His complexion is swarthy, and an ugly scar beneath his left eye combines with features – nose, lips, teeth and ears – that are too big for his face, suggestive of a caricatured goblin from fantasy fiction. He still wields the hammer with which he was crossly knocking in staples, as the two detectives rounded the side of his stone-built gamekeeper’s cottage. There is a stack of ten or so traps – rough wooden frames about the size of a rabbit hutch, covered in wire mesh. The property itself sits on the eastern fringe of the expanse of woodland through which they earlier climbed, perhaps a furlong from the rough track that connects the mine workings with the winding Langdale-to-Eskdale road. From a rickety pen set between ramshackle sheds two dogs stare hungrily – a black Labrador and a piebald Working Cocker; perhaps surprisingly they do not bark. Neither does the man reply immediately, but transfers his gaze from Skelgill to DS Jones, his narrow black eyes feeding upon her figure. She does not like this attention and is reaching for her own ID when he turns back to Skelgill.
‘The estate’s got a licence, aye.’
‘Blackbeck Castle?’
The man nods.
‘And you are?’
‘Jed Tarr.’
‘Gamekeeper?’
The man looks over his shoulder and holds the pose, as if he means Skelgill to follow his line of sight. Strung upon a wire fence are the rotting carcasses of crows, rats and a couple of stoats. It has not been the most auspicious of introductions, but Skelgill is inherently allergic to unjustified aggression. Now, however he requires the man’s cooperation. He gestures casually to DS Jones.
‘My sergeant has a couple of questions.’
DS Jones has the passport and photograph in the zip pocket of her gilet. The gamekeeper is watchful as she extracts them, both contained inside clear polythene bags.
‘We’re looking for this man – he’s aged twenty-four, five feet nine, wearing a black leather jacket and jeans with trainers. We believe he may have been in this area yesterday evening, or possibly this morning.’
Jed Tarr’s scowl is unchanging as he squints at the passport. DS Jones keeps the printed details covered, and when he reaches as if to take it from her she withdraws it. He meets her eyes, and then smirks, as if to say touché. Then he shakes his head.
‘Never sin ’im.’
DS Jones waits for a moment, but he appears to have nothing to add. She brings the photograph of the girl to the front and displays it. Now the man betrays the semblance of a
reaction – not in his facial expression – but his grip seems to tighten on the hickory handle of his hammer, suggested by the knotting of the muscles on his forearm. He stares at the image, and then shifts his gaze to DS Jones, and back again, as if he is comparing the two females.
‘We’re also looking for this woman – the two of them may have been together.’
There is now just the hint of a leer, the uneven yellowed teeth more exposed than before.
‘Nope.’
He turns back to the trap at his feet and digs into his pocket. He pulls out half a dozen staples and jams them between his lips, picking one back out and recommencing the job the detectives have interrupted. DS Jones glances at Skelgill; he indicates with a flick of his head that they will leave. He directs a final salvo at the disobliging gamekeeper.
‘Contact the police if you see either of them.’ (The man perhaps grunts an acknowledgement, although it could be the effort of hammering, much harder than is necessary.) ‘And remember – those traps are only legal for small corvids.’
This latter remark attracts a contemptuous glance. Indeed, as Skelgill and DS Jones depart towards the main track, he breaks off from his task and watches them from the corner of the building. Then, first checking the frontage of his cottage, he returns to the rear and unlocks the door and enters within.
*
‘Did you notice, Guv – all the windows were shuttered?’
Skelgill nods grimly.
‘Aye – I’d like to know what he’s got in there – a freezer full of dead goshawks and hen harriers, like as not.’
‘Are you going to ask at the castle to see the licence for the traps?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Much as I’d like to – but they don’t need one – it’s a General Licence to take or kill birds to prevent damage.’ He scoffs at his use of the ironic formal terminology. ‘Anyone can download it from the government website – all you have to do is comply with the requirements.’
‘He didn’t seem to know that, Guv.’
‘He probably knows enough to know he’s covered – so long as we don’t catch him with a hawk in one of the traps.’
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 3
