Skelgill looks at her quizzically.
‘What did she mean by that?’
‘They weren’t very cooperative, Guv. And not a little bit cracked. But when I went to see Foulsyke & Dodd I was able to get more details. The Gilhooleys are tenants on the Crummock Hall estate – they have been for generations. They just pay a peppercorn rent – it’s never been increased – that’s down to some agreement that was made back in bygone days.’
‘So they’re onto a good number.’
‘You would think so, Guv – at their age they can’t be making much off the land – but it looks like their livings costs are next to nothing. I suppose they get their pensions.’
‘What about Declan – what did they have to say about him?’
DS Jones shakes her head resignedly.
‘Like I mentioned, Guv – beyond repeating the “rightly ours” mantra – they weren’t forthcoming. The land agents suggested they might mean the freehold of the property – but there’s no provision in law for that – not where there’s a tenancy agreement in place. They’d have had more luck if they’d been squatting.’ DS Jones is absently twirling a strand of hair. Skelgill watches her closely. He may be thinking that it is no surprise that Brutus – and his infamous alter ego Owain Jagger – might want to kiss her. ‘They have no heir – the agents said that’s probably been eating at them for a long time – that the tenancy will eventually revert to the estate.’
Skelgill nods – though his eyes are glazed, and it is a few seconds before he asks his next question.
‘What else from Foulsyke & Dodd?’
Now DS Jones seems to have absorbed something of Skelgill’s abstraction. It is a moment before she releases the breath she has been holding, and inhales again in order to reply.
‘At the bottom line the estate is just about breaking even. The chap I saw – Foulsyke – described it as “rather feudal” – but he explained that’s the way Sir Sean had wanted it – the tenants know they’ve been getting a good deal, so they tug their forelocks and pay on time. He believes the income could be doubled if the land were farmed more intensively – they’d be able to justify higher rents. He did mention Declan in that context.’
‘How?’ Skelgill uses the Scottish how, borrowed from just across the border, that really means why.
‘The traditional farming methods encourage wildlife – it suited Declan’s bird-watching hobby to keep it that way.’
Skelgill nods pensively. He inhales slowly and sighs before he continues.
‘Did he put in his four penneth about the future?’
‘The agents are hoping the estate will remain in the family – Mr Foulsyke said he plans to call Martius with his recommendations.’
Now Skelgill grimaces.
‘Aye – what – send in the contractors to rip up all the hedgerows and plough the meadows? That would be music to his ears.’
Both Skelgill and DS Jones look troubled by this prospect. DS Leyton does his best to mirror their expressions of concern – but being of metropolitan stock his sentiments are less troubled by what seems an academic distinction – after all, surely a field is a field – and, actually, doesn’t it look more pleasing filled with a single neat crop rather than a jumble of weeds swarming with creepy crawlies? He decides to toss in his four penneth.
‘If it’s cash they’re after, why go round the houses? Surely they’ll just flog it and do one, Guv?’
In the absence of anything left to eat, Skelgill gnaws tenaciously on a thumbnail.
‘By the look of it, Leyton – none of them’s exactly in queer street.’
He pauses and there is another round of silence. It is plain to the trio that this is their next line of investigation: it does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the death of Declan has opened the door to a potential pecuniary windfall – albeit there could be a more complex motive at play.
‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when they have their vote.’
His eyes drift to the view through a skylight window – although his brooding expression suggests that the darkening sliver of horizon, marked by the distinctive summit of Grisedale Pike, is not where his thoughts lie – and that he is calculating just how he might become that fly.
DS Jones makes a little jolt forwards – as if she too has been contemplating this matter and already has a plan in mind. But she refrains from offering a comment, and shakes her head in self-reproach. Her unnatural movement attracts Skelgill’s attention, and for a moment he regards her warily. Then he composes himself and clears his throat to speak.
‘In the meantime, we need to get them all checked out. Leyton – you take the twins. There’s no love lost between them. If there’s any closing of family ranks, it’s a chink in their armour. Just mention the gerbil.’ Skelgill lets out a rather schoolboy-like snigger. Then he smiles somewhat smarmily at DS Jones. ‘Jones – take Martius and Cassandra – start with their finances. I’ll take Mullarkey and the staff – plus Perdita since she’s planning to lodge at Grasmere. I’ve got a few local contacts I want to tap up, anyway. Kill two birds with one stone.’
DS Leyton seems quite content with this arrangement, but once again DS Jones’s features reveal a degree of consternation – that Skelgill is orchestrating affairs with some ulterior purpose in mind. Her suspicions may be reinforced by his next, rather gratuitous remark.
‘Leyton – Brutus – another angle – he’s obviously gay – leaves him open to blackmail – you know what these showbiz types are like.’
DS Leyton rolls his eyes – it is an unusual expression and one that suggests he is not entirely in accord with his superior; it is more a face of bafflement that Skelgill has crowbarred the notion into the briefing. But while DS Leyton holds his peace – and rather reluctantly nods in compliance – DS Jones is prompted to speak out.
‘Guv – I don’t think Brutus is gay.’ She sets her jaw determinedly in the face of Skelgill’s stare. ‘Don’t you mean Edgar?’
Skelgill continues to glare at her.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s Edgar that’s gay, Guv.’
Skelgill remains mulish.
‘Who told you this?’
DS Jones relaxes and gives a little sigh. The hint of a knowing smile teases the corners of her lips. Suddenly armed with feminine intuition, she senses her advantage. She glances at DS Leyton to see that he is watching her with interest.
‘Guv – I just know – it was really, well – obvious.’
Skelgill inspects his palm as if he is recalling Edgar’s extended handshake. He looks defiantly from one to the other of his colleagues. Having unadvisedly raised this subject, it would appear he seeks an exit strategy. It arrives from an unexpected quarter. As his eyes dart erratically about the store they fall upon a shock of strawberry blonde hair bobbing beyond the rack of waterproofs he earlier used for cover. The shopper removes a garment from its hanger and holds it experimentally to catch the light. Swiftly, a sales assistant moves in for the kill.
‘Hey up.’ Skelgill springs to his feet. ‘That’s not what she wants – can’t let them rip her off.’
Without further explanation he strides away and thumps down the steps to the retail floor. The shopper is Perdita.
11. CRUMMOCK WATER – Tuesday 10.30am
‘So it was just above Low Ling Crag it went down?’
‘Aye, ower yonder.’
Eric Rudd casts an arm like he might a fly, indicating to Skelgill the correct line of sight. While Skelgill is no stranger to Crummock Water, the venerable angler is a local legend, twice his age, and many times more wise. Nowadays the lake is separated from its rather more picturesque neighbour Buttermere by a half-mile-wide outwash plain of rich milk pastures (that may account for the latter’s name) – but once they were both part of a single massive glacial body of water, and Eric Rudd gives every impression that he might recall this epoch. Dog-legged Crummock Water is the source of the winding River Cocker, and both Crumm
ock and Cocker are derived from the ancient Brythonic Celtic word for ‘crooked’. Such an adjective befits the hunchbacked Eric Rudd, and the taller Skelgill literally bows to address his gnarled figure.
‘That’s the deepest part of the lake?’
‘Aye, ’undred an’ forty foot, lad. Goes down sheer.’
‘They’d rowed a good way from Crummock Hall boathouse.’
Eric Rudd shrugs.
‘Happen there were a northerly that day.’
‘How was the alarm raised?’
‘Hillwalker. Gadgee coming off Rannerdale Knotts. He heard shouts for help – could see they were shipping water.’
‘What did he do?’
The old man growls throatily, and it brings on a hacking cough. He turns to one side and spits to clear the way for his reply.
‘No mobile phones then, lad. Ran as best he could towards Buttermere. But it’s a good mile t’first house. It were above half hour before we’d got a boat up there.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘Too late.’
‘Aye, lad.’
‘What happened then, Eric?’
‘First off – there were talk that they’d swum – but we searched t’banks and there were no trace of ’em. Then some as said yon hillwalker must have invented t’story – attention seeking, like.’ He shakes his head and clears his throat once more. ‘But t’police checked with Crummock Hall – sure enough they were gone. Missing for a week.’
Now the man stares out across the lake.
‘That’s what I remember, Eric. All the talk in the village school was how long before the water gave up the bodies.’
‘Aye – they allus come back up.’
Now Skelgill allows himself a wry grin.
‘I can point you to a couple of cases where they didn’t, Eric.’
The old man chuckles, rather wickedly. More than one of Cumbria’s lakes have a macabre history in this regard – and may be the repository for who knows how many weighted corpses, slipped over the gunwales down the centuries.
‘Aye – keep your hook off t’bottom if you don’t want a nasty shock.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow.
‘I’m surprised the boat sank, Eric.’
Now the old man screws up his features; the low morning sunlight casts his complexion as a relief map of the district, his watery green eyes the lakes set deep in the shadowy dale.
‘Depends what ballast they had aboard, lad. Teks nobbut a split-shot to sink a float.’
Skelgill nods, but his expression tells he is dissatisfied with this aspect. It seems unlikely the craft was wrought from anything like the same stuff as Declan’s fabled walking stick.
‘What would it have been, clinker built?’
‘Aye, oak most like.’
‘Think there’s owt left of it, Eric?’
The fisherman shakes his head.
‘Nay, lad. She’ll be long gone. There’s all manner of worms down there.’
Skelgill still looks unconvinced. He suspects there is some complex equation that combines temperature and oxygen concentration and salinity (or lack of) that determines the survival of submerged wood. But if he has in mind an expedition, he must know he would be whistling in the wind – for any such search would be dangerous, expensive and almost certainly futile – and verging on impossible to justify given his present lack of an hypothesis. That he has followed his nose down to the lower reaches of Crummock Water is no basis for action. He has a big nose.
‘What were they up to, Eric – any idea?’
Eric Rudd removes his battered tweed trilby and retrieves a half-smoked roll-up from behind one ear. After a couple of attempts he succeeds in lighting it with a match. He inhales and then indulges in another bout of coughing and spitting. Squinting through the bluish smoke he finally addresses Skelgill’s inquiry.
‘Word was they’d gone fishing – leastways, his nibs. Reckon she just went along for the ride, his young lady wife.’ He takes another drag of the unfiltered smoke and exhales as he speaks. ‘Course, the Regulus gadgee – he were a townie – happen he didn’t rightly know what he was doing – panicked when they got into trouble. He couldn’t swim, neither. By all accounts she tried to save him – her scarf were wrapped round his wrist. Happen he dragged her down.’
Skelgill is looking grim faced.
‘There’s plenty of decent swimmers drowned in the lakes, Eric – you know that. Once the cold shock gets to you – it’s like you’re inside a sack of taters.’
‘Aye, if thou go under lad, that spells trouble.’
Now Skelgill hunches his shoulders and digs his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He takes a step towards the lake and stamps his feet. He is wearing a more conventional outfit than usual and must be cold. He gazes out across the wintry scene, its backcloth the distinctive muscular curves of Mellbreak – a mountain of “loneliness, solitude and silence” in Wainwright’s book, but a hunting leopard in Skelgill’s own little game, prone and poised to spring. Beyond the perimeter ice a drake goldeneye, resplendent in black and white, is defying the laws of nature that they presently discuss. After each dive for food it bobs back up with such buoyancy that it almost leaves the surface, its slick plumage and a little shower of droplets sparkling in the sun. Skelgill breaks out of his reverie and turns to face his old friend. It appears he feels he has gleaned all he can at this moment.
‘Long time since we’ve had this much ice, Eric.’
Eric Rudd inhales viciously on the last vestige of his cigarette – it produces a pulmonary reaction like a misfiring diesel engine, and streams of smoke from the bristling twin exhausts of his nostrils.
‘Folk wo’ skating on it in ’63 – worst winter I can recall. Some were fishing like eskimos – cut little holes. I nivver sin owt caught, though.’
Skelgill makes a sound of amusement.
‘Had any char lately, Eric?’
‘Aye – afore the freeze set in – couple o’ four pounders on a minnow, trollin’ like.’
‘Nice one. I must give it a crack some time.’
‘Thou should – there’s more than yan lake int’ Lake District, lad.’
Automatically Skelgill begins to counter this statement – but then he breaks out into a grin – for Eric Rudd has cannily subverted his regular aphorism and has a mischievous glint in his eye.
‘An’ there’s more to life than pike, lad.’
Skelgill chuckles and pats his elder upon the shoulder.
‘Right enough, Eric.’
‘Y’off ter see yer Ma?’
‘Aye, I’d better drop in later – if she gets wind I’ve been knocking about down here I’ll get my ear bent if I don’t.’
‘Get your timing right for dinner, lad.’
Skelgill pulls his right hand from the warmth of a pocket and checks his wristwatch. It is approaching eleven a.m. and his mother is likely still at work. Somewhat cagily he glances at Eric Rudd.
‘I should get a shift on, Eric – I need to see a man about a dog.’
The old man winks ostentatiously.
‘Aye – I thought thee were reet proper togged up, lad.’
*
‘Your donation went down a treat – I handed your cheque to the treasurer last night – thanks very much, er –’
‘Inspector –’ Perdita O’More interrupts; she holds up her gloved hands, but then she checks herself and catches her breath. She takes a couple of quick paces to get ahead of Skelgill, and nimbly turns to face him, stopping him in his tracks. ‘I realise I must refer to you by your title – but, would you mind – there’s no need for Miss or Madam or Ms – just call me by my name?’
Skelgill looks a little discomfited.
‘Aye – which one, then?’
Now she purrs and swings into step with him; they walk on through the well-trodden snow of the village path.
‘Well now – as I told you, I mainly go by Rowena these days – and that’s how I’ve registered at the B&
B.’
‘Rowena it is.’
Skelgill’s features give a hint that he wrestles with some conundrum – perhaps that he is sorely tempted to reciprocate the informality – but the inner voice of protocol prevails and he maintains a semblance of professional distance. His companion, however, appears unperturbed by this one-sided state of affairs, and now she grins somewhat ruefully.
‘Besides, after what happened on Sunday I think ‘Perdita’ is rather tempting fate.’
‘Aye?’
‘It’s a Latin name – it means ‘lost one’ – or ‘despairing’ – which is even more depressing. I don’t know what possessed Mama to deviate from the Irish tradition.’
‘She was an actress.’
‘But not at the RSC, Inspector.’
‘Happen it was your father’s influence?’
Perdita O’More purses her ruby lips and her dark eyes become pensive. She gazes at the ground passing beneath her feet – her sheepskin boots crunch on the ridges of frozen footprints of those who have gone before, and for a few moments it is plain that some memories have been stirred by Skelgill’s question.
‘I believe – that Dada had limited attention for us. He carried the great weight of the Regulus & Co merchant bank on his shoulders. No one wants to go down in the annals as the son that failed the family firm.’
Skelgill has his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and now he gives a casual jerk of the shoulders.
‘He didn’t hang about – made sure he had an heir – and plenty to spare.’
Murder at the Wake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 7) Page 12
