Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

‘Let’s have a deek.’

  They move into the bathroom. Sure enough on the back of the door is a solid brass hat-and-coat hook. A white towelling robe lies crumpled on the floor in the corner, more or less beneath. Skelgill grabs hold of the longer spur and gives it a couple of hard tugs – the device is secured by four slot-head screws, size 6 he guesses – it feels to him that if it were a climbing hold he could trust it with his weight. It is set just above his eye level; he is five or six inches taller than his colleague.

  ‘Stand there – try it – see if this stacks up.’

  DS Jones makes a face of exaggerated trepidation. But she passes the boa over her head like a garland, twists it once and then reaches up to loop it over the hat spur. She turns easily to face him.

  ‘It’s long enough, Guv – possibly too long.’

  ‘If she’d put in a few more twists – that would have shortened it. Like if you spin yourself round.’

  With a rueful grin, DS Jones ducks out of the noose.

  ‘I’ll skip that part of the experiment, if you don’t mind.’

  However, she backs against the door, beneath the hook, and bends her knees to demonstrate a second point.

  ‘There’s not a huge margin of error, Guv – she would have needed to make her legs give way – in which case her weight would still have been partially supported.’

  ‘Or jerk them off the ground completely.’

  DS Jones frowns as she tries to imagine whether such a contortion would be possible. Skelgill meanwhile starts to make a cursory inspection of the contents of the bathroom. An array of toiletries has been neatly merchandised upon a glass shelf; it has the look of a beauty counter in an upmarket store. His face is grim – lotions and potions that do not smell of ground bait are anathema to him.

  ‘She may not have meant to kill herself, Guv.’

  Skelgill – despite himself – is examining a packet of “anti-aging serum”, scowling as he wrestles with the hyperbole printed on the box. He makes a distracted grunt of acknowledgement. DS Jones continues.

  ‘The forensics course I attended in January – there was a module on suicide investigation – the statistics indicate that roughly half of all people who make an attempt are actually in the ‘cry for help’ category. An early-intervention programme at a university in the USA reduced the death rate by 55%. Also, a significant proportion of suicides are accidental – Guv?’

  Skelgill is still holding the wrinkle-reducing balm – though now he has his face pressed close to a vanity mirror.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Usually it’s an overdose, or –’ She hesitates. ‘Or in some instances a sex game gone wrong.’

  Skelgill puts down the cosmetic, but he does not meet his colleague’s gaze. He lowers his head distractedly, and digs his hands into his pockets – but then he pulls them out again and swivels on his heel and strides out of the bathroom. He speaks over his shoulder.

  ‘Keep an open mind, eh, lass?’

  DS Jones takes a few moments to look about the bathroom. She satisfies herself there is nothing more of significance. She carries the boa with her – and places it on a chair beside the main door. Skelgill, meanwhile, has disappeared into the dressing room. She enters to find him unlocking the interconnecting door. It opens to reveal a second, identical door, flush with the first. Skelgill knocks but does not wait for a reply and immediately tries the handle – however, the door is locked – he drops to one knee and places his left eye against the keyhole.

  ‘The key’s in it.’

  He rises and knocks again, more vigorously – and calls out, “Mr Liddell?” – but there is no answer, or sound of movement.

  ‘Perhaps they’re all down at lunch, Guv?’

  A picture of thick-cut honey-cured ham and ale-steeped wholegrain mustard on lavishly buttered farmhouse bread suddenly hijacks Skelgill’s thoughts. He can feel his mouth beginning to water. He swallows, and shakes his head to dispel the image – inadvertently giving the impression that he gainsays his subordinate. He turns his attention to the interior of the dressing room. It is more of a walk-in wardrobe – equivalent in depth to the bathroom, being part of a continuous partitioned section, but shorter in width, a floor space of about eight feet by five. There is a freestanding cheval glass, and a brass clothes rail running the length of one side and shelves and pigeonholes on the other. DS Jones begins to browse carefully through little stacks of exotic-looking garments filed neatly in several of the latter.

  ‘There’s no shortage of underwear, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not reply. He is looking at a set of matching wheeled designer luggage, arranged in descending size order beneath one end of the hanging rail, on which an extensive collection of skirts, dresses, slacks and blouses is displayed.

  ‘Never mind three nights – you’d think she’d come for three weeks. Look here – there’s the thick end of a dozen pairs of fancy shoes.’

  But DS Jones seems disinclined to disparage. Her expression has become one of introspection. It is as if this act of physical immersion in Scarlett Liddell’s decadent wardrobe has recalibrated her insight – after all, the dead woman was close on her own age. And it tells of a lifestyle to which most young women would surely aspire. When she responds her tone betrays some other emotion – and certainly not envy, it is more a note of wistful frustration.

  ‘There must be thirty thousand pounds’ worth of clothes here, Guv.’

  Skelgill detects something of her conversion; he swivels to face her.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  DS Jones turns out her full lower lip in an exaggerated gesture. She takes down a silk dress from the rail and holds it in front of herself before the mirror and strikes a model’s pose.

  ‘You’d think all this would make you happy, Guv.’

  Skelgill’s gaze is fixed on her reflection, his eyes wide – though he does not reveal the source of his reaction, nor offer to expand upon her supposition. Instead he steps past her, back into the bedroom. He crosses to a Queen Anne walnut dressing table topped by a misty triptych mirror, which is set before the south-facing window. The first thing that strikes him is the presence of two glasses – one a traditional martini glass with a residue of yellowish liquid, and the other an empty sherry glass. He scans the various grooming accessories – but the item that he reaches for is a black envelope embossed with a gold leaf art deco pattern and the name Mitzi printed in matching Rennie Mackintosh type. The envelope is open – Skelgill withdraws a card designed in the same style – also black, with the text reversed out in gold. He does not attempt to read it.

  ‘Look at this.’

  DS Jones approaches and takes the card as he offers it. She reads aloud.

  ‘You are Mitzi, housekeeper and cook, a refugee from war-torn Europe. You are paranoid, believing someone is out to get you. When the lights go out in the library and shots are fired, you are in the dining room, polishing the silver. The door is locked on the outside. You become hysterical and begin screaming loudly.’

  DS Jones turns the card over, but the flip side is blank.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Seems to be, Guv. Perhaps they get more instructions as they go along. Or maybe they just improvise.’

  Skelgill looks away, rather disinterestedly.

  ‘What happened – in the book?’

  A smile forms upon DS Jones’s lips.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Inspector – you will certainly want to read it someday.’

  She does a passable impression of the upper-class accent of Lavinia Montagu-Browne.

  ‘Very funny, Jones.’

  ‘Actually, it’s a clever plot. One of her classics, like the lady said.’ DS Jones glances again at the description on the card. ‘I don’t see any connection – other than maybe the locked door – but locked doors were Agatha Christie’s stock in trade.’

  Skelgill appears unhappy with what he is about to say. It is through gritted teeth that he speaks.

  ‘Th
is Mitzi character – does she get bumped off?’

  DS Jones shakes her head.

  ‘In the first instance it’s the intruder that is killed – shot, apparently by his own gun.’ She grins once more. ‘And that’s not a spoiler, Guv – in fact it probably tells you that in the blurb. I suppose from the point of view of this party – Lavinia Montagu-Browne playing the victim keeps all of the guests involved the game.’

  Skelgill is making a series of pained faces – some of them it seems for DS Jones’s benefit – for it prompts her to question him directly.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  ‘Happen I’ll just buy this book – take it up to the Chief – tell her I’ve got this new way of solving crimes. Never mind sending folk on fancy courses – you find a story that’s vaguely like your case – hey presto!’ He snaps his fingers. ‘The butler did it.’

  DS Jones shows her amusement with a broad smile, flashing her even white teeth.

  ‘Actually, Guv – you’re describing Miss Marple’s method. Though it’s not always the butler.’

  Skelgill strides over to the window on the west side. He leans into the recess, supporting himself upon the heels of his hands on the deep sill. He contemplates the outlook.

  ‘How come you’re such an expert on Agatha Christie?’

  ‘Oh.’ DS Jones is checking under the bed. ‘My Gran is a massive fan – she’s got the entire collection. I used to read them when I was a teenager. There are so many that Gran insists you don’t need any other books. By the time you’ve finished the last one, you’ve long forgotten the first – so you can just start again. The Mysterious Affair At Styles.’

  Skelgill seems pensive. It is half a minute before he speaks.

  ‘Aye – I’m a bit like that with my Wainwrights – amazing how much slips your mind.’

  He remains looking out of the window. Though he is silent, his lips seem to be moving. Perhaps he is testing himself on the names of the visible fell tops and landmarks. There is a good view of the slopes of Barf (“insignificant in height, but hostile and aggressive” according to Alfred Wainwright), and the Bishop, the whitewashed rock pinnacle that baffles many a passing visitor. Beyond is Lord’s Seat, maintaining the lofty theme. The day is cool and bright and breezy, and fair weather clouds are roughly reflected in the quite choppy waters of Bassenthwaite Lake. Above the ridge a buzzard sails downwind, shadowed by a small murder of crows. Skelgill pulls away from the window, ducking low to avoid catching the back of his head. He casts about the room, but in a general, rather vague way.

  ‘We’d better lock up – and get those spare keys off her ladyship.’

  DS Jones aims a sharp glance at her boss. The significance of what he says does not escape her.

  ‘Do you want to get forensics in?’

  Skelgill shrugs dispassionately.

  ‘Happen they’ll find something we’ve missed. Even if it’s just for the record.’

  He stoops to pick up some small object from the rug. It looks like a large hairgrip – he bridges it between his thumb and the tip of his ring finger, and turns it absently with the fingers of his other hand. Then he gestures loosely at the dressing table, where the two glasses stand – usually the first port of call for fingerprints. Now DS Jones is looking at him still more acutely.

  ‘Think it is a crime, Guv?’

  Skelgill manufactures a wry grin.

  ‘Can’t tell you, lass – that would be a plot spoiler.’

  4. WILL LIDDELL

  Sunday, early afternoon

  Along with the library, on its south side, the medieval heart of Greenmire Castle boasts on its raised ground floor a dining room with windows facing west, and a drawing room; and to the east a billiards room and a study. It is to the last of these that Lavinia Montagu-Browne has directed Skelgill and DS Jones.

  A youthful face – that could be taken for the countenance of a man ten years younger – turns up towards them as they enter without knocking. That the face is also expressionless strikes Skelgill as odd, although not in any way that he can put his finger on – is it the face of a man still in shock from his traumatic experience (quite plausible) – or the face of a man with something to hide? That Skelgill should entertain the latter idea can be based on no facts that they have encountered – but it forces him to consider whether he has subconsciously gleaned some information upon which Will Liddell’s unnatural reaction suddenly casts a light.

  However, as they make introductions and convey their commiserations, and Skelgill explains the necessity for their interview, it is a feeling that begins to dissipate – for the man’s expression does not markedly change. Perhaps after all it was not an unguarded response but simply his way of being – a rather unemotional, apparently humourless manner, a man not tending to loquaciousness, but one from whom information has to be patiently drawn. Perhaps it is a learned business trait, where the first rule is to give nothing away to one’s adversary, especially in times of setback – or perhaps it is a similar ethic ingrained much earlier in life. That is something with which Skelgill can identify.

  He notices the man’s eyes flick appraisingly over DS Jones as she takes her seat, and while she is preoccupied with extracting her notebook and pen from her shoulder bag. It is a natural enough thing to do, though DS Jones is wearing close-fitting black stretch jeans, and it seems the man’s gaze lingers as she settles herself and crosses her legs.

  Their seating arrangement is of several comfortable Georgian wing armchairs, old in style but new in condition, in keeping with the ambiance of quality that pervades the upmarket establishment, crowded around a coffee table. On this lies an expensive laptop that Will Liddell has gently pressed shut before rising to receive them.

  His boyish appearance is furthered by his medium height (on moderately stacked heels), neat build, short dark hair cut in no particular fashion of the day, and features that neither seem to have enlarged with puberty nor subsequently settled with the onset of early middle age. He has a narrow, serious mouth, pale unblemished skin, no obvious cheekbones – indeed it is a doughy characterless visage housing small sky-blue eyes that rove about without great urgency. There are dark half-moon shadows beneath, which can be put down presumably to a night of broken sleep. Only the nose perhaps, leaves anything of a lasting impression, drooping and broader at the tip than the rest of the features might easily accommodate. Skelgill notices he has a modest paunch beneath a Pringle sweater worn over a polo shirt; and, without looking overweight, a general fleshiness that goes with good eating. Overall, it is the look of someone unwinding in the members’ lounge of a prestigious golf club.

  And his accent supports this notion, it is what might disparagingly be called ‘Edinburgh English’, the lingua franca of FPs of the Scottish capital’s myriad private schools, the professional class, and does not really sound Scots at all. In such tenor he responds to Skelgill’s request to describe the discovery of his wife’s body.

  ‘I was concerned that Scarlett was late coming down to the library. We needed to be in our positions by 7.30pm. I went up but her door was locked and I could get no answer. I had handed my cocktail to Suzy Duff and she offered to come back up with me, the other way. We climbed the opposite staircase and went through my room, and the dressing rooms. Scarlett’s suite seemed deserted – until I looked in the bathroom –’ He swallows. ‘And there she was.’

  Will Liddell reaches for a glass of what looks like plain tap water. He sips, and replaces it. Skelgill is reminded that he is thirsty. It has not escaped his attention that they have not yet been offered refreshments (never mind his fantasy ham sandwich).

  ‘And what did you do, sir?’

  ‘I said to Suzy to call an ambulance – urgently. I lifted Scarlett through onto the bed – unwound the feather boa – I couldn’t break it.’ He looks at his hands, as if there might be marks. ‘Then Suzy was performing CPR – until the paramedics came and took over. After a while they put her on a stretcher. I went with them to the hospital.
But they couldn’t save her.’

  Skelgill detects a glance in his direction from DS Jones – it is just a casual movement – but he knows she is concerned by something in the man’s reply. However, he accepts the explanation at face value, and moves on.

  ‘Was there anything about your wife – her past behaviour – that might explain what she did?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  Skelgill is surprised by the sudden vehemence of Will Liddell’s reply.

  ‘Nothing at all, sir?’

  ‘Naturally I have been running over all this.’

  ‘Was she taking any medication? For depression, for instance?’

  ‘No. But I imagine you will have access to her medical records.’ There is just a hint of irritation in the man’s tone – perhaps that his testimony is being challenged.

  ‘What about non-prescription drugs, sir?’

  Within the strictures of his rigid countenance Will Liddell seems to bridle. Plainly he takes offence at Skelgill’s euphemism.

  ‘Scarlett wouldn’t touch so much as a cigarette.’

  ‘The preliminary toxicology report indicated she’d had quite a lot to drink.’

  ‘No more than anyone – it is the nature of these events. And perfectly legal.’

  The exchange has become rather terse. Skelgill shifts in his seat, and looks around – though there is little of note in the rather gloomy study – the oak panelled walls are hung with ornately framed portraits – why did they paint them so black? Was life so dark? However, the room is at least cheered by a fire that smoulders in a grate just across from them. Skelgill can see a means of improvement – he has to resist the urge to go over and rearrange the logs. He returns his gaze to Will Liddell.

  ‘What exactly is the nature of this event, sir?’

  The man’s expression distinctly softens; indeed he seems almost to demand sympathy.

  ‘It was my birthday – on Friday – you know, The Big Four-O?’

  Skelgill senses again that DS Jones is looking at him – no doubt expecting him to announce the coincidence – to make some remark that will claim the date for himself. But though he is certainly jolted, and has to wrestle with competing thoughts, it is a more oblique rejoinder that comes out on top.