Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  Arl – old

  Bairn – child

  Bait – packed lunch

  Beck – mountain stream

  Bewer – girlfriend

  Bin – been

  Bowk – vomit

  Butcher’s – look (‘butcher’s hook’)

  Caw canny – go carefully

  Chippy – fish and chip shop

  Deek – look/look at

  Dibble – policeman

  Divvent – don’t

  Dog and bone – phone

  Donnat – idiot

  Foily – smelly

  Gaff – property/home

  Gaggin’ – thirsty

  Gannings-on – mischievous behaviour

  Garn – going

  Geezer – man

  Ginnel – alley

  Griff – information

  Happen – possibly, maybe, it seems

  Hause – mountain pass

  Half-inch – steal (‘pinch’)

  Hogg – a lamb that has finished weaning

  Hossing/Hoying – raining very heavily

  Int’ – in the

  Jip – discomfort

  Kack – excrement

  Kaylied – drunk

  Ken – know; you know

  Kezzick – Keswick

  Kwacker – Kawasaki

  Lass – girl, young woman

  Marra – mate (friend)

  Manc – a Mancunian (ie. from Manchester)

  Mash – tea, making a pot of tea

  Mesen – myself

  Mither – bother

  Nobbut – only

  Nowt – nothing

  Offcomer – outsider

  Oor – our

  Ower – over

  Owt – anything

  Pereth – Penrith

  Reet – right

  Scrats – scratches

  Scrumping – children raiding fruit

  Shreddies – underpants

  Skid-lid – crash helmet

  Sommat – something

  Stotting – raining heavily

  T’ – the

  Tapped – mad, crazy

  Tea leaf – thief

  Tek – take

  Thee/thew/thou – you

  Tod – own/alone (‘Tod Sloan’)

  Trod – narrow path made by sheep

  Twa – two

  Twatted – hit, struck

  Tyke – Yorkshireman/dialect

  Tup – ram (male sheep)

  Us – me

  Watter – water

  While – until

  Wukiton – Workington

  Yan – one

  Yon – that, those

  Yourn – yours

  Yowe – ewe

  1. HAYSTACKS

  Friday, morning

  There can’t be two girls in Buttermere that sport a green topknot and own a dog with a matching dip-dyed tail. So, he is not alone in exchanging the fug of the inn for the fresh mountain air.

  She runs well. Her sure-footed companion, a little ahead, seems to know the way.

  At the wake she had answered him shyly when he had stooped to fuss the handsome Border Collie and ask its name (“Jess”, he thought he heard) – but he too had been reticent, for he could not fathom quite who she was – never mind recall their relationship – she had most likely grown a couple of feet since he last set eyes upon her at some family gathering. Certainly she had the cast of a Graham, the long aquiline nose, pale hooded eyes, and rangy build, tall for a female, hovering somewhere in the midst of teenage.

  He had assumed that she was a ‘goth’, so called, and the diffidence part of the persona – but on reflection that could have been the green hair working in conjunction with black funeral attire and genuine solemnity – for now in running gear she cuts an altogether different jib, eating up the incline with loping strides – impressive if, as it appears, she has just run up Fleetwith Edge; it is a lung-bursting ascent he has scaled many times, although on reflection not recently.

  The dog trots along easily, unleashed – in which case obedience will need to be the watchword, for Herdwick ewes are back on the fells with their latest brood of sturdy lambs, for a spirited sheepdog too tempting not to nip, lest they learn ideas above their station. He watches the pair as they crest the distinctive apex of Fleetwith Pike and continue apace, heading east towards Black Star above Honister Crag, and he wonders what route the girl will take – presumably down through the old green slate quarries, and back to Buttermere via the hause.

  Skelgill lowers his binoculars. He glowers at the heavens. In the Cumbrian fells, the calendar is no guarantee of good weather. It might be mid June but he could be dressed for December. That said, observed a few minutes earlier – which he was, by a group of bemused walkers whom he overtook – he presented an equally incongruous sight – in walking boots, yes, but also suit trousers and a white formal shirt, unconventional hiking apparel, even for a man habitually prone to wardrobe malfunctions. Was he speeding up the fell for some kind of extreme ironing charity challenge? (Certainly the shirt could do with pressing; but there was no ironing board). And now these curiously formal garments are covered by his waterproofs – not because it is raining, but that a south-westerly rips up from Ennerdale, turning sweat into the beginnings of hypothermia.

  Skelgill’s particular fell is Haystacks. He knows its topography intimately. At a semi-sheltered grassy spot beside the small summit tarn he kicked, punched and cursed his way into the said leggings and cagoule. A traverse of the short ridge led him to the precipitous outcrop known as Big Stack; to the climber that pauses to draw the comparison, it is like the head of a sphinx. A somewhat hair-raising scramble has him upon a ledge in the lee proper, facing north-east, a lofty eyrie sixteen hundred feet above Warnscale Bottom.

  He pulls out from his rucksack a flask, a tin mug, and a small parcel wrapped in creased brown paper and secured with fibrous jute twine of the sort used by gardeners. He finds niches in the rock for the mug and the parcel, and unscrews the flask. The tea is piping hot, drawn from a great stainless steel urn that bubbled at one end of the modest buffet. Wraiths of steam rise as he pours. That some token spirit seems to be present feels fitting. The wake has followed the funeral of a late great uncle, Ernie Graham, 94, at the tiny church of St James where, upon his pew beside ‘Wainwright’s Window’, Skelgill had been inspired to formulate his flight.

  The Grahams are the maternal branch of his family tree, a somewhat disreputable and insidious tribe with roots that infiltrate much of Lakeland’s soil. While the Skelgills are a rarer subspecies, Graham cousins sprout like rogue shoots seemingly wherever he may go. Graham fecundity and its concomitant grapevine generally has its uses in his line; but on occasions such as today’s hindrances prevail. His standing in Cumbria CID is widely known and – on the whole – admired. He is probably the nearest to a representative of the professional classes that the clan has achieved. But, rather like a doctor or lawyer, at family gatherings he finds himself regaled with multifarious woes: impossible questions, spurious tip-offs and mischievous complaints. And those that do not engage thus he suspects of having something to hide – perhaps even trying in a roundabout fashion to glean what he knows of the skeletons in their closets. Within the hallowed walls and austere graveyard of St James’ he had the protection of protocol. But once the funeral party had decamped to the ‘private function’ in the lounge bar of the inn, and tongues were progressively loosened by ale and gin – it became open season.

  Skelgill had dutifully suffered a certain amount of haranguing, and resigned disapproval when he declined drinks (his excuse being that he was due later on shift), and had diplomatically pretended to remember blurred faces in the photographs pressed upon him – it seemed a competitive trio of uncles had transferred their albums to their mobile phones; consequently small cackling gaggles formed about the crowded room, leathery necks were craned for a sight of sleeker former selves. Stepping back from one such distracted cluster (“Tek a deek at o
or Nellie that time in Benidorm – she’s reet kaylied!”), Skelgill had seen the opportunity to commiserate with his great aunt Renie – oddly forsaken in a winged armchair beside the hearth – and in a way now forever alone, after a lifetime in his eyes as an indivisible unit, “Ernie-and-Renie”, living four doors along from his Ma’s.

  From her perspective, “Oor Minnie’s Daniel” had long been a special favourite, though she was no blood relation. Perhaps it was that she and Ernie were childless. It had always been her custom to furnish him with some small indulgence – most commonly Welsh cakes (for she was Verena Nash by birth, of Barry Island in the county of Glamorgan) – and she had duly implored him to lift up from beside her seat her carpet bag that served as a handbag. Thus it was that Skelgill came into possession of the small paper-wrapped packet, tied up with string.

  He is thinking that a melt-in-the-mouth Welsh cake or six will go down a treat with the hot tea – after all, he has just yomped it from Buttermere to Haystacks and that must be a thousand calories – but fingering the package he concludes it lacks the qualities of home baking, not least the smell – which, pressed to his nose, is musty, if not unpleasant. On reflection, his aunt Renie had passed the parcel with a certain amount of guile, and a sideways look that was decidedly conspiratorial. Long ago her spouse had been the village butcher down at Lorton – and in such a clandestine manner she must have palmed lamb chops to family members, until meat rationing ended in the 1950s. Skelgill scowls shrewishly, revealing his front teeth and inner doubt. No – the contents are not comestibles – too dense, too firm. It occurs to him, what if it is a stash from under the mattress, property of the Bank of England? There are relatives in greater need than he; though his defences admit a sudden guilty flash of the display of carbon fibre fishing rods at the tackle shop over at Penrith. But as he loosens the twine he discerns that there are two items, rectangles of slightly different dimensions, publications of some sort.

  There is a ‘Wainwright’, book seven, The Western Fells; and a Bartholomew map, Cumberland for Tourists & Cyclists. Ostensibly these are prosaic gifts – nevertheless the thought of home baking is driven from his mind. Torn – which to look at first – he stares helplessly for a few moments before folding the map back into the brown paper and – far less casually now – returning it to the niche in the rock. His rough hands dexterous – if trembling slightly – he leafs to the copyright page of the book – as he has hardly dared to suspect, it is a first edition! A modest oath is uttered. But there is more – he feels his heart take a little leap in his chest. For penned in neat cursive longhand is the dedication, “To Ernie and Renie – with thanks for your kindness – I passed on to my wife your excellent recipe for Welsh cakes – though as yet yours have not been bettered!” And the familiar monogram, “AWainwright”.

  It takes Skelgill a good minute to gather his thoughts – the idea that the legendary Lakes biographer endorsed the very copy in his hands has his head spinning in a way that the vertiginous third-of-a-mile drop beneath his feet might disorient a novice hillwalker. But, gradually, the detective in him asserts itself. Wainwright was known to pick the brains of country folk on his surveying expeditions, meticulous in logging details of routes and local names of topographical features. He must have stopped off at their cottage. Maybe when the furore of the day has died down Skelgill can quiz his great aunt. After all, she appeared to appreciate the magnitude of old Ernie’s bequest – indeed she may even have taken it upon herself to see that the items found their way to him.

  He reverts to the book. Of course, he knows its contents almost as well as the mountain upon which he perches. He has a copy – the complete set, naturally – but none so prized as this. Each volume is a little fact-packed bible, liberally sprinkled with sardonic wit and endearing pathos. There is a unique chiselled conflation of imagery and text that for him breathes life into the words. And such level-headed logic: the hills are listed in alphabetical order! Accordingly he thumbs to Haystacks – and begins to reprise the little debate that Wainwright had with himself about its spelling, “Haystacks” or “Hay Stacks” – and that he opted for the former, despite his admission that the Old Norse translation is surely “High Rocks” (definitely two words).

  Now Skelgill’s eye falls upon a more poignant passage. It is a beautifully descriptive eulogy of the fell – of its charms, of its mysteries, of its dangers – and there is the epitaph, “There are fierce crags and rough screes and outcrops that will be grittier still when the author’s ashes are scattered here.”

  Skelgill’s eyes close for a moment – perhaps of reverence – and he folds shut the little tome and slips it blind into the pocket over his heart. When he opens his eyes his gaze seems automatically to have found the tiny church of St James, two-and-a-half miles across the valley, the living map that spreads before him. Ah, yes – the map. He retrieves it from the crevice and considers its cover. “Price Three Shillings Net.” Like an Edwardian postage stamp, in faded Prussian blue and orange, undoubtedly it pre-dates the book. He unfolds it. At once fragile and robust, mounted upon cloth it is a masterpiece in browns and greens, and powder blue for its ribbon meres. It might be designated, ‘Cumberland’ – but he can see that it covers most of Westmorland, too. Small, practically so – under two feet by three fully opened – if a picture is worth ten thousand words this must be worth ten million – it tells a tale that is infinitely more intricate and far-reaching than any painting – of geological time interwoven with humankind’s tireless toil – of lakes formed, of stone hewn – of lives lived, of lives lost. He ponders this sentiment – and locates the date code (for he has maps like this, though none quite so ancient) – it states “A20” – meaning it was printed in the first half of 1920 – a year when every square mile on this map would still be mourning a son.

  The youngest of four brothers, uneasy with such thoughts, he forces himself to concentrate upon the landscape. His eyes flick to and fro, from the past to the present, map to reality. Though little has changed here in a hundred years. How many parts of the British Isles can make such a boast? He squints to read the necessarily tiny type – not helped by the overcast sky; it is at the limit of his creeping long-sightedness – though he is loath to acknowledge it. He homes in on Buttermere, and with a finger traces the fells that flank the lake and shadow its eponymous settlement. He takes a familiar route – up Sour Milk Gill (yes, it’s there all right), past Bleaberry Tarn to Red Pike, then the rollercoaster, High Stile, High Crag, Scarth Gap ... what? He affects a double take, jerking back his head. Scarth Gap ... Grey Knotts. Now he blinks hard several times, but to little avail. He grunts as he reaches to unclip the compass from his rucksack. It has a built-in magnifier – he holds it over the map and bends closer. Sure enough – Scarth Gap ... Grey Knotts. Between them two tiny tarns are etched in blue – he even recognises their shapes – the oxymoronic Innominate Tarn and Blackbeck Tarn. He sits up and rather belligerently juts out his jaw. There is no doubt about it. There is no Haystacks! Only a rocky escarpment is marked, like barbed wire along the contour line – but no summit symbol, and certainly no name.

  Puzzled, he folds away the map, and wraps it together with the Wainwright, loosely reties the parcel and then double-wraps it in a polythene carrier bag rescued from his rucksack. Spits of rain are in the air and he is taking no chances with such a precious cargo. He places it inside the main compartment of his bag – and then reaches again for his field glasses. Though he scans the dale, his gaze is drawn inexorably to the hamlet, Buttermere. While it is midsummer, smoke drifts from several chimneys – the inn, of course, where a fire has been lit out of a kind of respect – but also his mother’s cottage, and at the other end of the row Ernie and Renie’s. No – Renie’s. It’s just Renie’s now, remember – who will eat her Welsh cakes? Then the thought strikes him that – if Wainwright visited, which he surely did – what if he were supplied not only with sustenance but also with information? What if Ernie, in his thick Cumbrian brogue, point
ed out “High stacks”? It would have sounded like “Haystacks” – and sure enough it looks like a row of haystacks. But if Ernie had meant haystacks, he would have used the vernacular ‘haycocks’. Was that the moment the fell was unofficially and confusedly Christened – in due course to become one of the most famous summits in England? And now it has fallen to the unlikely figure of Skelgill to play antiquary!

  While he mulls over this small but not insignificant claim to fame for his antecedent (and the possibility of basking in its reflected glory), some movement in his field of view spikes his attention. There is a gathering of people in the car park of the inn – it looks rather like the sending off of a bride and groom – folk clustered around a car – it noses out from the crowd and accelerates away, one or two stragglers seeming to try to hang onto it for as long as possible. The people mill about for a few moments, before filing back into the side door that leads to the public bar. Even through his binoculars the distance is too great for Skelgill to make any identifications – but he gets glimpses of the car, a big white 4x4, as it travels rapidly, taking the bends that snake out of the village down towards Crummock Water, and finally out of sight around Hause Point. Maybe it was one of the hired cortege. That is something that has changed – a century ago a cart and horse served as hearse – or even the men of the family as granite-faced pall-bearers, for cottage to church is but a few hundred yards.

  A thrush-like call – a song in fact – at Skelgill’s shoulder causes him first to freeze and then slowly to turn his head. He finds he is sharing his rocky outcrop with a ring ouzel, the secretive mountain blackbird with its distinctive white bib. It is far from an easy species to spot, and rarely at such proximity. Ironically he has his binoculars in his hand but he doubts they would focus down so close, even if he could raise them without spooking the bird. Its territorial refrain is a mournful air, short plaintive notes repeated three or four times, a sound he is accustomed to hearing from below, indeed one that baffled him as a boy – he privately named it the “high crag whistler” – it would slip away on his approach, he uncertain if it were a bird or a climber or indeed a mountain spirit. Now this cock bird seems to wink at him – although he can only see one eye – and then with a sideways hop it disappears. Skelgill ponders the old shepherds’ saw – that an ouzel was a harbinger of death. He grimaces – these birds haunt the high tops – in times of yore an unfair advantage for the fellsman predisposed to darken the door of the inn bearing an ill omen.