What is also plain to Skelgill is that they have to get everyone out of here as soon as possible. As he had drawn to the attention of Richard Bond – that the snow is accumulating in the lee of the train – the cutting likewise is filling up from the east; there is a ramp of snow that sweeps down over the southbound track, a cliff sliced through by their train before it hit the main bulk of the drift only thirty minutes ago. As such, the northbound track on which they are stranded is comparatively clear. Although the rails are already covered again, their profiles are visible, and the snow between them about eight inches deep. It reassures Skelgill that his method ought to be foolproof. By reference to fixed features – rail track, bridge and bridleway – he can effectively navigate blind.
Thus the first challenge is not to blunder past the footbridge. Having conferred in more detail with the driver, Skelgill’s estimate is that it is at least two hundred yards south of the train – and not more than four hundred. They have agreed initially to walk in single file to beat a path. Richard Bond had offered to go ahead, but Skelgill had merely responded with an exhortation to measure two hundred paces, and set off. As he counts rhythmically, and the process slips into his subconscious, he begins to wonder how to spot the bridge. If it were constructed for vehicular purposes it would have great piers of blue engineering bricks with their foundations at the trackside – even in the restricted visibility something that would be hard to miss. But a narrow footbridge will likely have its footings high on either embankment, veiled by the blizzard and beyond reach of their meagre torches. He is still turning this over in his mind when Richard Bond cries “Two hundred!” – his eager tone suggests he is pleased to be first.
Skelgill half turns and shouts beneath the wind that they should ‘fan out’. As a military command it seems Richard Bond needs no further instruction. They go more slowly – each at one margin of the track, trudging in deeper snow – but to Skelgill it still seems impossible that they will see anything. When train driver Laura glimpsed the underside of the bridge just prior to the impact, she was seated in a cab raised a good six feet higher, and had the benefit of immensely powerful headlamps. Though they are separated by just three or four yards, Skelgill can only see Richard Bond as a shimmering glow. He is directing his flashlight up the embankment – but surely to little avail. Skelgill has his to the ground. And now he calls out.
‘Wait!’
‘What is it?’
Richard Bond struggles across to him. Skelgill indicates the area at his feet.
‘Look at the change in depth – there’s a ridge right across the tracks.’
‘Good show – we must be under the deck.’ There is a note of excitement in Richard Bond’s voice. ‘I’ll go up – do a recce.’
Before Skelgill can object Richard Bond takes a line perpendicular to the tracks and Skelgill can see the halo of his torch rising; it disappears as he successfully scrambles up the side of the cutting. Skelgill feels frustrated by his own inaction – but he realises it is essential now that he does not move from the spot. And barely a minute later the pale glow reappears, and Richard Bond comes slip-sliding, half on his backside. As he reaches track level he stumbles forward and Skelgill has to brace to support his heavy bulk. His face is close to Skelgill’s; he is a little breathless.
‘A-okay. There’s a barred timber fence at the top – no problem to scale – I mean for the ladies.’ He squats on his haunches and begins to gather armfuls of snow. ‘We must mark the turn-off.’
‘Do it on the way back. We can bring something more obvious – a pole.’
Each time Skelgill employs a tone that resembles an order Richard Bond seems automatically to acquiesce.
‘Roger.’
But he is keen to lead the way back up the embankment. As Skelgill follows, he considers what may be the most fraught aspect of their task – to get the party up to the bridge. The banking is steep and the snow unstable – but Richard Bond has already ploughed something of a furrow, and their passage now, and again on return, should see them compress rudimentary steps into the snow. It is a lung-bursting climb – perhaps double the height of a house. But in due course they reach the fence to find themselves at the western end of the narrow footbridge. Now they are exposed to the full force of the gale – and it is a gale, eight on the Beaufort scale, Skelgill estimates – forty knots that would certainly drive him off Bassenthwaite Lake; though these conditions are more reminiscent of the bleak mile between Great End and the summit of Scafell Pike in the depths of winter.
The bridge itself offers some protection. Its sides are constructed of steel panels welded onto a box framework, up to chest height, and they withdraw into the mouth of this corridor to take stock. There is absolutely no indication that, only yards ahead, the railway ought to be bordered by a tall stand of conifers. Like a misguided bat a fluttering doubt invades Skelgill’s thoughts. What if this is the wrong bridge? What if the driver were mistaken and this is not Shake Holes cutting, but another one altogether? But he detects that Richard Bond seeks leadership, and he knows he must act before the man makes up his own mind. Striking a parallel line from the footbridge Skelgill leads the way into the void that is both black and white. And, sure enough, after a dozen paces there is the sense that something is changing. The constant barrage of the wind in the ears begins to relent; instead, overhead it acquires a new resonance, a surging oceanic roar – and Skelgill realises it is the interface of substance in its different forms, air forced across the rough plane of the treetops. Their pace quickens – for the conditions underfoot are improving rapidly. The dark matter that permeates the spinning galaxy of flakes seems blacker, the flurries less intense, and their torches begin to pick out the ranks of conifers on either side of the descending track.
This is of course what Skelgill had subliminally imagined – but had not allowed himself the luxury of visualising. The dense plantation serves as a windbreak, and the declination is curving away from the wind; meanwhile the progressively layered canopy is capturing the bulk of the snow. Yes, a whump close at hand reminds him it will dislodge in weighty clumps – perhaps accompanied by the odd weak bough – but it is a benign environment compared to the exposed crest of the cutting. Heading east to the M6 would have been foolhardy. As the path takes a turn to the south, Richard Bond echoes Skelgill’s unspoken assessment.
‘Frankly, this is a cakewalk for the likes of us. What about taking a bearing off the wind and yomping down through the woods? Save ourselves a few minutes.’
It pains Skelgill to shy at the gauntlet. He requires a moment’s thought to contrive a plausible rejoinder.
‘I reckon it’s better we check the exact route we’ll be bringing the others. Besides – it’s riddled with shake holes hereabouts – the bridleway’s the best way to stay safe.’
He senses that Richard Bond is stymied; indeed, the man’s reply is somewhat oblique.
‘I am forgetting this is your old stamping ground.’
It is hardly the case. They are a long way from Skelgill’s “old stamping ground” as Richard Bond has put it. He is a Cumberland lad; this is Westmorland. He knows it only from a couple of visits, exploring, and one time a mountain rescue training exercise across the bleak moorland to the north and east. Indeed, this district borders on the Yorkshire Dales – where the obscure geological features he has referred to are more prevalent.
‘You know what shake holes are, aye?’
‘I have not heard the term – I presume we are talking caves?’
‘Sinkholes. This is a limestone escarpment.’ Skelgill casts out a conciliatory hand. ‘Right enough – the madcap cavers dig out the boulder clay in the bottom to see if there’s a pothole worth exploring. But they can fill with drifted snow – they’re like the mantraps the Romans used to dig round their forts.’
‘Lilia, yes?’
Now it is Skelgill’s turn to confront his ignorance; he guesses that Bond, with his public school accent, would probably know this sort of thing. Be
fore he can speak, however, his companion asks a follow-up question.
‘How deep are they?’
Skelgill is content to expound.
‘Most are just up to your waist – others a dozen, twenty foot – as much as forty. If you’re really unlucky, like I say – there can be a pothole disappearing into the rock. They’re a constant hazard for sheep. Walkers, too. Especially when they’ve filled with bog and look like solid ground.’
‘You must show me if we pass one.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t find one by accident.’
‘Hear, hear.’
On such a theme they now each sink into something of a brown study as they march, falling into step through the crisp snow. Skelgill reflects upon what Richard Bond has said – certainly it is true that this is not a particularly challenging expedition for either of them. But he is wondering who else is on the train – it occurs to him that among the passengers hitherto unseen might be the elderly or infirm. He ought to have established this fact before setting out – and now he has no means of contacting his team for confirmation. In his desire to act – perhaps under pressure to stay one step ahead of Richard Bond and thus hold him in check – he has overlooked a basic principle. But now his torch catches a shadow in the terrain where there is a small clearing at one side of the track, and a round snow-filled depression about ten feet across.
‘I reckon that’s a shake hole. That’s why it’s not planted.’
They halt for a moment.
‘It could be a bomb crater. The size of a half-decent mortar, wouldn’t you say?’
Skelgill wonders if this is a kind of subconscious one-upmanship, that Richard Bond can’t help it, and that his questions of this nature are to all intents and purposes rhetorical. Thus he does not respond, and following a few seconds’ contemplation they move on. In these conditions Skelgill would expect to cover a mile in fifteen minutes, and the way through the woods is barely two-thirds of that. Accordingly, they encounter a marked deterioration in visibility as they emerge from the western fringe of the plantation. With nothing to guide them Skelgill’s fears resurface – is this the right route after all? He racks his memory – when last he perused the map, how far was the hotel? Surely it was adjacent to the pale green segment with its little stick-drawn conifers? And his concern is short lived – for they have taken barely thirty tentative paces before the building looms up before them. Of course – this place was a traditional coaching inn, and an ancient route now largely forsaken has aided them. His rejuvenated spirits, however, are tainted by an absence of parked cars, or even tyre tracks buried in the snow; the surroundings are pristine. No light shows from any window; indeed their torches reveal the old building as stark and desolate; there are fissures in its white stuccoed walls, and the window jambs, sills and lintels picked out in black are flaking extravagantly. Above the recessed portico are painted the fading words ‘Shake Holes Inn’ – he notices that the ascender of the first letter ‘h’ is worn away, so as to suggest ‘Snake’ to the uninitiated.
Skelgill is not ready to accept that the place has been abandoned. Yet, by this time of the morning – approaching 6am – he would expect the first stirrings of staff, even in a modest hotel such as this; and somebody must live-in, even if the majority of workers are dailies. And, given last night’s conditions, it is possible that bar and kitchen staff would have been obliged to stay over.
But he can reach no conclusion, and while he is shining his flashlight in search of a bell-pull Richard Bond strides forward and hammers upon the heavy oak door. Skelgill cannot help thinking this is ham-fisted (never mind that it literally is so) – for it smacks of a police raid to bang aggressively at such an ungodly hour. If there are occupants, they will surely not be enamoured of their appeal for assistance. But he is reminded of the Shap summit memorial – not too far from here, beside the old A6 trunk road – its inscription commemorating the local people that “gave freely of food and shelter to stranded travellers in bad weather” – and he holds this tradition in mind as there comes a scrabbling of locks and chains from behind the door.
It swings open wide enough to admit them, almost as though their arrival has been anticipated. And, as for tradition, the impression of bygone times is enhanced – for before them stands a Dickensian apparition, a slight young woman, pale of complexion, clad in a flowing white nightdress. Long dark tresses spill in rivulets over her shoulders and breast; dark eyes glitter beneath arched brows in the flickering light of the candle that she bears in an old-fashioned brass holder.
‘Quickly. You must come in.’
She steps aside to allow the two men to pass; they must seem tall and bulky to her, yet she shows no sign of feeling intimidated and presses shut the door. Could it be their matching railway-issue drysuits with their reflective stripes and panels convey some sense of officialdom? Accordingly Skelgill finds himself skipping formalities with a question an official might ask.
‘Is there a power cut?’
The girl – she must be in her early twenties – still does not appear fazed.
‘Yes – but we have a generator – it is turned off for the night to conserve fuel.’
Though she is articulate Skelgill realises her accent is not British – but such a thing can be a rarity in the hospitality business these days.
‘What about your guests?’
‘We have no guests – there was a –’
‘Sam – what is going on?’
It is another foreign accent (the word ‘what’ pronounced with a ‘v’ sound). German, or Dutch, Skelgill thinks. The voice is male, commanding, gravelly, and it comes from above them, from the darkness beyond the hallway in which they stand – perhaps the man is leaning over a balcony. Skelgill short-circuits any further preamble.
‘Cumbria CID, sir.’ He does not distinguish between himself and Richard Bond. ‘We’ve got folk stranded on a snowbound train – we need to bring them here for their own safety. We’d like to borrow some of your outdoor gear.’
The man makes an unintelligible exclamation – unintelligible to Skelgill, that is – but Richard Bond promptly responds.
‘Is jy ’n Afrikaner?’
There is a brief pause – as if the invisible man is evaluating his options – and perhaps the realisation that he cannot hide his feelings behind an alien tongue.
‘Ja. Jy?’
‘Namibiese. Ek praat Afrikaans. Hou by Engels assebleif.’
Richard Bond leans close to Skelgill and hisses rather loudly.
‘He’s South African – I have instructed him to speak English.’
Skelgill wonders what else Richard Bond told him – something about his own provenance that doesn’t quite ring true?
‘He didn’t sound too chuffed.’
‘Never fear – like I say, he’s South African.’ Richard Bond chortles heartily at his private joke – and now seems to have no qualms in directing his flashlight upon what proves to be a heavily built man in his late forties with a broad head and unkempt black hair trailing over a swarthy, twisted countenance, who is descending with the aid of a stick a wide staircase and attempting to fasten one-handed a tartan-patterned dressing gown over flannel pyjamas. ‘Here he comes.’
At the moment only the single candle held by the girl otherwise lights them. She seems to appreciate this, and she extends it at arm’s length and the four of them converge around it as the man approaches. He glares; his features are noticeably lopsided.
‘I am Joost Merlyn, landlord.’
Skelgill introduces himself by his title and surname, and his companion simply as ‘Bond’, which he detects meets with the latter’s approval.
‘Samanta is my housekeeper.’
Skelgill and Richard Bond duly nod towards the young woman. It strikes Skelgill as an outmoded job title; but he turns back to the owner.
‘First, I’d like to use your phone, sir.’
‘Ach – the lines were brought down last night. Nor do we have a mobile signal in t
his dale.’
Skelgill clicks his tongue in frustration.
‘But I gather you’ve got your own power.’
He gives a tip of his head to indicate that the girl has communicated this fact.
‘Ja – we have a generator – it is sufficient for the lights. There is plenty of oil for heating. And no shortage of timber, naturally.’
Skelgill is nodding implacably. He begins to speak but realises that what he is about to relate is incomplete in his own mind.
‘There’s – approximately – twenty people.’ He senses Richard Bond wants to interject, the man inhales – but Skelgill continues quickly. ‘It’s not a difficult walk – under a mile, with a favourable slope – but we need protective gear and boots or wellingtons. Then a couple of big rucksacks if you’ve got them – otherwise maybe holdalls, and sledges that we can drag them on.’
‘We do not have rucksacks.’
‘The canvas laundry bags.’ This is Samanta. She looks hopefully at Skelgill. ‘We have our sheets and towels delivered in them. They have a large capacity. I can show you. The linen store is beside the tack room.’
She reaches out and lightly touches Skelgill’s sleeve – then she glances apprehensively at her employer; it is as if the greater powers of the two arrivals have usurped his authority, and she is torn between whom she must serve. But it seems Joost Merlyn grudgingly acquiesces.
‘The toboggans are in the old stables. It is easiest to reach them from the front door. Turn to the right and again under the archway into the courtyard.’
‘I’m on it.’ Richard Bond immediately strides away, clicking on his torch. He calls out more loudly without turning, ‘Depending what you’ve got we can probably stack them and take several each.’
Skelgill regards Joost Merlyn and at the same time gestures with an open palm towards the girl.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 57
