Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 16
Skelgill appears a little reluctant to respond; it seems now he is on the receiving end of a fishing expedition.
‘Daniel – to illustrate – can you name, let’s say – an American baseball player?’
He is entirely perplexed; this comes from left of field.
‘Nay – don’t reckon I can. It’s not exactly cricket, Alice.’
She is undaunted.
‘Have you heard of Joe DiMaggio?’
‘Aye, of course.’
‘And what do you know about him?’
Skelgill screws up his features, revealing his front teeth in the effort of concentration.
‘He was in a song.’
Alice Wright-Fotheringham chuckles. She wags an index finger.
‘I think my point is proved.’
Now Skelgill nods slowly. She has tempted him out from the security of his lair. He inhales more philosophically now.
‘We know it’s no secret that Kyle Betony rubbed folk up the wrong way.’ He glances sideways and receives a nod of confirmation. ‘But he might have gone further – taken it too far. Perhaps for a reason – perhaps just because he was tactless and nosy. But he might have said something that was perceived as a threat.’
She does not answer. When he looks there is a glaze to her expression that he recalls from her days on the bench. But she issues a terse command.
‘Go on.’
Skelgill decides he can show something of his hand. He plays what he considers to be his safest card.
‘Mentioning no names. We know that one of committee stayed over and spent the night with a member of the opposite sex.’
Now a more prolonged silence ensues. They both gaze out over the silent lake. It is only when an iridescent-green-headed drake mallard makes an ungainly splashdown some twenty yards offshore that Alice Wright-Fotheringham pronounces.
‘It is usually close to home, is it not?’
When Skelgill turns to look at her, she expounds upon her judgement.
‘I have overseen many cases of divorce. Affairs – or indeed more legitimate relationships – they rarely drop out of the blue. Colleagues, neighbours, in-laws, old flames – they would account for almost every instance.’
Now Skelgill appears to be the one that is distracted.
‘Daniel?’
He starts.
‘Aye – they do.’
‘So that would be my advice – at least on that account.’
He nods.
‘It might be a red herring, Alice. Just a coincidence.’ The wrong rabbit hole.
‘Of course – you are right to be cautious.’
Now Skelgill is a little more forthcoming.
‘Trouble is – we don’t know much about Kyle Betony. There’s a stepping stone missing between him and the next person.’ He pauses for a moment – and then perhaps her maxim sinks in and he poses a specific question. ‘Seems he was touting the idea of a merger between the DAA and the AAA. Did you hear talk of that?’
Alice Wright-Fotheringham raises an eyebrow, but remains unflustered.
‘At the dinner I was not seated beside him. And I am not aware of any such discussion previously.’ She ponders for a moment. ‘I believe there used to be an annual match.’
Now Skelgill is surprised.
‘You know about that?’
She smiles patiently.
‘I was in London back in those days, of course. But, Daniel – don’t forget that I hail from a long line of Cumberland anglers.’
Skelgill nods reflectively.
‘I fished in it once.’
‘Really?’ She sounds intrigued. ‘That does not seem to be your style.’
He gives a shrug of his shoulders.
‘I were nobbut a bairn. A last-minute sub for the arl fella – he were – indisposed.’
She regards him with pointed amusement.
‘In the doghouse.’
‘You know that, an’ all?’
Skelgill sounds a little alarmed.
‘Daniel – Ah kent tha’ father.’ She assumes the accent in which she perhaps once spoke. ‘We were contemporaries of a sort.’
Now she gestures to the boat.
‘Did you change the name?’
Skelgill looks momentarily disquieted.
‘It’s supposed to be unlucky. I call her all sorts of things – as the fancy takes me. The Doghouse just wore off in time.’
But now Alice Wright-Fotheringham picks up the former thread.
‘So you fished in the match. There cannot be many who can say that.’
Skelgill sighs ruefully.
‘Must be the best part of thirty years ago. Apparently it were the first time the DAA had won. There’s a framed press-cutting in the bar at The Partridge. Under the Northern Counties team that beat the All Blacks.’
‘Fine company to keep.’
Skelgill looks a little awkward.
‘Not exactly in the same league. I suppose it were more of a regulars’ local in those days.’
Again the retired judge seems to deliberate.
‘I wonder when the schism occurred.’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘I only did it the once. I’ve only ever been a lowly member. I leave politics to the troublemakers.’
She chuckles, since it seems she takes this as a small if back-handed compliment.
‘A man who ploughs his own furrow.’
The conversation seems to have run its course. Alice Wright-Fotheringham offers the ginger cake. It is a large tin, with moist dark squares nestling among crisp baking parchment. Munching contemplation ensues; it is often the most productive sort.
‘So, Daniel – what is your instinct?’
Skelgill squints over the calm water; while his jaw moves steadily, his gaze finds the point on the distant shore that marks the hidden entrance to Peel Wyke, and beyond, concealed by trees, the old coaching inn.
‘I can’t see past The Partridge.’
‘Then follow your heart, if that is the locus.’
Skelgill is unmoving – until he suddenly starts.
‘What is it?’
He looks at his watch with a small expression of horror.
‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone there – ten minutes ago.’
Alice Wright-Fotheringham laughs knowingly. She drains her mug, and puts the lid on the tin, and hands them together to Skelgill.
‘Take the ginger cake – it will keep for elevenses tomorrow.’
She grins further when she sees that she has set him an impossible challenge.
*
‘There was no signal – else I’d have warned you. And what with Alice yattering on – trying to be helpful, mind. She came up with a couple of good ideas.’
There is something about Skelgill’s multi-faceted and yet disjointed excuse for being late that has DS Jones regarding him with what might be described as a “why am I laughing?” expression.
But she is more conciliatory in her words.
‘It’s okay – I saw your car. I knew you’d be along.’ Still seated in her yellow VW, she holds up a paperback. ‘I brought my training manual.’ Skelgill sees it is Miss Marple’s Final Cases.
She raises her driver’s window and clambers out.
Skelgill takes a step back. While not dressed to the nines, she has a way of being eye-catching with small effort. And it is Saturday night.
For his part – literally hotfoot from Peel Wyke, the cake tin tucked under one arm, having declined Alice Wright-Fotheringham’s lift of a few hundred yards in order to stow his gear and secure his boat – it is plain that he suddenly registers the contrast between his colleague’s well-groomed appearance and his own dishevelled condition. With both hands he claws back unruly hair to expose more of his craggy and slightly uneasy countenance.
He indicates to his shooting brake, parked some distance away; there had been a wedding party at The Partridge when he arrived to fish.
‘I could get changed – but I don’t want to keep you hanging about.’
DS Jones grins.
‘I think the phrase is, “I could murder a pint” – yes?’
Skelgill has little recourse but to look sheepish.
‘Aye – well – we’ll get settled and I’ll pop out for my stuff. I’ll get changed in the gents.’
He reaches ostentatiously for his wallet – as though he thinks he had better make some redeeming gesture.
As they enter – beneath the rustic porch and into the short hallway with the Snug on the left and the bistro on the right – DS Jones notices the famous stuffed perch.
‘Did you catch anything?’
Skelgill heads on, rounding left into the corridor and turning right into the bar.
‘Let’s say I’m still working on it.’
He glances about, momentarily preoccupied. The small bar seats only a score of drinkers at a push, and is about half full – but he spies that the table tucked into the far corner recess is free. A couple who were descending the stairs have followed them into the room.
Skelgill speaks from the side of his mouth.
‘Grab the alcove.’
DS Jones understands.
It is a few minutes before Skelgill joins her – but she immediately picks up the conversation they have left off.
‘So – you didn’t catch any fish but Alice had some good ideas?’
Skelgill now distracts; he tears open a bag of crisps and lays it flat so they can share. He starts munching so that any answer is more difficult. But DS Jones waits patiently.
‘Not exactly ideas – not like –’ (Skelgill casts about for inspiration) ‘not like – Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick.’
DS Jones laughs.
‘More like sentiments?’
His colleague is closer to the mark; but now the answer, with its personal connotations, seems embarrassing. And what exactly were these sentiments? While they have left an impression upon him, they are clichés, really. Close to home. Follow your instincts. He finds himself turning to look vacantly at his companion.
‘What is it, Guv?’
Skelgill waves a hand – he could almost be standing before an invisible rock face that bars his path and he feels its presence.
‘Aye – well – she’s long experienced – she were a barrister before she were a judge – you know that?’
‘Yes.’
Scrabbling about, now Skelgill finds a small handhold.
‘She thinks we’re dead right about Smart.’
But this is vague – it could mean several things – and DI Smart is transparent despite his artful smokescreening.
‘That he’s a chancer?’
Skelgill produces a pained grimace; no way is he going to cite Mrs McGinty! But he finds an alternative form of words.
‘More that if you treat them all as suspects – you show your hand – to the one that you don’t want to know.’
DS Jones nods in accord.
‘Besides, it becomes an impossible jigsaw – suddenly it’s multi-dimensional – when you’re asking everyone about what everyone else did.’ She gestures loosely about the room. ‘It’s been hard enough just trying to establish Kyle Betony’s movements.’
Skelgill is drinking. He puts down his empty glass with a habitual clunk and a small gasp of satisfaction.
DS Jones exclaims.
‘That didn’t touch the sides!’
‘I ran out of tea.’
DS Jones shakes her head, unconvinced. It seems unlikely; Skelgill has spare teabags sewn into his hems like convicts keep hacksaw blades; and there would be no shortage of water.
‘I’ll get you another.’
Skelgill begins to protest, but she insists, placing a hand on his arm and rising herself.
He watches a little uneasily. He is wondering if he should go for his change of clothes – but the bar is filling up; with no Cleopatra to play sentry they might lose their table. He sees that Charlie has been summoned – all hands to the pumps – to cope with the mini-rush of residents wanting a drink before dinner. He notices a couple of middle-aged men who have their eye on DS Jones.
He distracts himself by thinking again of fishing with Alice. But there is the irksome fact that the trip was unsuccessful; and he has so often talked up Bass Lake.
Close by on the wall hangs a cabinet holding a trout with its record-breaking weight and his name inscribed on an inconspicuous plaque. Though in the lamplit bar it blends with its surroundings like a pike lurking in the reeds; so much paraphernalia has accumulated over the decades and more.
Farming implements; keepers’ traps.
Hunting scenes; John Peel, indeed.
The rugby photograph. The famous victory.
Beneath it …
Skelgill freezes.
He stares for several moments at the wall.
Then he stands up with a jolt and calls out.
‘Charlie!’
Charles Brown is serving DS Jones – just about to pass their drinks over the counter. He looks across at Skelgill. Skelgill beckons him urgently.
The landlord says something to DS Jones – holding onto the drinks he rounds the end of the bar – it seems he thinks he might as well provide table service.
Skelgill remains standing.
DS Jones can see that he is actuated – she can read the green light in his eyes; the hotelier knows no such nuances.
‘Danny? Are you that thirsty?’
But Skelgill ignores the offered pint and points into the corner.
‘Charlie – where’s your press-cutting?’
There is a vacant rectangle about six inches high by twelve wide – a different tone of wallpaper, and cleaning marks, and two rough holes showing the splayed ends of Rawlplugs.
Charles Brown looks baffled – this might be as much that Skelgill can seemingly be so concerned, as if the small incongruity is spoiling his evening’s pleasure; for he cannot be expected to appreciate any significance of the missing item itself. Skelgill has to spell it out.
‘Your framed picture of a fishing match. The team. From back in the day.’
But it is plain that the landlord – an incomer by this timeline – lacks any great knowledge of the decades-old wall-hangings that are handed down with each change of ownership. Indeed, he explicitly employs this defence.
‘Danny – most of these things were here long before I took over.’ But the statement in itself seems to rouse within him a sense of indignation – that someone might have stolen what is part of a community asset, an irreplaceable heirloom, a small piece of the inn’s heritage. He begins to bristle, but is at a momentary loss for words.
Skelgill supplies a further prompt.
‘When did you last see it?’
But Charles Brown is plainly nonplussed. It is like asking a countryman in November when did he see his last swallow; the birds having been gone two months and the last never announcing itself quite in the way of the first. But he does seem to appreciate now that there is more to Skelgill’s interest than concern for his traditional surroundings. He puts down the drinks on their table and pulls a portable landline handset from his back pocket.
‘I’ll ask Edna.’ He turns to glance at the clock above the bar; then he presses out a short-code. ‘She’s our cleaner. She’ll be watching the Ennerdale omnibus.’
‘Here.’
He puts the phone on speaker and they crowd around. Amidst the growing hubbub it is not loud enough to be overheard.
A slightly creaky woman’s voice answers – and plainly she recognises the caller’s number.
‘I can’t come in tomorrow – if that’s what you want.’
It is a local accent, the tone a candid mix of deference and belligerence. The latter would refer to the interruption and what must surely be an unwelcome call to arms for a Sunday.
‘Edna – it’s a just a quick question.’ Charles Brown flashes a look of exasperation at the detectives. ‘The police are here. There’s a picture gone from the wall in bar – in the alcove – a press cutting of a fishing match. We thought you might have noticed when it went missing?’
They hear Edna inhale – and for a moment it seems she will punch back, there being some hint of an accusation. Her employer adds a hurried rider.
‘I know how nothing gets past you – and you’ve been here longer than anyone.’
The remark seems to achieve some mollifying effect.
‘T’were there on Saturday afternoon. T’were gone on Monday morning. I thought you must have took it to be fixed – because the glass were a bit cracked.’
Charles Brown looks at Skelgill; he nods approvingly. It answers the question, albeit with a longer window than they would like. But Edna has not finished. She has already made up her mind.
‘Must have been them that chored me steeyan.’
The downshift from accent to dialect leaves the landlord looking baffled.
Skelgill leans in. His eyes again are alight.
‘Edna, what stone?’
The woman is unfazed by the new entrant to the conversation.
‘From int’ gents’ – I use it to prop t’ door open when I mop t’ floor. There’s one int’ ladies’ an’ all.’
‘And it’s gone – at the same time?’
‘Aye – it weren’t there when I cleaned on Monday. I’ve been using t’ ladies’ one.’
Skelgill stares for a moment at DS Jones; she too has a glint of anticipation in her hazel eyes – though it is clear she lacks Skelgill’s complete understanding of these circumstances.
Then Skelgill nods to the landlord – that he may end the call.
While Charles Brown is thanking his employee, Skelgill drops to his hands and knees and crawls beneath the table. To wide-eyed amazement he emits a groan as he humps the heavy oak settle and lifts it by a couple of inches. Then perhaps there is a muffled sound of triumph. He emerges, shrugging his shoulders, and he presses his fists into the small of his back. Then he brings one arm around and opens his palm before them – to reveal two old brass screws.
‘Looks like someone took it in a hurry.’
The landlord puffs out his cheeks.
