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Authors: Bruce Beckham

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BOOK: Murder by Magic
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‘Is it
unusual for folk to be up and about – at that time of night?’

Now
the lady rubs the cat’s head with a side-to-side motion – this could be
an indication of uncertainty.

‘Since
these offcomers arrived there’s bin goings on.’

‘Clarice
– do you mean at the Langdale Arms?’

‘Aye
– and ower at castle – yon foreign gadgee.’  With the heel of
a hand she gives the cat a solid dunt in one ear.  ‘He sacked local folk
as wukt there – and they say he keeps wolves – roaming wild int’ grounds.’

Skelgill
narrows his eyes and leans forwards with his elbows on his thighs.  It
will not surprise him that Blackbeck Castle’s proprietor’s name –
Wolfstein
– and his conspicuous ownership of a brace of Alsatians have already
become twisted by hearsay.  (In fact he might marvel that the rumour mill has
not made the leap directly to werewolf.)  Though Clarice Cartwright is still
mobile about her modest abode, she probably relies upon visitors for her news
and gossip.  Indeed it was from her twice-weekly charlady that she learned
of William Thymer’s unfortunate demise, and through the same woman’s good
offices that her report of his nocturnal flight was relayed to the local bobby
and thence to Skelgill.  Now, as he munches companionably, he must be
speculating as to the reliability of her testimony.  Witnesses are notoriously
inaccurate at the best of times – and throw into the equation such
variables as a hearing aid and thick-lensed spectacles (neither of which may
have been worn at the time) and an unlit village street at well past midnight
– and it is tempting to conclude that the account has been invented,
imagined, embellished, or possibly even dreamt.

 

*

 

The charcoal-clad
figure that drops noiselessly beside Blackbeck Castle’s grey forest gate
crouches for a second, poised like a panther in a patch of pale moonlight.  He
wears fine gloves and a close-fitting hat, and a
Buff
around his throat pulled
up over his nose – exposing only glinting eyes that dart about, quick to alert
him to danger.  His top is a soft-shell that makes no sound, his climber’s
trousers likewise, and rubber soled trail shoes complement the burglar’s silent
ensemble.

What separates
this intruder from the conventional sneak thief, however, is his next
act.  Still on his haunches he slips off a small backpack and extracts
first a bulging hessian bass-bag, and then a leather sheath from which he draws
a wicked-looking filleting knife.  He spreads out the bag and sets to work
upon its contents with the flickering blade.  Some thirty or more cuts
made, he regards his handiwork.  Tugging down his muffler, he picks up a
portion and stuffs it into his mouth: while the bag and knife owe their origins
to angling, the comestible hails from the Langdale Arms – it is in fact a
slice of pie.

The
‘burglar’ is DI Daniel Skelgill.

Munching
pensively he considers the scene, for the time being seemingly at ease. 
Behind him the wall curves away north and south, disappearing behind trunks and
dark gatherings of shrubs.  If Dr Wolfstein’s five-kilometre assessment of
the perimeter is accurate – a circuit of just over three miles in
Skelgill’s money – then it encloses private grounds of some five hundred
acres, and Blackbeck Castle itself stands about half a mile from his position.

Although
his previous inspection – accompanied by DS Jones – revealed no footway
outside the gate, this is not the case within.  A distinct shadow ahead of
him stripes the rough vegetation, wider than a badger-path, though as
purposefully straight.  It leads due west from the forest entrance,
presumably towards the castle.  He sets out along its course. His customary
pace is brisk – a good five miles per hour – and a few minutes’
walking should bring him close to the rear of the property.

And
now he allows an insight into what might appear more madness than method as
regards the pie (or in fact
pies
– for he has sacrificed four of
his bulk buy of six).  Thirty paces from the gate he delves into the
bass-bag and takes out a second morsel.  Rather than eat it, however, he
drops it onto the path.  For a man whose stomach rattles with a mere five
chocolate digestives (and nothing else since a hurried bowl of dry cereal first
thing), such self-restraint is remarkable – and would certainly confound
his colleague DS Leyton, who at this instant ought to be dozing replete at his
fireside before the ten o’clock news.  And Skelgill’s ascetic determination
to eke out his supply solely for his mysterious purpose seems to hold, for at
regular intervals he marks his progress with successive deposits.

A gentle
north-easterly is cool across his shoulder, its murmur punctuated by the
occasional
too-woo
of a Tawny Owl (and the unsynchronised
too-wit
of a mate in reply).  Long-eared bats fresh from hibernation are on the
wing, and more than once Skelgill’s sharp ears pick up their shrill cries as
they hawk skilfully about the canopy.  Above all – above breeze and
bird and bat – a waxing gibbous moon casts solid black shadows beneath towering
ornamental conifers, ideal for emergency concealment.

But
Skelgill continues to shun such reassuring cover; he travels unswervingly upon
the path.  The habitat is neither woodland nor parkland, but somewhere in
between.  The ground cover is short and mainly grassy, with new growth
pushing through last autumn’s crumbling leaf litter.  Facing the moon,
bare trunks and branches and their twin shadows beneath his feet are uniform in
their blackness, sharper than their daytime counterparts – but, when he
turns about, a different scene confronts him, dreamlike, a greenish monochrome,
an indistinct water world of waving boughs and waiting claws, where distance
and space cannot easily be judged, where pale boles of oak and beech take on a
ghostly luminescence and glisten with the slick trails of slugs and snails; a
world where the whispering sough of the wind might be the distant wash of
waves, irregular and patchy in their breaking, sensed through the opaque depths
that immerse him.

But
now he halts, for the arboretum suddenly gives way to a croquet lawn, hoary
with dew, perhaps twice the size of a typical village bowling green.  To
progress further will expose him floodlit to onlookers – the dazzling
moon eclipses all but the brightest constellations, Ursa Major, Pleiades,
Cassiopeia, Orion, and planet Jupiter of course.

Beyond
the sward, the castle looms black and grey, like some great crouching spider,
its many darkened windows watchful eyes, its central door an unforgiving mouth. 
 Imposing towers bookend the main body, the crenelated silhouette stark
and jagged against the milky midnight blue of the sky.

As
Skelgill takes in the scene his gaze settles upon a vague outline – a construction
– in the centre of the lawn.  Around its base are clustered several
small tussocks, dark shapes crested with silver – and then as if by magic
one of these
hops
– for they are grazing rabbits – alert
sentinels that tell him no one is yet afoot.

Drawn nearer,
he scatters the creatures – and begins to perceive the form of the edifice. 
It is a simple ring of posts – twelve round stakes five feet tall –
driven into the turf, creating a circle perhaps four paces in diameter. 
Ostensibly it could be something the gardener has rigged up to protect ground under
repair.  There are pale shapes draping each of the uprights.  But as
he closes to within a yard or so their nature becomes clear.  His narrowed
eyes signal his alarm – this is a crazy modern artwork, a circle of death
– each post is adorned with a horned skull, bleached white, great eye
sockets black as jet – jawbones gape in mute bleats, wired leg bones
dangling and redundant.

The ghoulish
arrangement sees Skelgill drop his bass-bag and free his mobile phone from the
breast pocket of his outer shell.  But now he must remove his left glove,
and he plucks with his teeth through the fabric of the
Buff
.  The
glove slips off only with difficulty and he bites on it while he manipulates
the settings on the screen.  He cannot risk the flash, and to disable it delays
him a moment, and – before he can attempt the shot – a light flickers
high in the tower to his right.  Instinctively he drops to one knee behind
the ring of posts, though it makes only a partial screen.  The window is
narrow and arched – barely more than an arrow-slit – and the flame
seems to be a candle or a lantern that is being moved as if to follow the
flight of a moth.  As he watches there is just the vague impression of a
person within – a glimpse of head and shoulders – perhaps fair
hair, or perhaps a pale hood – but it would be too easy at this moment to
imagine the castle’s white lady.

And
now a sudden sharp sound splits the silence – the metallic clank of an iron
latch – it emanates not from the direction of the arrow-slit, but the
main door in the centre of the castle.  And dogs begin to bark.

Skelgill
is pricked into action.  In a single movement he grabs the bottom of his
bass-bag and shakes out the remaining contents, rises, turns and sprints away. 
Behind him the door throws a widening fan of neon upon the grass.  The Alsatians
spill out; their baying resonant about the stage-set created by the jutting
towers.  There comes the angry exclamation of a man – but Skelgill has
breached the treeline – he careers onwards for another twenty yards, then
strikes out at a tangent to the right of the path – and tumbles for the
black shadow beneath a
Wellingtonia’s
low-slung boughs.  He slithers
against the great corked trunk and freezes.

But
the cry was evidently not directed at him.  A wiry figure stands halfway
between the door and the wooden henge, facing back towards the tower. 
And, now – incredibly it seems – he raises a rifle at the
window.  Yet it is not a bullet but a powerful torch that strikes its
target – it must be mounted above the sight of the weapon – and the
man again yells – a bellowed warning “Oi!” drawn out for effect.

The
beam illuminates the arched window, driving the shadows from its deep
recess.  Almost immediately the flame is extinguished and the man watches
for a moment.  Satisfied, he turns his attention outwardly.  The
dogs, their initial bravado short-lived, have fallen silent, and he tries to
call them in by name –
Hansel
and
Gretel
, of course –
and Skelgill might visualise the Grimms’ cannibalistic witch, were it not for his
recognition of the harsh tones as those of the equally disagreeable gamekeeper,
Jed Tarr.

The man
begins to play the flashlight methodically around the lawn, arcing slowly from right
to left as Skelgill watches – and just in time he ducks low – the
beam passes – but not by so many degrees – it steadies –
there is the sharp crack of the gun – and the squeal of a wounded rabbit.

‘Gretel
– pick it up!  Gretel – off yer go!  Oi –
Hansel!  What the hell are yer doing?’

But
the hounds have found Skelgill’s lure.

When all
is said and done, these indulged house-pets might be moderately effective guard
dogs, but they are not the trained retrievers Jed Tarr is accustomed to
intimidating. Why fetch a bloody twitching louse-infested coney when award-winning
fare is on a plate?  Indeed, why obey a human at all?

The hounds
neither dwell to savour the unexpected delicacy nor take any care to share
– indeed, in the half-darkness it cannot be obvious to the man that they have
fed.  Ignoring Jed Tarr’s expletives they simply follow their noses to the
edge of the lawn where Skelgill’s next titbit awaits.  Thence, silver
backed, black shadows hung beneath, they slink like wolves along the path, relentless
in their pursuit of pie.

Skelgill
does not move a muscle.  He is apprised of canines’ superior hearing and night
vision, and their stratospheric sense of smell.  As regards the latter, he
is downwind (and upwind is the pub grub) – so an involuntary sneeze or
twitch is his only enemy.  Dog logic is anchored in the reptilian brain,
where repetition rules, and as likely as not they have found discarded scraps
upon this path before.

A third
discovery drives them on, Jed Tarr outstripped, blowing and cursing, the beam
of his torch jerking up and down as he hobbles along, rifle in hand.  His
language is colourful – and even has Skelgill raising an eyebrow –
and his threats to the dogs murderous.  Yet to Skelgill’s ear there is suspicion
in his voice – anxiety, too – for just
why
are the dogs
behaving so?

Skelgill
waits until the expletives become less intelligible – it is a reasonable
measure of the distance between him and his would-be pursuers.  He readies
himself to head south for the wall – away from both castle and its
distracted guardians.  If the dogs do their job and consume the food ahead
of their surrogate master – as they surely will – Jed Tarr need
know nothing of his incursion.  Invisible beneath the tree, he permits
himself a grimace of satisfaction – that is, until he returns his mobile
phone to his zip pocket... and realises his glove is gone.

10. CLUTCHING AT STRAWS

 

‘Guv
– who ate all the pies?’

‘What?’

‘These
pies – it says on the box there’s six.’

DS
Leyton is inspecting the takeaway carton branded
‘Langdale Arms’,
now
resting upon the cabinet in Skelgill’s office.  Having arrived promptly, he
has been waiting for the return of his superior for a scheduled ten a.m.
meeting together with DS Jones, who is yet to appear.

‘I
used them – as ground bait.’

‘You
went fishing last night, Guv?’

‘Why
shouldn’t I?’

DS
Leyton retreats, though his features remain quizzical.  Patently he suspects
his boss of having eaten them.

‘Bit
expensive for ground bait ain’t it, Guv?’

‘Look,
Leyton – I saved the last two for you, didn’t I?

‘Sure,
Guv – I appreciate that.’  He digs into his back pocket.  ‘That’s
a tenner if I remember right.’

Skelgill
glowers across his desk.

‘Forget
it, Leyton – I must owe you a tenner – call it quits.’

DS
Leyton’s expression of resignation tells a tale of
many
owed tenners
– a story that may just have reached its unhappy ending as Skelgill
blithely writes off the entire debt.

‘Right,
Guv.’

At
this moment DS Jones materialises in the doorway bearing a canteen tray with
two mugs and a glass of water.  Tucked beneath one arm is a sheaf of
papers, and as she attempts to push open the door with her elbow they slip from
her grasp and scatter onto the tiled floor behind her.  Immediately, from
out of sight, the slick, suited personage of DI Alec Smart swoops to gather the
spill. Apparently he has been shadowing her along the corridor.  And also
evident to those within the office is that his eyes are not on the job in
hand.  DS Jones sports a designer sweatshirt top and close-fitting stressed
hipster jeans that showcase her athletic form.  As she glances over her
shoulder she notices the unwelcome attention – and, instead of crossing
as she might to Skelgill’s desk, and bending to deposit the tray, she turns to
place it upon the tall cabinet beside the box of pies.

‘Skel
got you skivvying for him again, Emma?’

DI
Smart rises and takes a step into the office, pulling at the lapels of his hand-stitched
jacket with bony fingers.

‘It
was my turn, sir.’

DI Smart
sneers and his gaze now appraises her figure – he has her at his mercy
while he keeps her documents by his side.  Then he casts a cursory eye
over the top sheet, and holds out the bundle, hanging on a little longer than
is necessary before releasing it back into her custody.

‘I hear
you’re setting up a sheep protection unit, Skel.’  He lifts a thigh and
affects to brush away dust, his gaze tracking DS Jones as she takes her
customary seat; she settles self-consciously, her knees pressed together and the
papers covering her lap.  ‘Should keep your little flock busy.’

He
cackles at his own joke.  Skelgill is glaring at him, but has no retort to
offer.  DS Leyton is glumly watching his boss.

‘Don’t
let me hold up your meeting.’

The
collective silence at least seems to have the effect of advancing DI Smart’s
departure, though he is too self-important to take offence.  He
straightens his tie and casts a lingering look at DS Jones.

‘Hasta
la vista, baby.’

He
nods to his male colleagues – DS Leyton reluctantly acknowledging in kind,
Skelgill feeling no such obligation – and strides away.

DS
Leyton reaches to close the door.  Skelgill lets out an Anglo-Saxon
adjective-and-noun combination popular with disgruntled motorists.  He
turns with a scowl to DS Jones.

‘What
was that all about?’

‘I
don’t know, Guv.’  She appears reluctant to elaborate, but Skelgill’s
glare is persistent.  ‘He passed me in the canteen and said he’s got
something that’s ideal for me.’

‘That’s
not for him to say.’

DS Leyton
rises and ostentatiously distributes the drinks from the tray.  The
intermission gives DS Jones a chance to compose a response.

‘He
said he was going to set up a meeting with the Chief this afternoon, Guv.’

Sullenly,
Skelgill leans back and folds his arms.  Then he appears to come to some
unspoken conclusion.  He casts at hand at the documents DS Jones still
grasps upon her lap.

‘What’s
Herdwick got to say?’

DS
Jones’s shoulders relax, as she turns to matters less contentious.  The pages
have become disordered, and it takes her a minute to sift through them. 
She hands out a copy of a single sheet to each of her colleagues. 
Skelgill lays his on the desk without attempting to read it and looks at her
inquiringly.

‘On
the face of it, Guv – nothing sinister.’  She scans her sheet and
then paraphrases its content.  ‘Cause of death: asphyxia due to aspiration
of fluid into the air passages – i.e. drowning.  No trace of alcohol
or drugs in the bloodstream.  No apparent injuries or illness – he
was in good physical shape for his age.’

She
takes Skelgill’s silence as a signal to continue.

‘There
is this, though, Guv.’  Now she turns her copy of the report towards her
colleagues and indicates a sub-heading on the lower half of the page.  ‘Abnormal
concentration of corticotrophin-releasing hormone.’

DS
Leyton starts rather melodramatically.

‘Steady
on, Emma – some of us nearly got expelled for using language like that.’

DS
Jones grins obligingly.  Skelgill, however, is scowling – he looks
unwilling to fall in with his sergeant’s classification, and keeps his counsel.

‘I’ve
never heard of it before, either.’  She taps the page.  ‘CRH for
short – I’ll read it out:  “Normally present in the bloodstream in a
natural twenty-four-hour rhythm in non-stressful circumstances.  Highest
at eight a.m. – lowest overnight.  Manages the body’s response to
stress.  A sudden episode can lead to elevated levels.  It triggers a
cascade of related fight-or-flight hormones.”’  She looks up to gauge the
reactions of her colleagues.  ‘But here’s the interesting thing – it
says concentrations of up to ten times normal are associated with suicide
victims who have been suffering from chronic depression.’

DS
Leyton shifts his bulk in his seat and scratches his head and sighs.

‘Sounds
like he topped himself, Guv.’

Skelgill
is gnawing tenaciously at a thumbnail.  His thoughts appear to be
elsewhere, although his expression darkens to suggest he disapproves of such a
conclusion.  Then he reaches for the report and transfers it to his in-tray.

‘Aye,
you’re probably right, Leyton.’

 

*

 

‘Where
are we going, Guv?’

‘Whitehaven.’

‘Am I
allowed to know why?’

Skelgill
frowns.  He wrenches the steering wheel two handed, right then left,
cutting across the marked lanes to beat the amber lights of the Junction 40
roundabout.

‘Happen
I’ll tell you when we get there.’

He
floors the accelerator.  DS Jones lets go of the strap above the door and
allows inertia to pull her head onto the restraint.  She knows her boss
well enough to read between the lines, and must suspect his insistence that she
accompanies him has its roots in DI Smart’s attempt to hook her – possession
being nine-tenths of the law (and Whitehaven being nine-tenths of the way to
Ireland, as Skelgill puts it on occasion).

‘Is it
connected to what you found at Little Langdale, Guv?’

Now
Skelgill flashes her a reprimanding glance – but her artful smile seems
to disarm him – she will try her luck.  He lifts his shoulders, both
hands still gripping the wheel.

‘Maybe
– but I don’t understand it myself – we’ll see, lass.’

DS
Jones watches him for a moment.

‘The
local constable was trying to raise you, Guv.’

‘Aye
– I spoke to Leyton.’  Skelgill stares into his rear-view
mirror.  ‘While you were at your aerobics.’

DS
Jones grins.

‘It’s
called
Body Tone
.’

Skelgill
does not respond to this; he appears a little peeved.

‘I do
it with a couple of the civilian girls, Guv – you could come along, you
know?’

Now he
screws up his face – he seems to suspect she is humouring him.

‘No
thanks.’

His manner
is ungrateful, and DS Jones seems a little offended.  There is a pause of
a few seconds before she speaks again.

‘DS
Leyton said you found the tramp’s den in the woods?’

Skelgill
nods, though he declines to elaborate directly.

‘I had
a chat with an old woman – claims she saw him belting down the street
about half-past twelve.’

DS
Jones is alert to the connection.

‘Guv,
that would correspond to the estimated time of death – between midnight
and two a.m.’

‘She reckons
she heard footsteps a minute or two later – folk running the same way.’

DS Jones
frowns.

‘Someone
chasing him, Guv?’

Skelgill
grimaces.

‘She
also told me they’re keeping wolves in the grounds at Blackbeck Castle.’

DS Jones
nods slowly, comprehending his scepticism.  She makes another link.

‘These
sheep mutilations, Guv – you don’t think people with dogs could be involved?’

Skelgill
ponders for a moment, pursing his lips doubtingly.  He dismisses the
hypothesis with a shake of his head.

‘Ivver
sin a worried yowe?’

DS
Jones chuckles at his lapse into local dialect – though she knows he
makes a serious point; at this time of year the local press is full of horror
stories of heavily pregnant ewes falling prey to the dogs of ignorant
offcomers.

‘Thankfully
not, Guv.’

‘What
did Arthur Hope have to say?’

‘One
dead – decapitated – in Eskdale.  One injured near the
Whinlatter.  About fifteen per cent mortality – now that the
shepherds have rung round and compared markings on the strays they’ve picked up.’

The
muscles of Skelgill’s jaw tighten.

‘It’s been
a mild winter – ten per cent’s more like normal for Herdwicks.’

DS Jones
narrows her eyes with concern.

‘If it
continues, Guv – the killing – it’s going to be down to pure luck
that we catch someone – how can we police half a million acres?’

Skelgill
stares ahead, his grey-green eyes unblinking.  They are making swift progress
westwards; much of the A66 between Penrith and Keswick is dual carriageway,
with roller-coaster stretches that make for entertaining driving, especially at
well over the speed limit.

‘This
is the old road, you know?  Used to be two-way.’  He tips his head to
the right.  ‘The new section coming back east is over there.’

‘I
think I remember, Guv.  We used to visit my cousins at a farm near High
Lorton.’

Skelgill
grins roguishly, exposing his canines.

‘Sometimes
– if I’ve got a passenger that’s not paying attention – I pretend
I’m overtaking blind – I tell them these roads are quiet and you can
generally take a chance.’

DS
Jones gives a little squeal of unease – though it corresponds to them
cresting a rise and achieving lift-off; a ‘butterflies’ moment.

‘That’s
cruel, Guv – twisting the knife.’

Skelgill
frowns censoriously, as though he gathers she refers to their present velocity.

‘You
should try a trip with Leyton – he thinks he’s Nigel Mansell.’

There
is a pause before DS Jones replies.

‘Nigel
Mansell, Guv?’

Skelgill
shakes his head with resignation.  He glances briefly across, taking in
her lithe form as she rides the undulations of the road with a relaxed
ease.  His features become rather brooding as he skims another blind
summit.

‘Before
your time, obviously, Jones.’

DS
Jones does not reply – but now her attention is drawn as they overtake a
vehicle and she turns to inspect its occupants.  It is a green Defender.

‘Long
wheelbase.’  Skelgill points out the obvious discrepancy.

‘I
know, Guv.’ She resumes her forward-facing position.  ‘There’s at least
thirty in the county like the one we’re after,
Coniston Green
the
paint’s called – but I had a word with Traffic – they think there
could be the same number again that have been de-registered and are just kept
for use on private land.’

‘That’s
how I learned to drive as a twelve-year-old.’

DS
Jones raises her eyebrows; it could be an expression of wonderment – but
also of enlightenment.  Skelgill evidently suspects the latter, and
reverts to his tactic of defence by comparison.

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