Murder by Magic (7 page)

If
Long Meg’s petrified ‘hat’ is actual size, then indeed her stature would
correspond to the eponymous megalith some twenty-five miles hence (as the
broomstick flies) at Little Salkeld – the twelve-foot outlier of the
circle reputed to be her coven of daughters, themselves turned to stone in the
act of sorcery by Scottish wizard Michael Scott.  Skelgill stalks
cautiously around the object – perhaps inadvertently doing so widdershins
(being left-handed?) – a rather sceptical expression creasing his
features.  Certainly it is roughly pointed, and dark in colour, with a
greenish hue typical of the local slate, but in shape it lacks the tapered
precision of the stereotypical enchantress’s headgear.  It is impossible
to tell how much of its bulk lies below ground, but it protrudes to a height of
about four feet – and thus is invisible to road users beyond the dry
stone wall that borders the woodland.  As the constable’s anecdote had
implied, it is set just a few feet from a small clear stream that plunges into
an ancient-looking culvert beneath the base of the wall.

Skelgill’s
scrutiny, however, is not directed upon the jagged shard of rock itself, but on
the ground that surrounds it.  Try as they might (and not that they often
do
try), humans are far from expert at disguising their tracks.  So, if tourists
regularly visited this place, Skelgill would expect to see a patch of worn
earth beneath the easiest part of the wall to scale, and around the monument
itself.  There is no such balding of the vegetation; indeed the only
indication that any animal form comes this way is a six-inch-wide badger-path
that leads away from the base of the ‘hat’ into the undergrowth.  But even
this assessment would be flawed.  Badgers might be creatures of habit, over
generations wearing distinctive tracks from sett to foraging grounds –
but they are not prolific sightseers.  In possession of this knowledge,
Skelgill is unfoxed.

The bank
of elder shrub into which the narrow path disappears is already in leaf, racing
to put on growth before the budding woodland canopy steals the sun and casts a permanent
shade.  But elder is a friend to the adventurer, lacking the thorns and
impenetrability of hawthorn, and Skelgill easily parts the spindly branches of
adjacent bushes.  Yet now he pauses, and pulls a handful of bruised
foliage to his face – and inhales deeply.  The constable was not the
only boy to be a birds’ nester – and the mephitic smell of elder evokes
for Skelgill such heady days of discovery, spring evenings after school spent
searching, probing into hedgerows, on tiptoes stretching precariously, twigs
snapping, heart racing, small hands feeling for the hot shock of a fresh clutch
of eggs, of song thrush, blackbird, dunnock or linnet.  He detaches a
cluster of leaves and rubs them vigorously between his palms, discarding them
and then smearing the residue over his forehead, face and around his
neck.  In days gone by an ostler would wreathe his horses’ harnesses with
elder to repel flies – and Skelgill knows this same trick: the woodland
midge is deterred by the plant’s bitter aroma of cyanide.

Once
he has slipped through the elder grove the forest floor becomes less crowded, as
the gradient steepens and rocky outcrops forbid much undergrowth.  The
path, too, widens in places, and is more heavily worn where the terrain demands
a high step.  However, Ticker plainly knew what he was doing in attempting
to conceal the whereabouts of his abode.  Not only had he moved with great
care near the standing stone, leaving only the impression of animal activity,
but also he had another card up his sleeve.  Now Skelgill finds the route
traversing the hillside and returning to meet the little beck.  And, here,
it stops dead.

He
casts about, but beyond the little rocky gully there is no trace of a regular
footfall.  The earth is thick with soft moss and tumbling lichen, a carpet
that would certainly yield and soon betray the regular passing of human feet. 
Skelgill steps across the beck and regards the ground more carefully, checking
that the path does not pick up again a couple of yards further on – but
to no avail.  At this juncture, a hound engaged to track the old man of
the woods might be thwarted, but Skelgill is able to employ a detective’s nose
(and a good-sized one, at that).  Though no reader of fiction, in effect
he applies the maxim of Sherlock Holmes: when all other avenues are exhausted,
that which remains must provide the solution, however implausible.  The beck
and the path are one and the same.

Accordingly
he begins to follow the diminutive watercourse upstream.  This is not a
matter of wading, for the bed is rocky and the flow continually cuts between
boulders and dives beneath fallen logs.  There are level footholds
aplenty, and indeed the route – taken without haste – is
deceptively easy, a natural staircase that steadily takes its passenger up
through the forest.  Skelgill continues this way for several minutes, and
though he frequently scans left and right in case the path returns to the
woodland floor, he finds no cause to digress.  However, when the ground
suddenly steepens and the stream becomes a tinkling waterfall that pours
glistening down a mossy cliff of some ten feet, Skelgill halts – this
barrier would challenge a skilled climber, let alone a septuagenarian tramp.

At the
base of the outcrop the brook tumbles into a clear pool, maybe a yard in
diameter and a couple of feet deep.  Skelgill inspects this and nods with
some satisfaction.  It is just the place to dip a pot (indeed it would
accommodate his own
Kelly Kettle
– and he perhaps rues its
absence).  He notes that around the pool’s edge large flat rocks have been
arranged to create a level though natural-looking pavement.  If he were to
make a camp himself, it would be close to a reliable source such as this
– for drinking, cooking and, on a discretionary basis, washing.

The
main considerations for wild living and – perhaps more pertinently
–
sleeping
are protection from rain, wind and cold. 
Overarching these requirements, the wish for concealment clearly figured high
on William Thymer’s list of attributes.  On the face of it a cave would
satisfy all of these criteria, and the preponderance of old mines in the
vicinity might suggest an obvious solution for his hideaway.  However,
such tunnels are often damp, with an unforgiving bedrock that chills to the
bone; the air may be stale, and potentially poisonous and the darkness a depressing
constant.  Certainly, these would be Skelgill’s perceptions, and consequently
he follows his own instincts in an alternative direction.

Some
fifteen yards from the pool, upwind in a westerly direction, the woodland appears
to thicken.  This shadowy impression is created by a clustering of mature
Norway spruces, majestic evergreens that strike sixty feet skywards, to the
exclusion of other less vigorous species.  There is a silence now in the
wood as daylight wanes, and only the faintest ‘cork-on-glass’ song of a tiny goldcrest
emanates from high above.  Skelgill tilts back his head and sniffs, rather
like a stag that tests the breeze for danger.  He appears perplexed, as if
the resinous scent of pine is tainted, and sets off purposefully towards the conifers. 
They cast an apron that creeps beyond the tips of their boughs – a fine
brown carpet of needles, scales of bark, finely toothed twigs and curling cones
– that remains dry in all but the most prolonged of rains, and
conveniently accepts no tracks.  But Skelgill’s course is driven by
intuition.  He ducks beneath a low sweep of branches and emerges into a
hidden clearing, and – sure enough – there stands his object, a
bender.  Roughly the size and shape of a two-person tunnel tent, its frame
of withies is cloaked with a colourful patchwork of split fertilizer sacks anchored
to hand-carved wooden pegs by guys of orange baler twine.

And
thus Skelgill’s consternation of a minute earlier finds its explanation: however,
it is not the sight of the construction itself that furrows his brow, but the leafy
adornments recently added.  Draped all over the shelter, and likewise
dangling from the branches of the surrounding spruces, are perhaps as many as
thirty bunches of partially wilted elder foliage.   It seems that
Skelgill is not alone in putting this rather nondescript shrub to good use.

A flap
of clear though tarnished polythene covers the mouth of the shelter, and more
elder hangs here; he carefully moves it aside before lifting what is the door. 
It is gloomy beneath the conifers, and even darker inside the bender –
but as his eyes become accustomed to the lack of light it is a scene of some
order that greets him.  On the left is a bed – a cot made from strips
of hazel interwoven between stakes hammered into the earth, this frame filled
to overflowing with dry bracken – traditionally harvested for winter
bedding for livestock – and overlaid with perhaps as many as a dozen threadbare
blankets topped by a grubby sleeping bag.  On the right is a wall of
crates and boxes, plastic tubs, canisters and large tins.  The open-top
containers hold soot-blackened cooking utensils (pot, frying pan, kettle), plate,
mug, cutlery and various implements; tools (spade with broken handle, wooden
mallet, rusty hacksaw, a useful-looking axe); and a sizeable assortment of
tinned food (though predominantly baked beans); while those vessels with lids –
inspected by Skelgill – conceal such staples as oats, candles and
matches, and desert island luxuries in the form of many new-looking bars of chocolate,
and by contrast a yellowing collection of second-hand books, including titles
such as
Food for Foragers
,
The Compendium of Magical Herbs
and
The
Apothecary’s Flora
.

Skelgill
seems satisfied that this inventory is largely innocuous (although he ponders
for a moment over the literature, and might reasonably question the provenance
of the confectionery), yet he lingers upon his haunches, perhaps considering
what life would be like inside this rudimentary dwelling, already beginning to
feel at home.  He tests the roof with the spread fingers of his left hand
– though flimsy, it appears watertight, the slit fertilizer bags having
been tiled from the ground up, and correctly overlapped along the sloping ridge. 
Eliminating rain and wind goes a long way towards defeating the cold – although
when the mercury plummets the insulating bracken and pile of blankets would be a
necessary refuge.  He presses down on the bed with both palms – it
yields with a reassuring crackling springiness, suggesting that the bracken has
been recently replenished –
Ticker’s Nest
is a fitting epithet.

He
checks his watch – the hour has crept past six, and if he is to escape
the wood before dusk he must soon depart.  In a rather ungainly fashion he
crawls out of the shelter, like an unpractised sprinter struggling to come to
terms with his blocks.  But he pauses overlong in the ‘set’ position
– his eyes studying a pattern of hitherto unnoticed score marks in the
ground.  He hauls himself to his feet and steps away for a wider
perspective.  Enclosing the bender a ring is scraped into the pine needles
and, at intervals, a succession of triangles each has its apex touching the
inside of this circle.  He extracts his mobile phone, and steps away to
the rear and takes a photograph, the flash firing to emphasise the failing
light.

Skelgill
now hesitates – his job is done here at the campsite, and he must decide
which route to take.  His car is parked at the same spot he and DS Jones
used yesterday, a good distance from the site of
Meg’s Hat
, where the stretch
of road is narrow and lacks a suitable verge or laybys.  He rips open the
flap of his trousers’ map pocket and produces a compass.  A quick check
appears to confirm what he already suspects, and he sets off in the opposite
direction from that in which he arrived, picking a path that continues to
traverse the afforested hillside.  After about ten minutes’ steady walking
the lie of the land presents him with a choice of a rising bluff or a slightly
trickier boulder-strewn course.  He opts for the latter, clambering
between the rocks, greasy with algae and liverworts, as a cliff rises to his
right.  But the reason for his choice soon becomes clear – for in
another minute or so he reaches the mouth of the ravine that he explored with DS
Jones.  Now, of course, there is a faintly trodden path, which brings him
to the high boundary wall of Blackbeck Castle; from here it is a simple matter
of retracing his steps of yesterday.

It is
just after he has passed the impenetrable grey gate when something catches his
eye.  Bluebells – yet to flower – swathe good parts of the
woodland floor with their prolific bottle-green foliage, and amongst one patch
of these a metallic glint attracts his attention.  In fact he continues
for several paces before the visual incongruity registers with his
consciousness and induces him to investigate.  He steps cautiously through
the foliage – as though to avoid damage to the tender shoots – and reaches
tentatively to extract the foreign item.  It is an old book, hardbound in
black clothette, only three-and-a-half inches by five, though a good
inch-and-a-quarter thick.  The fine pages are gilt-edged – explaining
its reflective gleam – and he rotates the spine to reveal the title:
The
Holy Bible
.  With reverent thumbs he separates the front cover from
the first page.  A small label announces, “Presented by the Blue Coat
School, Everton” and inscribed in faded blue ink at the top left corner of the endpaper
is the name,
W. Thymer
.

‘Where
are you, Guv – it sounds like you’re in a pub?’

‘You
ought to have been a detective, Leyton.’

‘Very
good, Guv – I’ll remember that one.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows to nobody in particular.

‘I’m
still at Little Langdale, Leyton – bird in the hand.’

‘I can
recommend the pie, Guv – I was just saying to the missus I should have
bought a couple and saved her cooking.’

‘I’ll
bring you some back if you want, Leyton – you can have them tomorrow
night.’

‘Blimey,
Guv – don’t trouble yourself – know what I mean?’

Skelgill
shrugs, this gesture also invisible to his colleague.

‘Anyway
– what’s the story?’

DS
Leyton hesitates for a moment – there are strident background noises that
could be the sound of small children engaging in some form of aquatic sibling
rivalry.  Skelgill has evidently called his sergeant’s mobile at bath
time.

‘Did
you get my message, Guv – is that why you’re ringing?’

Skelgill
momentarily takes his handset away from his ear and taps at the screen. 
He scowls.

‘I’ve
had none come through – the signal’s worse than useless over here –
I’ve only got one bar now.’

‘Oh,
right, Guv.’  The penny seems to drop with DS Leyton that his superior has
called him not out of urgency but more likely boredom.  ‘Actually it was
no news really, Guv – just that they’ll have some preliminary test
results on the drowning victim by about ten in the morning.’

Skelgill
does not respond directly to this information.  He glances across towards
the bar and lowers his voice.

‘I’ve
not been able to raise Jones – did she get anything on the Polish
barmaid?’

DS
Leyton grunts painfully, as though an object has just hit him.  There is
the slam of a door and the commotion diminishes measurably.

‘Sorry,
Guv – I’ll just leave them to drown each other – the Polish girl,
you said?’

‘Aye
– Jones’s mobile is going through to voicemail.’

‘I
think she said something about a fitness class, Guv.’

Skelgill
scoffs dismissively.

‘What’s
she up to that nonsense for?’

‘Beats
me, Guv – cost of these gym memberships.’  (Skelgill inhales, as if
he is about to pontificate further, but DS Leyton appears keen to return to work
matters.)  ‘Apparently the landlord didn’t have any details –
reckoned she’d upped and left this morning – got the bus to Coniston and
on to Manchester airport – story fitted in with what he’d told me.’

‘Did
you come in here – with Jones?’

‘No,
Guv – I thought, no point in blowing my cover as the dim-witted Cockney
tourist.’

There
is more than a hint of sarcasm in DS Leyton’s tone.

‘Very
funny, Leyton.’  Skelgill shakes his head mirthlessly.  ‘Still, it
might come in handy, yet.’

‘I
reckoned so, Guv.’  DS Leyton sounds a touch mollified.  ‘I thought
employers are supposed to get ID details – for tax and national insurance
and whatnot?’

‘They
probably are – but a pound to a penny she was paid cash in hand. 
Did we get a full name?’

‘The geezer
reckons she told him but he couldn’t remember – claims it was
unpronounceable.’

Skelgill
again looks over to the bar, where the landlord is occupied in laboriously writing
a customer’s food order on a small triplicate notepad.

‘So
we’ve just got his word for her impromptu departure.’

‘Want
me to check out her journey in the morning, Guv?  The bus driver will
surely remember – can’t be many folks get aboard in that one-horse place.’

‘Aye,
why not.’

Skelgill
sounds pensive and lacking in enthusiasm.  DS Leyton, meanwhile, is
clearly under pressure to resume his peacekeeping duties – but out of
politeness he evidently feels unable to terminate the conversation.’

‘How did
you get on, Guv?’

Skelgill’s
response is perhaps unfairly gruff.

‘Found
the old boy’s hideaway – up in Blackbeck Wood.’

‘Anything
suspicious, Guv?’

‘Leyton
– I’m always suspicious – I’m suspicious when I find a dead vole on
the doorstep – even though I live with a congenitally murderous cat.’ 
He strums his nails impatiently on the wooden table.  ‘And when there’s no
dead vole I’m suspicious of the dog.’

‘Right,
Guv.’

Now it
is DS Leyton who sounds distracted.  The hullaballoo has intensified
despite the barrier of the door between him and his unruly offspring.

‘Guv
– if you don’t mind – I think I’m going to need to separate these
two.’

Skelgill
hisses an expletive.

‘Leyton
– that racket’s only
two
?’

‘You
want to hear ‘em when they’re hungry as well as tired, Guv.’

*

‘Your
young lady not with you this evening, Inspector?’

Skelgill
is roused from his thoughts.  The publican, who has been kept busy manning
the pumps, stands before his table with a clutch of empty pint glasses trapped
between the plump fingers of each hand.  Skelgill stares at the bitten
nails before he raises his gaze; he glowers as though he suspects the man’s inquiry
to be ingenuous.

‘You referring
to Sergeant Jones?’

The man
shuffles back an inch or two, sensing Skelgill’s disapproval.

‘That’s
it, Inspector – she called in this afternoon – nasty business in
the lake.’

‘Tarn.’

‘Tarn
– of course, Inspector.’

Skelgill
does not offer any opinion on the incident.  The silent hiatus obliges the
loitering landlord to reveal the true purpose of his unsolicited approach.

‘Was
there some problem as regards Eva?’

‘In
what way?’

‘When your...
Sergeant Jones...
was asking about her – I assumed there must be a
connection with the drowning?’

Skelgill
folds his arms and grimaces.

‘Yesterday
she was admiring the boots your barmaid was wearing – maybe she just
wanted to know where to buy them.’  If his disinterest is affected, he carries
it off with authenticity.  ‘You know what women are like.’

The publican
gives a nervous laugh, unconvincing in its bravado.  He seems uncertain of
where next to tread, and retreats to safer territory.

‘Can I
get you a refill, Inspector – the ordinary bitter’s in good form –
a decent driver’s beer?’

Skelgill
looks askance at his half empty pint.

‘I was
thinking of having supper.’

The
man is resting the glasses against his substantial paunch; they rattle as he
nods encouragingly.

‘We’ve
got faggots new on the menu tonight, Inspector.’

Skelgill
frowns warily.

‘I
thought that was Black Country haggis?’

The
publican grins accommodatingly.

‘All
ingredients sourced locally, Inspector – our butcher delivers daily from
Kendal.’

Skelgill
shakes his head somewhat ungratefully.

‘I’ll
stick with the pie.’

‘No
problem, sir – would that be with chips and peas or with boiled potatoes
and salad?’ (Skelgill’s scowl suffices as an answer.)  ‘Chips it is,
Inspector – you’re a man after my own heart.  Be about ten minutes,
sir – as we’ve got a few in tonight.’

Skelgill
nods dismissively.  His mobile rests on the table beside his beer, and he
is distracted by the arrival of a text message.  The man backs away,
bowing rather subserviently, before turning to shamble off with his load of
clinking glassware.  Skelgill meanwhile opens the message – the
number is unfamiliar, but its sender begins by introducing himself as the
redheaded constable who attended the drowning earlier.  Skelgill methodically
scrolls through what is quite a lengthy communication and then slumps back in
his seat, inhaling and holding the breath for several seconds while he ponders
the message’s import, his eyes glazed.  Then his mind seems to focus
– he rises and pulls his jacket off the back of the chair.  He heads
across to the bar, tugging his wallet from his hip pocket.  The landlord is
this moment emerging from the kitchen – having presumably placed
Skelgill’s order with the chef – and at the sight of his customer
preparing to leave looks somewhat alarmed.  But before he can speak
Skelgill takes control of the situation.

‘That
pie – forget the trimmings and I’ll take it in a doggy bag – in
fact make it half a dozen and they’ll see me through the week.’

*

‘Clarice
– you’re certain it was William Thymer that you saw?’

The
old woman – short and plump and wearing glasses that magnify her eyes so
they appear to fill the lenses, and who has already informed Skelgill several
times that she is ninety-two – adjusts her hearing aid with one hand and
with the other presses down on the head of an uncomfortable-looking tortoiseshell
cat that she has pinned upon her lap.

‘What’s
that, young ’un?’

Skelgill
leans closer and in the same movement helps himself to another chocolate
digestive biscuit.  He is seated upon a small sofa at right angles to the
woman, whose own high-backed chair faces the television set – the picture
still displayed, though the sound muted – in what is a cosy cottage-style
sitting room, blackened oak beams lining its low ceiling.  Opposite him on
the sealed chimney breast a wall-mounted electric fire has all its bars glowing
orange, and he has already removed his jacket in response to the stifling heat;
the chocolate on the biscuits is melting, and he licks his fingers after transferring
what will be his third to his plate.  His eye falls upon a framed
photograph of a group of small children clustered around the old lady herself
– it is one of several such images hung about the walls – and the
woman seems to notice it draws his attention.

‘I’m a
Great Nan, yer know?  Eight so far and two in t’oven.  That was me
ninetieth birthday – they came from all ower.’

Skelgill
smiles respectfully.  He takes a sip of tea and a bite of his
biscuit.  He seems in no hurry to reprise his question – but perhaps
a deliberate tactic underlies his silence, in order to avoid being subjected to
an exposition of a dynastic nature.  The constable’s text message that has
brought him here – hampered in its timeous delivery by the mountainous
environs – has informed him that an eyewitness of sorts has come forward,
Clarice Cartwright being that observer.  Now, casually munching, he speaks
again, more loudly this time.

‘What
made you look out of the bedroom window, Clarice – after midnight?’

The
woman gives the cat several firm strokes, its features stretching as its fur is
drawn tight from its head.

‘I wo’
lettin’ in Lotty – she comes in when she knows I’m going to bed –
sleeps ont’ quilt, eh?’

Skelgill
gathers that Lotty is the squished feline.

‘And
you saw William Thymer, Clarice – you saw Ticker?’

The
woman nods several times.

‘Looked
like devil ’isself wo’ after ’im.’

‘He ran
past – in the direction of the tarn?’

‘Lowpin.’ 
She pulls vigorously at the cat’s skin.  ‘He wo’ flaiten alright.’

In an
exaggerated manner Skelgill raises his eyebrows to show he understands that her
graphic dialect tells of the tramp jumping with fear.  He glances across
at the window; the curtains are still open and beyond the small mullioned frame
there is complete darkness.  Little Langdale, like many such hamlets set deep
in Lakeland’s fells, is not overburdened with street lighting.  The woman
seems to divine his misgivings.  She fixes him with her bulbous fishlike gaze
and lifts a finger towards the ceiling.

‘Moon
had risen ower yon pike – it wo’ plenty bright enough.’

‘And how
long after you got into bed did you hear the other footsteps?’

‘Minute
or two.’  She sucks in her lips momentarily.  ‘I’d ’ave deeked but
I’d took out me teeth by then.’

Skelgill
appears unfazed by this logic – he reaches for another biscuit and holds
it up approvingly, which pleases the old lady.

‘And
it was more than one person?’

The
woman gets to work again on the cat as a precursor to her reply.

‘Sounded
like when fell runners come through t’village – a group on ’em together.’

‘But
no voices?’

Now
she shakes her head and, as Skelgill watches with some alarm, she dispenses a couple
of solid thumps upon the tolerant feline’s cranium – perhaps this action
corresponds to a negative response.  However, as he reaches for his cup of
tea he can’t fail to hear the creature’s throaty purr.