Murder by Magic by Bruce Beckham Read Free Book Online

and pads across to the bar.  The young barmaid appears
to be humouring an overweight duo of middle-aged commercial travellers who are perched
on stools at the counter; they give the impression of settling in to make a
night of it.  She is about to pull them fresh pints, but the landlord moves
in to take over, and mutters a few words of instruction.  She looks anxiously
in the direction of Skelgill and DS Jones, before rather self-consciously parading
around the bar and across to their table.
    ‘Have
a seat, miss.’
    The
girl does as DS Jones bids.  She is tall and slim, perhaps five feet ten,
with short dark hair and blue eyes – attractive despite a nose that some
would cruelly call beaky .  She appears braless in a low-cut vest
top, and wears faded hipster jeans and ankle boots with cut-away toes.  She
could still be late teenage, and the low stool only serves to emphasise her
height, as she contrives to fold her gangly limbs into a comfortable position.
    ‘It’s
just a quick word – we were wondering if you have noticed either of these
two people come into the pub – within the last day or so?’
    The
girl’s eyes flick from one photograph to the other, though they seem to pay
more attention to the blonde female.  However, it only takes her a couple
of seconds to respond.
    ‘I
have not seen them.’
    Skelgill
leans forward with an arm on the table.
    ‘How
long have you been here, Eva?’
    ‘I come
in March.’
    Although
she has spoken little, it is evident from her accent that she is Eastern
European.
    ‘Where
are you from?’
    ‘Lublin.’
    Skelgill
frowns in an endearing manner.  The girl elaborates.
    ‘It is
city in Poland.’
    ‘You’re
a long way from home.’
    ‘It is
very poor region.’
    Skelgill
nods.  He sighs and casts around the place – it is a quaint enough
old hostelry – but the isolated mountain hamlet of Little Langdale is a
far cry even from the bright lights of Penrith, let alone some distant Slavic
metropolis.
    ‘How’s
it going?’
    ‘Is
okay.’
    ‘Can’t
be much social life?’
    ‘I
like outdoors – is different from my city.’
    Skelgill
nods.
    ‘Well
– if you happen to see either of these people – in here or out
– your boss will know how to contact us – Penrith CID.’
    The
girl inhales as though she is about to speak – then she glances over to
the bar and notices that the landlord is watching her – instead she holds
in the breath for a moment.  She lowers her eyes and folds her long
slender hands upon her lap.
    ‘Is
all?’
    Skelgill
stares at her for a moment.  Then he too exhales and reclines against his
spindle-back chair.
    ‘Aye,
that’s all.  Apart from what time do you start serving food?’
    The
girl begins to rise from the stool.
    ‘Chef
arrive at seven.’
    Skelgill
checks his wristwatch.  The time is five-thirty.  Beyond the window
the light has subtly deepened, the sun has dropped behind the fells, creating a
premature sense of evening in the Langdales.  He nods.
    ‘Thanks
– but we’ll love you and leave you.’
    As the
girl returns to her station Skelgill rises and wanders across to a noticeboard fixed
on the wall to the right of the bar.  Its main feature is an out-of-date
promotional poster from one of the beer companies, offering a free inflatable leprechaun’s
hat with four pints of their gassy stout.  Skelgill scowls disapprovingly
and mutters, “Handy to be sick into,” and then realises he has said this out
loud and winces in the direction of DS Jones.  She chuckles and joins him
in perusing the various postcards, faded photographs and local newspaper
clippings – many of which date back to the time of the previous tenants. 
Skelgill points out a blurred image of an elderly bearded tramp, beneath the
headline, “Ticker Thymer Clocks Up 25 Years In The Woods.”
    ‘What
is it, Guv?’
    ‘I’ve
heard of this guy, “Ticker” – supposedly lives up in Blackbeck Wood
– never come across him,