Strands of cotton wool cloud stretch like forsaken laundry across Skiddaw’s darkening lower slopes.

Yet, like a split time zone, the setting sun spotlights the great fell’s scree-capped summit – and overhead, at some indeterminate altitude (but not so high) rays incandesce in a layer of fine golden mist.

I’ve read most of Bruce Beckham’s Inspector Skelgill novels. I can’t say I actually love them, but they’re uniformly satisfying. The great virtue of the books is probably their prose. The author spends a lot of time describing the landscape and weather of England’s lake district, which he obviously loves.

In Murder On the Menu, Skelgill and young female detective Emma Jones are looking into some non-fatal poisonings at restaurants in the area. It appears that their region is a hotbed of fine dining (Skelgill generally cares more about quantity than quality), and the restaurants that have seen the poisonings are contenders for an important magazine award. Could somebody be trying to nobble the frontrunners?

In a rather comic subplot, Sergeant Leyton, the citified London transplant, finds himself slogging around the countryside, stalking a man he suspects of being a poacher.

Murder On the Menu is notable for the fact that Inspector Skelgill himself spends quite a large part of it out of commission – and yet manages to save the day.

Quite entertaining, especially if you’re a lover of the outdoors. No cautions I can think of.