Murder on the Lake (2 page)

‘Why
don’t I explain the background to the Inspector – then if there are any outstanding
issues we can take it in turns?  The poor chap hasn’t even got his coat
off and we’re haranguing him half to death.’

There
is one disapproving cough, but that may be aimed at the man’s unfortunate
choice of words – otherwise the company falls in with this request, and
even the ardent brunette detaches herself from Skelgill with a sheepish flutter
of her surely false eyelashes.

The
man with the bow tie seems to carry authority.  While Skelgill removes his
rain-soaked
Barbour
and zips off his leggings, and drapes them over the
back of an antique Windsor chair, he returns to his place and raises a glass
from the low table before the fire.

‘Why
doesn’t someone get the officer a drink – what’s your poison, Inspector?’

Skelgill
raises an eyebrow.

‘Perhaps
a hot chocolate would do the trick, if you have such a thing.’

‘Can’t
we tempt you with something a little stronger – or are you considered to
be on duty?’

Skelgill
is again scrutinising his boots, perhaps contemplating whether to remove them. 
He seems to conclude in the negative, and clumps across to a vacant position
beside the fire, opposite the man.

‘On
and off duty tends to be a bit of a grey area in this part of the world,
sir.  I generally play it safe – never know when I might have to get
behind a wheel to reach an emergency.’

Skelgill
sinks into the comfort of the settee.  Another woman, a brunette whose
hair is streaked with grey, perhaps in her mid-forties and plainer in looks and
dress than the others present, approaches the end of the table.

‘Do
you have any special requests for your hot chocolate, Inspector?  We’ve
got skimmed, semi-skimmed and whole milk – long life, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh
– just the full-fat for me, madam – and three sugars.’

The
woman smiles convivially.

‘Shan’t
be two ticks, Inspector.’

As the
group settles down and order returns, Skelgill inspects the fire with a
critical eye.  The logs have been arranged laterally, like a stack stored
for seasoning; they are crowding one another out, damping down the airflow.
 
It is clear from his reaction that he can see this
build deficiency, and that he has to restrain himself from taking up the long
cast-iron poker and tongs in order to improve its function.  The man in
the bow tie clears his throat and reaches across the expansive coffee table
with an outstretched hand.

‘Dickie
Lampray, Inspector – I can introduce you to everyone when appropriate
– young Lucy Hecate, you’ve met already, of course.’

Skelgill
shakes the man’s hand and then, as he lets go, indicates with a sweep of his
arm towards the shadows of the high, ornately corniced ceiling.

‘This
place is generally empty.’

‘I
believe it is available for special hires such as this, Inspector.’

Skelgill
nods.  The man continues.

‘We
are on a writers’ retreat.  A local boatman conveyed us from our
rendezvous at Brandlehow Inn on Thursday afternoon.  This is our fourth
night of a planned seven.’

At
this juncture there is fidgeting among the group listening in, as if they
harbour differing opinions regarding the idea of seeing out the full week.

‘Abel
Thurnwyke.’

‘I’m
sorry, Inspector?’

‘The
name of your boatman, sir.’

‘Ah
– I see, Inspector.  He was somewhat taciturn, if I may say so.’

‘That’s
him being chatty.’

‘Well
– it was a rather disconcerting journey, what with all nine of us and the
luggage and water sloshing about in the boat – and he let us off at the
landing stage and was gone before we knew it.’

‘So,
is there an organiser here?’

‘Well,
though it may seem curious, Inspector – there is no organiser – at
least not in person.’

Skelgill
looks puzzled.

‘Don’t
you have writing classes – that kind of thing?’

‘It’s
probably not entirely odd, Inspector.  Naturally there was an outline
proposition for how we should spend our time – to which I assume we each individually
responded.  Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats they call themselves.  But
the agenda was positioned as largely open for interpretation as we saw fit. 
Six of the party are writers, and there is an agent – myself – a
critic,’ (he gestures towards a rather severe-looking woman in her late
thirties, with tightly drawn jet-black hair and aquiline features, who is
perched on the sofa that faces the fire; she inclines her head somewhat haughtily)
‘and a publisher.’  He coughs discreetly.  ‘
Was
a publisher.’

Skelgill’s
demeanour suggests he intends to return shortly to this point.  Dickie
Lampray continues.

‘The idea
is for the writers to gain optimal peace and quiet to write, and obtain
informal advice as they might seek it.  The, er...
professionals
among us drew up a programme of informal talks for the evenings.’

Ever the
pragmatist, Skelgill homes in on to matters closer to his own heart.

‘What
about meals – cooking?  Are there no staff?’

The
man shakes his head, though he gives no impression of disapproval.

‘The
event was advertised as self-catering, Inspector.  The kitchen was
provisioned prior to our arrival.  As it turns out we are fortunate enough
to have among our number a chef – she aspires to write cookery books
– Linda Gray, who is presently making your hot chocolate.’

‘How
many people does the building accommodate?’

‘Well
– there are ten bedrooms, Inspector – so it is more or less full
under these circumstances – but perhaps one person did not turn up
– or they failed to sell all the places.’

‘Or maybe
it was intended for a course leader?’

The
man frowns.

‘Well
– I don’t think so, Inspector – I’d need to re-read the literature,
if I have kept it – and you’d have to ask the others – but I don’t believe
we were led to expect someone in residence – it was positioned as a
communal effort, easy as you go.  This is not entirely atypical.’

Skelgill
glances around the group, to see that this assessment is met with small nods
and gestures of agreement.  He returns his attention to Dickie Lampray.

‘And
someone has died – your publisher person.’

The
man nods earnestly.

‘You
have a mobile telephone, I take it, Inspector?’

‘In a
dry-bag in my boat.’

Dickie
Lampray appears relieved.

‘His
name is Rich Buckley, Inspector – you may have heard of him – rather
a high-flyer in the book trade.’

Skelgill
purses his lips, but is non-committal in his response.

‘How
did he die?’

The
man does not reply immediately, but instead raises an uncertain hand to his
chin.  Just then the drawing room door opens, and he removes the hand to
point to the newcomer.

‘Ah,
Inspector – here’s the chap best placed to answer your question.’ 
Now he raises a palm like a diner summoning a waiter, and addresses the new
entrant, a tall bowed man of retirement age, whose prominently boned features protrude
from the surroundings of a bushy grizzled beard and matching hairdo.  ‘Dr
Bond – this is Inspector Skelgill of Cumbria CID.  He was just
inquiring about the cause of death.’

A
flicker of apprehension seems momentarily to crease the doctor’s heavy brow, but
he quickly composes himself and with a loping stride crosses to the rear of the
sofa on which Skelgill sits in order vigorously to pump his hand.

‘Gerald
Bond – at your service.’  He has a pronounced Yorkshire accent and a
bluff manner to go with it.  ‘‘I’m a retired GP, Inspector – planning
to write guide books about walking in the Lake District.’

Skelgill
looks alarmed.  For a second it seems he might be about to inform the good
doctor that he should not waste his energy – that he was beaten to this
particular summit by the peerless Wainwright, half a century ago.  Sensibly,
however, he keeps his own counsel long enough for the man to continue. 

‘Heart
failure appears the most likely cause – he was lying on his bed, fully
dressed as though he’d been reading.’  He contrives a wry grin.  ‘No indication
of foul play, I’m afraid, Inspector.’

There
is a sense of expectancy in the air as he glances around at the semi-circle of
silent faces that are turned upon him.  Skelgill does not respond to the
doctor’s little attempt at humorous melodrama.

‘What
was the time of death?’

Again
there is a hint from his demeanour that the doctor is momentarily discomfited. 
Skelgill has posed the question in the brusque manner he would of his regular
forensic physician, demanding a proficient response.

‘Er,
well – that would be hard to say, Inspector.’  He folds his arms defensively. 
‘I merely confirmed he had no vital signs.  He was discovered about an
hour ago – but he’d remained in his room all day.  There had been a
‘do not disturb’ sign on the door since this morning.’

Dickie
Lampray interjects.

‘I
ought to point out this has been very much his habit, Inspector.  Our
rooms are self-contained suites.  Rich has not been an early riser –
I believe each day so far he has breakfasted in bed in lieu of lunch.’

Linda
Gray has re-entered the drawing room bearing a tray at chest height.  Dickie
Lampray glances at her for confirmation.  She nods enthusiastically.

‘That’s
right, Inspector – I’ve done a continental breakfast – rather like
this – for three or four people who’ve not made it down.  Mr Buckley
was one of them.’

‘And
how was he this morning?’

The
woman places the tray before Skelgill.  He nods with approval when he sees
there is a large home-made buttered scone, and assorted single-portion jars of preserves.

‘I’ve
just been leaving trays outside the rooms – his was taken inside at some
point, but I never saw him.  I’m not sure anyone did.’

Skelgill
looks back to Dickie Lampray.

‘When
was he last seen alive?’

‘We
have discussed this, naturally, Inspector.  We believe he was here in the drawing
room until approximately two a.m. with myself, Angela Cutting’ (again he
inclines his head towards the woman he introduced as a literary critic) ‘and Bella...
er, Miss Mandrake.  The actress – you know?’  Now he indicates
with a palm the woman whom Skelgill had been unable to fend off a couple of
minutes earlier.  Though Skelgill shows no sign that he recognises either
her face or her name, and regards her rather blankly, she smiles coyly in
response.

‘Who found
him?’

Linda
Gray, who has lowered herself into the space beside Skelgill, raises a
tentative finger, as though about to make an admission.

‘That
was me, Inspector – I went up to see whether he wanted soup or a cold
starter tonight.  We were all gathered here for afternoon tea – it’s
a convenient time to ask – when you know you’re not interrupting anyone
– and he was the only one of us missing.’

‘I
take it his room wasn’t locked?’

‘No,
Inspector.’

‘And
what did you do?’

‘When
I couldn’t wake him I came down here and – well – I suppose I
raised the alarm.  The others went up again with me and the doctor
confirmed that he had died.’

‘And
you didn’t see anything that would make you suspicious?’

She
shakes her head vehemently.

‘Like
the doctor says – you’d just think he was asleep.’

Skelgill
has been eyeing his scone, and now – eschewing the selection of spreads
– he takes a substantial bite.  There is a silence while he swallows
and sluices it down with a gulp of hot chocolate.  He appears immune to the
effects of the still-steaming liquid.

‘Well
– I suppose I ought just to have a look – then get someone over from
the relevant authorities to deal with the formalities.’

Going
by the collective body language, there seems to be a little ripple of relief that
runs through the group around Skelgill.  Dickie Lampray sits up and
straightens his bow tie.  Skelgill takes another swig of his drink and
glances about to seek out the girl, Lucy, who brought him to the hall. 
She is standing a little aloof from their coterie, over towards a curtained
window, one hand resting on an occasional table.  She has removed the
loose coat to reveal a close-fitting pale-green woollen dress, and apparently little
else beneath.  He watches her as he speaks.

‘Lucy
mentioned that you have no means of communication.’

Dickie
Lampray follows Skelgill’s gaze, and then looks back at him.

‘Given
the lack of mains services, you won’t be surprised to hear there is no
landline, Inspector.  Moreover, we were requested not to bring our mobiles
or laptops.  Of course – there is no electricity – so those of
us who did bend the rules soon found our devices had run out of charge.’