Murder on the Lake (6 page)

Skelgill
continues to yawn.  He shakes his head in protest, but it is clear to all
that he would willingly exchange his place on the sofa for a cosy bed: they
ought to pack him off upstairs, especially since he is to engineer their rescue
in the morning.  However, a closer examination of the semi-circle of
concerned faces would perhaps reveal a less unanimous determination: among some
present, there are hints of curiosity, disappointment, and perhaps even intrigue.

Burt
Boston springs to his feet.

‘Why
don’t I show the Inspector the spare room?’

He
does not wait for assent, and strides purposefully around to the rear of the right-hand
settee and pats Skelgill amiably on the shoulder.

‘At
least come and see your billet before it gets too late – you can always wander
back down and join us – you’ve killed us with your last two scores,
anyway.’

*

Skelgill’s
allotted bedroom is in what might be described as the ‘Men’s Wing’.  Grisholm
Hall is arranged around three sides of a square courtyard.  The original
house – across the upper floor of which are laid out four suites –
has a perpendicular wing appended on either side, and each of these holds three
more bedroom suites (though of inferior grandeur), making ten bedrooms in
total.  In the ‘Women’s Wing’, on the left-hand side, entered from the
main landing by a swing door, are quartered Bella Mandrake, Linda Gray and, at
the far end next to a stair and fire exit, Lucy Hecate.  Across the centre
of the house, in the ‘VIP’ rooms, are the ‘professional’ members of the
retreat: from left to right, Sarah Redmond, Angela Cutting, (the late) Rich
Buckley, and Dickie Lampray.  Through a corresponding swing door the
right-hand wing houses Burton Boston and Dr Gerald Bond; Skelgill is to have
the empty room at the end of this corridor, also – mirroring the
left-hand wing – next to a stair and fire exit.

It has
earlier been agreed – largely for practical purposes, but somewhat to the
relief of Bella Mandrake – that Rich Buckley’s room should be locked, and
that Skelgill should hold the key for safe keeping.  The property has a
rudimentary system of gas central heating, and Skelgill had both turned off the
radiator in this room, and opened the main window, in an effort to keep the ambient
temperature – and thus the body – as cool as possible.

Now he
pads erratically about his own room wearing only his boxer shorts.  It
would be his custom to familiarise himself with escape routes, fire risks and power
sources, along with the general amenities, but there is no doubt that he is
flagging fast and he makes only a cursory inspection of his surroundings. 
He is in any event hampered by the fact that he has been left with a single
candle, one that Burt Boston collected from a niche in the stairwell en route.  And,
though the said former SAS trooper was enthusiastic in volunteering to show
Skelgill to his quarters, the invitation ended there, and it was with seemingly
indecent haste that he sidled away to rejoin the party in the drawing room.

Skelgill
gives the impression that he is about to do something, but then stops dead in
the centre of the room, as if he has forgotten what it is.  In the absence
of inspiration, he climbs into bed.  His room is cold and beneath the unwarmed
sheets and blankets he shivers for a minute or so.  At first his eyes are
closed, and as the shivering subsides he appears to have fallen asleep. 
But suddenly his eyes jolt open, as though he is resistant to the act –
perhaps while the party might still be going strong below.  Then he gazes
rather forlornly across the room – he, or rather Burt Boston, has left
the lighted candle on an occasional table beside the door.  He makes half
a move as if to get up.  But he seems to have neither the will nor energy
to exchange the chill of the room for the growing comfort of his bed.  His
eyelids slide shut, and his head sinks into his pillow.

Some
time later, Skelgill’s bedroom door – unlocked (perhaps unlike many of
the others in the house) – silently opens by a few inches.  No light
is cast from the unlit corridor beyond, and in the flickering shadows a hand
reaches in and, with a just audible hiss of momentarily boiled saliva, pinches
out the candle flame.  There is no further movement for almost a
minute.  The room is pitch dark.  Then comes a faint squeak of an
unoiled hinge as the door is pushed wider, and a click as it is shut, and finally
the lightest footfall upon the carpet.  These gentle pads approach Skelgill’s
bed, and pause beside it.  His breathing, regular and slow, is suggestive
of a deep sleep, and – despite his boast of a little earlier – he
has not yet been disturbed by the ‘slightest sound’.

And
now there is the soft rustle of his bedclothes being lifted.  And next the
louder creak of weight pressed upon the mattress springs.  And only now
does Skelgill show any signs of wakefulness – a confused murmur that is
almost instantly suppressed.

‘Guv! 
Guv – wake up!  Come on, Guv – rise and shine!’

‘What
the – what’s going on?’

‘Guv
– it’s me, Leyton.’

That
DS Leyton has to state (or, rather, shout) his name is indicative of the torpor
in which he finds his superior officer – a first attempt at rousing him
some ten minutes ago having failed, beyond him rolling over and beginning to
snore.  At last, now, Skelgill struggles urgently into a semi-upright
position, pale-faced and blinking and swallowing and clearly alarmed by the
presence of one of his detective sergeants in his bedchamber.  He casts
about, but it takes some moments before his surroundings appear to make sense. 
In a minor panic he makes to throw off the covers – but a sudden knocking
from the corridor causes him to hesitate.

‘Leyton
– chuck us those boxers, will you?’

DS
Leyton regards the crumpled shorts with suspicion, but nonetheless picks them
from the carpet and hands them over at arm’s length.  Skelgill wriggles into
them beneath the topsheet and, modesty preserved, stands up – then promptly
sits down.  His fingertips fly to his temples.

‘Jesus,
Leyton – get me some paracetamol.’

DS
Leyton regards his superior with limited sympathy.

‘I
expect DS Jones’ll have some, Guv – I’ll go and ask her.’

‘Jones?’

‘Guv?’

‘What’s
she doing here?’

‘She’s
in with the doc, Guv – with the dead woman.’

Skelgill
glances up, though he winces into the brightness of the window at DS Leyton’s
back.

‘Man.’

‘Come
again, Guv?’

‘Dead
man
.’

DS
Leyton shakes his head.

‘It’s
definitely a woman, Guv.  Bella Mandrake they told us she’s called.’

*

‘Okay,
so let me get this straight – Harry Cobble found my boat drifting near Portinscale
at six this morning and he dialled 999?’

‘That’s
right, Guv – having kittens, I was, when I got the call – thought
you were a gonner in that hurricane.’

DS
Leyton glances sideways at DS Jones – the pair sit opposite Skelgill at
the unvarnished oak kitchen table of Grisholm Hall.  The detectives have
commandeered the room – with its burnished log-fired
Aga
by some
degree the warmest in the draught-ridden house – for a rather
unconventional exchange of information.  But at this moment it is an
expression of relief that is fleetingly traded between Skelgill’s subordinates.

‘Leyton
– that wasn’t a hurricane – it wasn’t even above force eight
hereabouts.’

DS
Leyton shrugs, as though the distinction is academic.

‘All
the same, Guv – what with the boat having all your gear on board.’

‘So
what did you do?’

‘I
phoned your mountain rescue team – to get their boat out as soon as. 
By luck the chap that answered was your pal Woody who you were supposed to meet
in the pub last night.’

Skelgill,
who has been furnished – to follow up several rounds of toast and honey
– with a bacon sandwich and a second mug of tea, chews and slurps and
nods and indicates that DS Leyton should continue.

‘He
knew you’d be fishing down this end of the lake – he reckoned if you had fallen
overboard and survived then you’d be stranded on an island – because if
you’d swum to the shore you’d have got help from a farm or hotel.’

‘So
you came straight here?’

‘More
or less.’  DS Leyton grins sheepishly.  ‘You know me, Guv – any
longer on one of those boats they had out looking for you and I’d have been
proper tom and dick.  Ground bait, I believe you fishermen call it.’

Skelgill’s
countenance is beginning to suggest a degree of disapproval.  At the best
of times, expressing gratitude to his subordinates is not one of his strong
suits.  Evidently, now, the notion that he – one of Lakeland’s most
experienced anglers and boatmen – might have got into trouble does not
sit comfortably with him.  And perhaps the knowledge of what actually did
occur gives him an unreasonably biased perspective.  Notwithstanding, on
the basis of limited information, his deputies could be excused for thinking
they had seen him alive for the last time.

‘It
was just precautionary, Guv.’  DS Jones intervenes soothingly.  ‘We
guessed you’d be fine – but the Chief was down on us like a ton of bricks
wanting to know what action plan we’d implemented.’

Skelgill
scowls rather ungratefully.

‘Why’s
she
getting her knickers in a twist?’

DS
Jones patiently brushes a strand of hair from her face.

‘I
think she mentioned something about a valuable senior officer, Guv.’

‘Miracles
never cease.’

Now DS
Leyton clears his throat.

‘But since
you’re safe she wants a report by ten, Guv – before any of this leaks out
and awkward questions start being asked.’

Skelgill
makes an ironic hissing sound.

‘Cancel
the miracle.’

DS
Leyton shakes his head and chuckles.

‘So,
Guv – if you weren’t pulled overboard fighting a giant sturgeon –
what did happen?’

Skelgill
again scowls.

‘Shove
over that teapot, Leyton.’  He tops up his mug and stirs in several spoons
of sugar.  ‘We don’t have wild sturgeon in Britain.  It was a pike I
was after.  I’ve bet Woody I’ll have a twenty-five pounder out of Derwentwater
before the month’s up.’

‘So
you’re running short of time, Guv – how much did you bet?’

‘It’s
not the amount, it’s the odds, Leyton.’  For a moment he appears unwilling
to expand upon the details of the wager, but then he relents.  ‘Tenner
– at a hundred to one.’

‘Cor
blimey, Guv – you’re talking a grand.’

‘Aye,
well – the ale was talking a grand.’

DS
Leyton vigorously scratches his head, as though it might help to free up an
idea.  He appears perturbed by his boss’s costly predicament.

‘Can’t
you catch one out of your regular lake, Guv?  Ship it over?’

‘A
bet’s a bet, Leyton.’

Skelgill’s
features are set uncompromisingly.  However, with the deadline only four
days away, the suggestion of a Bassenthwaite Lake ringer must have growing
appeal, and perhaps there is the faintest Machiavellian glint in his eye. 
Nonetheless, he opts not to become sidetracked.

‘And
if it weren’t for that, we wouldn’t be here now.  I was fishing close in
to the island and I spotted one of the writers – the young girl, Lucy.’ 
He glances up at DS Jones, who averts her gaze and studies the list of names in
the notebook that lies open before her.  ‘It was just getting dark and she
was calling for help.  They’d discovered Buckley dead about an hour
earlier, and they had no communications.  I came ashore at the jetty, got
the lie of the land, went back down to the boat about an hour later and it was
gone.  By then it was pitch dark.  Considered various impractical options
– ended up staying the night.  Planned to signal for help this
morning – if you didn’t find us first.’

‘Which
we did, Guv.’

Skelgill
shoots DS Leyton an irritated glance for stating the obvious.  Perhaps
there is an element of frustration that he has been thwarted in completing his
‘rescue’ of the writers’ party.

DS
Leyton tries again, along less contentious lines.

‘I
take it no one half-inched your boat, Guv?’

‘I
wouldn’t say that, exactly.’

‘Meaning
what, Guv?’

‘Meaning
it didn’t blow away.’

Skelgill
stares hard at his sergeant, biting his lower lip.  But he opts not to
elaborate.

‘Let’s
park that for now – tell me what you know that I don’t.’  He reaches
again for the teapot.

DS
Leyton nods to DS Jones, who, by dint of her vastly superior admin skills, when
present is relied upon as chief note-taker.  She flips back a couple of
pages, but after a cursory glance she recites from memory.

‘We
landed at about seven-fifteen, Guv.  The front door was unlocked and I
recognised your boots in the hall.’  (Skelgill raises an eyebrow but does
not comment.)  ‘No one was up, so we started going round the
bedrooms.  DS Leyton found you.  I discovered the dead woman. 
Some doors were locked.  That’s why we didn’t know about Buckley until you
told us.’

‘We
just thought he’d had even more sauce than you, Guv.’

DS
Leyton intends his quip to be light hearted, but he receives a withering look
from Skelgill for his trouble.  DS Jones quickly continues.

‘Dr
Herdwick was working an early shift and when he heard you were missing he
volunteered to come out with us.’

Skelgill
folds his arms and shakes his head, as insult is heaped upon the injury.

‘And
what’s the old vulture saying?’

‘He’s
referring the deaths to the Coroner, Guv.’

‘On
what grounds?’  There is an antagonistic note in Skelgill’s question.  ‘I
thought we were looking at a heart attack and an accidental overdose of
sleeping pills?’

Now DS
Jones refers to her notes.

‘Several
technicalities, Guv – cause of deaths unknown, or at least, uncertain
– deaths sudden and unexplained – no known visits by a medical
practitioner –’

‘Apart
from the quack.’

Skelgill’s
rather scathing interjection refers to the Yorkshireman and former GP, Dr Gerald
Bond, of whom he has plainly not become enamoured.

‘Added
together, Guv – plus the fact of two deaths in two days among a small
group of people – Dr Herdwick says he can’t just sign them off.’

‘He was
joking about quarantining the lot of you on the island, Guv – spin it out
longer, or something like that.’

DS
Jones laughs involuntarily at DS Leyton’s remark, although it is not quite
clear to her colleagues why this might be.  Under critical scrutiny she
resumes her more serious demeanour.

‘So is
he talking autopsies?’

‘Some
preliminary tests, at least, Guv.’  DS Jones glances at her notes. 
‘Obviously it looks fairly certain the Mandrake woman ingested medicines plus
alcohol, but we’ve also found various prescription drugs among Buckley’s
possessions.’

There
is another round of silence as each person perhaps attempts to piece together a
coherent picture of events.  Although the circumstances are unusual, on
the face of it they appear to be the product of a string of coincidences. 
Certainly Skelgill’s involvement can be nothing other, while the concurrence of
two accidental or even natural deaths is perfectly feasible.  For
sergeants Leyton and Jones, arriving ‘cold’ to the scene (with Skelgill’s
safety their overwhelming preoccupation at the time), the facts are such that undue
suspicion need not be aroused.  Skelgill, however, has undergone a more
qualitative experience, and his intuition is informed accordingly.  He
consults his wristwatch; the time is approaching ten o’clock.

 ‘I’d
better call the Chief.’  He holds out a hand to DS Leyton.  ‘If you
could lend me your mobile.’

DS
Leyton obliges.

‘What do
you reckon, Guv – gut-feel-wise?’

Skelgill
screws up his face in an unbecoming rodent-like manner.

‘Not a
lot we can do without something to go on from Herdwick.’  He drains his
mug and takes care to place it quietly upon the table top.  ‘Better have a
quick word with everyone – get their details in case they decide to
scarper.’

DS
Jones is nodding.

‘From
what I can gather, Guv – that appears to be the general consensus.’

‘Last
night, they were all for seeing it through to the end of the week.’  Skelgill
purses his lips.  ‘Except Bella Mandrake.’

*

‘How’s
the head now, Guv?’

Skelgill
is checking that his mobile phone is none the worse for its ordeal
afloat.  Given that he has gained access to a fishing website, it seems
all is well.  Without looking up, he grips his temples between the thumb
and fourth finger of his right hand.

‘As my
old ma says, there’s not a lot in there to damage.’

DS
Jones chuckles.  She scoops a spoonful of froth from her cappuccino and
snaps her full lips over it, rather in the manner of a frog devouring a
fly.  Then slowly she pulls out the spoon and dips it back into the
coffee.

‘I get
the impression it was a bit of a wild night.’

‘I was
first to bed – can’t think why I had the worst hangover.’

DS
Jones watches him for a moment, but there is apparently little to glean from
his concentrated features.  She drops a hand to her side and taps her
attaché case.