Murder on the Lake (11 page)

Dickie
Lampray lifts an index finger, and then rises and shuffles his slippers across
the carpeted floor with his odd short-stepping gait.  He crosses to an
open bureau in the living room section.   He retrieves a sheet of A4
paper and brings it back to the coffee table.

‘This
is a printout of the email I forwarded last night, Inspector – I am afraid
I did not arrive home until after seven.’  He rotates the page through 180
degrees and hands it to Skelgill.  ‘I think the only information of use
will be their email address – it had not really struck me until now that
I have no other contact details.’

‘We
can’t a find a website, or a postal address.’  Skelgill looks inquiringly
at the agent.  ‘Would you say, sir – in your experience of these
things – is that unusual?’

Dickie
Lampray, who sits upright with his fingers interlocked and held against his
breastbone, alternates his grip and gives a little shake of his hands.

‘Well
– it is rather curious, with the benefit of hindsight – though if
all had gone smoothly I don’t suppose I should have noticed.’

‘Had
you heard of them before, sir – Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats?’

Now
Dickie Lampray seems somewhat pained.

‘Well,
the thing is – it sounds like the sort of organisation one has encountered
many times – but in fact it is a clever combination of words – it has
a familiar ring to it, when actually it appears the opposite may be true.’

Skelgill
glances at DS Jones, perhaps acknowledging her matching assessment.

‘What
made you go on the retreat, sir?’

‘Well,
to be perfectly frank, Inspector – it was the fee.’

‘The
fee?’

‘That’s
correct, five thousand for a week’s work – free board and lodging –
and not much work at that.’  He gestures to the sheet that Skelgill holds. 
‘It is all detailed in the email.’

Skelgill
glances vacantly at the page of text and hands it to DS Jones.

‘And
have you received the fee – if you don’t mind my asking, sir?’

Dickie
Lampray shakes his head, and rather dejectedly he turns out his bottom lip
before he replies.

‘No
– it was to be invoiced upon completion of the course.’

Skelgill
remains silent for a few moments.

‘What
are you thinking, sir?’

‘Well,
obviously, Inspector – the course was not completed – but that
aside, I am now rather wondering whether my fee – or even some proportion
of it – will ever be forthcoming.’  He shakes his head unhappily.  ‘I
mean – if this company has disappeared off the police’s radar, I don’t
fancy my own chances too strongly.’

Skelgill
looks to DS Jones – who has finished reading the email – for her input.

‘Mr
Lampray, it invites you as a highly regarded practitioner to provide advice
about getting the best out of working with a Literary Agent?’

‘That
is correct, sergeant.’

‘Wouldn’t
this suggest that they knew who you were – it mentions your reputation, and
details about your agency and its achievements?’

Dickie
Lampray makes a waving gesture with both hands, as if to say ‘not necessarily’ and
rises again from his seat.  Once more he visits the bureau, and this time
returns with the current edition of the
Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook
. 
There are several pages marked with slips of paper, and he flips open the hefty
tome at one of these and lays it on the table before them.

‘Our
industry bible.’  He points to a small entry, three-quarters of the way down
one page.  It is headed ‘Lampray & Associates Literary Agency’ and
comprises a couple of paragraphs of small text.  Then he flicks through
some of the adjoining pages.  ‘There is a whole section here – most British
agents are listed – everything you really need to know, in a nutshell.’

‘So
you might have been selected at random, sir?’

Dickie
Lampray nods.

‘Quite
possibly, sergeant.’

He
looks anxiously to Skelgill, who has been taking the opportunity of DS Jones’s
questioning to dunk and devour custard creams.  Skelgill swallows and clears
his throat to speak.

‘You
seemed to be familiar with the other members of the retreat, sir?’

‘Well
of course, I do know – at least I
knew
Rich – and Angela,
and naturally I have heard of Sarah Redmond and have been at several events at which
she has appeared – but I would be able to say the same of almost any
random combination of publisher, critic and established author that you would
care to choose – it’s a small world in the book trade and we many of us
are connected for business purposes.  I can’t claim to be acquainted with them
any better than I am with several dozen other people who equally well might
have attended.  The budding authors, however, they were all complete
strangers to me.’

‘What
about the remaining professionals like yourself – how had they been
enlisted to participate?’

Dickie
Lampray frowns.

‘I
really couldn’t say, Inspector – it wasn’t something that came up in
conversation – I imagine I’d supposed they had been recruited in the same
manner that I was – and you understand how people like to keep mum about
their earnings – one never knows if a would-be author is a taxman in
their day job – ha-ha – just joking, of course!’

Skelgill
evidently decides not to react to this remark, and continues to gaze at Dickie
Lampray as though he expects him to continue.  After a slightly awkward
moment or two his silent treatment pays off.

‘I
must confess, Inspector – I
was
rather surprised to find Rich
there – I shouldn’t have thought the money would have been a factor –
I rather wondered if it was because he knew Sarah Redmond would be attending.’

Skelgill
pauses, a biscuit hovering midway twixt cup and lip, which is akin to a sudden
pricking of his ears.

‘Why
is that significant, sir?’

‘Ah,
well, Inspector – book trade gossip, you see.’  Dickie Lampray taps
the side of his nose.  ‘Rumour has it that she is in the market for a new
publisher – that she has rather outgrown her Scottish outfit – so it
would have been quite a coup if she’d gone to Rich Buckley.’

‘Did
you know she would be there, sir?’

Dickie
Lampray shakes his head.

‘No
– I had no knowledge of my fellow delegates until we assembled at the
waterside rendezvous.’

‘I
see, sir.’  Skelgill looks thoughtful.  ‘You mentioned a moment ago
about Mr Buckley being ‘top dog’, as you put it – what did you mean by
that?’

‘Ah,
inspector – the pecking order of the publishing business.’  Dickie
Lampray shakes his head ruefully.  ‘Although the digital revolution has
rather put the cat among the pigeons, for the time being the traditional hierarchy
largely prevails – in which the publisher is all-powerful.  The
humble agent,’ (he gestures emotively to his breast with both hands) ‘and the
even more humble would-be author, is at the mercy of the publisher.  No
publishing contract, no food on the table.’

Skelgill
nods sympathetically.

‘So
where do the others fit in, in that regard?’

Dickie
Lampray momentarily takes hold of the tips of his shirt collar, as if he is
straightening an invisible bow tie.

‘Well,
of course, Angela is something of a law unto herself.’  He glances at DS
Jones and says by way of explanation, ‘She is a Literary Critic –
syndicated to all the leading media outlets.  With a stroke of her pen she
can make or break a book – or a heart, come to that.’

‘So
she’s top of the pecking order, really?’

‘Rather
soaring around above it, I should say, Inspector – since she is not
really a link in the practical chain of origination and publication.’

‘And
what about Sarah Redmond?’

‘Well,
of course, once an author has ‘made it’, so to speak, they can call their own
tune – and Sarah Redmond has certainly made it – there is a hardly
a week goes by when she is not among the top ten bestsellers.’

Now
Skelgill nods, as if the situation is becoming clearer.

‘So at
the retreat, sir – it was Mr Buckley that took charge?’

Dickie
Lampray concurs.

‘It
was apparent after we had settled into our rooms and gathered for a discussion,
that there was a requirement for a chairman of sorts.  Rich quite
naturally assumed that role and I was content to see him do so.  Angela
and Sarah strutted like smart peacocks amongst a flock of rather less brainy hens
– they subtly complied only with the arrangements that suited them. 
The aspiring authors, of course, were desperate to impress – so I’m
afraid to say they were somewhat taken advantage of when it came to communal
chores and suchlike.  When Rich died – only shortly before your own
arrival, Inspector – as one of the more senior members of the group, in
age if nothing else, I rather felt it behove me to take things in hand.  But
I had no formal role, and until then I took a back seat in what limited affairs
there were.’

Skelgill’s
countenance has perhaps unwittingly hardened as he listens to this explanation
– and he suddenly seems to become conscious he should overtly demonstrate
this is not the interrogation of a suspect.

‘Well,
sir – it's very good of you to fill us in with these details –
obviously I had a bit of an insight myself into the situation.’

‘Oh,
it is no trouble whatsoever, Inspector – just ask away – it is a
pleasure to do one’s civic duty.’

Skelgill
nods several times, and he becomes conspiratorial in his manner.  He leans
forward, his elbows resting upon his knees and his hands entwined.

‘You’ll
understand, sir, that I’m constrained in what I can say about the deceased
persons – but it appears that Mr Buckley’s death may have been brought
about by the side-effects of a medicine he had in his possession, and in Ms
Mandrake’s case we believe she took an overdose of sleeping pills.’

Dickie
Lampray is nodding in confirmation, as though this much has already reached his
ears – either at the time of the evacuation from Grisholm Hall, or by
means of some social grapevine since.  Skelgill continues.

‘So I
don’t know, sir, if – in the light of that knowledge – there’s anything
that struck you as notable as far as either of them were concerned – the
state of their health, or something about their behaviour, for instance?’

Dickie
Lampray nods slowly and gazes reflectively in the direction of the lounge
window.  A courier’s van has pulled up outside, although its manoeuvre is
just to let another vehicle pass, and it draws away.

‘Well,
Inspector – you saw Bella Mandrake for yourself – she certainly
wasn’t the most stable of personalities, so I am unsurprised by what you say regarding
sleeping pills.  However, from a point of view of external vigour she
seemed entirely robust – quite a formidable presence, indeed, as you experienced,
Inspector.’

Skelgill
does not comment, but Dickie Lampray continues with barely a pause.

‘As
for Rich – well, he seemed in rude health, too.  Certainly he was
burning the candle at the midnight end, if you get my gist.’  He blinks
apologetically.  ‘You see, I’m a bit of a night owl myself, and I don’t believe
there was an evening when Rich turned in before me – but then again he
was correspondingly late in rising.’

‘What
was he doing – in staying up late?’

‘Oh,
just generally socialising, Inspector – there was no shortage of
alcohol,’ (at this Dickie Lampray coughs rather discreetly, and DS Jones keeps
her eyes fixed firmly upon her notebook), ‘and always someone willing to keep
Rich company – though I don’t think any of us could match his staying
power.’

‘What
about on the night before he died, sir – you mentioned previously that
yourself, Ms Mandrake and Ms Cutting were the last to be up with him –
until about two a.m. I believe you said?’

Dickie
Lampray nods.

‘That
is correct, Inspector – although I was first to succumb to the lure of my
bed – so I am afraid Angela is your best bet to provide any last minute
details.  When I left the drawing room the three of them were huddled on a
sofa, ostensibly poring over a piece of writing Bella had produced and insisted
they should critique – though I rather think they were humouring her.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘This
work – that you were all supposed to do as part of your contracts –
how was that organised?’

Dickie
Lampray now looks a touch shamefaced.

‘Well
I must be honest, Inspector, it was hardly challenging.  I was expected to
give a short talk before dinner on a couple of evenings, and then to be loosely
available for any of the authors who wanted to chat about things – how to
find an agent, what to expect from them, how to treat them – ha-ha.’

‘And
how much were you called upon?

‘Frankly,
Inspector, the authors were jolly diligent – of course the primary idea
of a retreat is to get one’s head down and write away furiously in perfect
peace – and that is what they seemed to do most of the time – so I
think you’ll get a similar answer from Angela and Sarah – which is that
their services were not strenuously tested.’