Murder on the Lake (25 page)

‘Looks
delicious, Hans – tell her she’s too kind.’

‘I
shall – now, please, help yourself –
jätku leiba
.’

Skelgill
requires no second invitation and does as commanded.  The professor pours
them each a frothing beer – this a local Lakeland brew – which also
meets with Skelgill’s approval.

‘I
thought just a small one, Daniel – you will want to be keeping a clear
head out on the water.’

Skelgill
nods, chewing hungrily.

‘That
forms part of the questions I have for you, Hans.’

‘Really?’

‘Aye
– but first I wondered what you can tell me about atropine.’

The
professor glances sharply at Skelgill, though his implacable Slavic features
register little or no change.  He takes a small sip of beer and replaces
his glass carefully upon the polished surface of the table, aligning it with
the whorl of a knot.

‘
Atropa
belladonna
– your Deadly Nightshade – one of the oldest of
poisons.’  He gazes unblinking over the lake.  ‘Apparently Cleopatra
considered it for her suicide – until she saw its effects on the poor
slave upon whom she tested it.’

Skelgill’s
eyes widen.

‘Did
it not work?’

‘It
worked – but it did not look pretty.  She settled instead upon the
bite of an asp.  Or so the story goes.’

Skelgill
glances rather introspectively at the older man.

‘My
dog’s called Cleopatra – I inherited her – the name came as part of
the package.’

‘But
you are thinking of keeping both?’

Skelgill
chuckles.

‘Aye
– this concerns a human poisoning – a
possible
poisoning.’

‘It
would not be the first – and of course you have an infamous case of
atropine – the Edinburgh poisoner.’

‘Edinburgh?’

Skelgill
does a little double take, as though one more coincidence will give him a
nosebleed.

‘Two
decades ago now – perhaps before your time in the police.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘What
happened?’

‘He
was a scientist – an academic.’  The professor bows his head in a
rather apologetic manner, as if to acknowledge that evil prowls all walks of
life.  ‘He was found guilty of trying to kill his wife.’

‘Trying?’

‘She
did not drink all the poison.’  He picks up his glass and raises it to
Skelgill.  ‘It was insufficiently disguised in a gin and tonic – you
see, atropine is intensely bitter.  This is why so few children die by
accident – the berries appear delicious – like polished black
cherries – thankfully the taste is a deterrent.  It is worse than
sloes.  Yet birds can swallow the fruit with impunity, and are an
important vector for dispersal of the seed.  And while insects are
essential for pollination, there are even reported cases of atropine poisoning
from honey, where the bees have relied heavily upon the plant – this is quite
a variation on your heather honey that is so popular!  Herbal teas have
also caused accidental poisoning – when leaves of Deadly Nightshade are
picked by mistake and incorporated into the crop.’

The
professor allows himself a wry grin.  Skelgill is silent for a moment; he
chooses another sandwich.

‘I’ve
never seen it growing hereabouts.’

The
professor shakes his head.

‘I am
no great botanist, Daniel – although I believe it is a species that
favours chalk downlands.’  He lifts a hand, correctly in a south-southeasterly
direction.  ‘However, the chemical agent is commonly available in medical
and scientific circles – it is used in many preparations.  The
Edinburgh poisoner simply ordered extra stocks of atropine sulphate for his
experiments.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘So,
you wouldn’t have to use an extract from the plant?’

‘The
liquid form would be more convenient.  How was the poison administered?’

‘As
you just touched upon – the victim was taking a medicine that contained
atropine.  But the concentration in the body doesn’t correspond to the
concentration in the pills.’

‘What
were the symptoms?’

Skelgill
shrugs reluctantly.

‘He was
found dead some time later.  No one knew he was ill.  The actual
cause of death was heart failure.’

The
professor blinks a couple of times, though his features remain implacable.

‘Atropine
may lead to a coma before death.  It is metabolised quickly and leaves no
inflamed organs for the pathologist.  In some circumstances it could be
the tool for the perfect crime.  Although it sounds like your people have
detected a flaw.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.

‘We
can’t be certain – statistically – but there’s grounds for
suspicion.  Not least because of a second death at the same place the
following day.’

‘Also
by atropine?’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘Looks
like an overdose of sleeping pills – but we’re told something’s awry,
given the brand involved – also too weak a concentration.’

The
professor regards Skelgill with an affectionate concern.

‘It
sounds like you have your work cut out.  Perhaps I should undertake a
little research and come up to your office.’

Skelgill
shifts rather uneasily in his seat.

‘This
visit – it’s... er, kind of unofficial.’

‘Ah.’ 
The professor nods slowly several times.  ‘But I may still give you advice
– perhaps by telephone?’

Skelgill,
too, nods – though with considerably more energy.

‘Well,
in the meantime – have another sandwich – I had a late breakfast
– you still have much exercise to do – and your complexion is not
as robust as I remember it.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows resignedly.

‘Maybe
it’s the weather.  The sun’s hardly shone for a fortnight.  And I’ve
been busy – I haven’t been out as much as I would have liked.’

But
the professor does not look convinced, and Skelgill perhaps feels obliged to
elaborate.

‘I
wasn’t too grand on Sunday night – felt a bit tired and dizzy –
then I had a blinding headache on Monday morning.’  He shrugs.  ‘I
put it down to too much red wine.’

The
professor is observing him closely – indeed, watching as much as
listening to his words.

‘Were
you by any chance in the vicinity of those who were – shall we say
– poisoned?’

Skelgill
glances up in surprise, a sandwich mid-way to his lips.

‘Aye,
I was.’

‘Then
perhaps you were lucky.’

Skelgill
seems unsure of how to respond to this insight, and in lieu of a better course
of action he takes a large bite of the bread.  The professor sips his beer
in silence.  Then slowly he intones a little ditty.

‘
Hot as a
hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, and mad as a hatter.’

‘What’s that?’

‘An old saying about the symptoms of atropine poisoning.’

Skelgill chuckles.

‘Sounds more like me, flapping about on this case.’

The professor shakes his head.

‘I think you will solve it, Daniel.  Your record is
excellent, no?’

Now Skelgill sighs guardedly and contemplates the platter and
its remaining sandwiches, though with apparently diminished enthusiasm.

‘The Chief doesn’t set great store by past records.’

‘She has a fiery reputation.’

‘Don’t mention the word
fire
.’

The professor tilts his head to one side, perhaps assessing the
nuance in Skelgill’s warning.

‘But you have some thinking time.’

Skelgill glances up.

‘I’m stalking a pike.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

For a moment Skelgill appears more animated.  He gestures
towards the lake.

‘Hans – what’s the biggest you’ve had out of Derwentwater?’

The professor contrives a somewhat confessional expression.

‘Ah, Daniel – in five years of trying – and despite
your trademark plugs – only nineteen pounds and ten ounces.’

Skelgill seems to fight back the urge to swallow – he has limited
success and reaches for his beer as cover.  The professor does not seem to
notice his unease, and begins to reminisce.

‘My adoptive home lake, as well – it is a long way short
of my Bassenthwaite best, caught with your expert assistance – and, can
you believe, less than a quarter of the Estonian record?’

Skelgill shakes his head – though now his expression is
one of wonderment.

‘I think I need a long weekend in the Baltic.’

‘Catch your poisoner – and they will surely give you one.’

Skelgill raises his eyebrows rather doubtingly; as things stand,
he shall neither solve the crime nor – when his bungled bet expires in
the next thirty-six hours – be able to afford a holiday.

‘Guv
– DI Smart has arrested Dr Bond.’

Skelgill,
having casually slammed shut his car door and set off jauntily marching towards
his waiting colleague, is visibly rocked by this howitzer of news discharged across
the pub car park.  His face rapidly falls in, when a second earlier it was
dominated by a demob-happy grin (enhanced it seemed as DS Jones stepped into
the moonlight to reveal a most un-detective-like outfit).  Now he halts a
yard or two short of the embrace that would befit the meeting of such an
attractive young woman.  Reduced to his more customary attitude of
watchful sentry, he realises she is shivering.

‘Come
on, lass – let’s get inside and sat down – then you can tell us
proper.’

The
hostelry, an old coaching inn that – while popular with those in the
know, and renowned for its excellent food and generous portions – is one
of those out-of-the-way places where couples of all descriptions can meet
without announcing themselves to the entire county.  Tonight, highlighting
its isolation, a near full moon spreads a silvery shroud over the low building
and its silent environs, a harbinger of the frost that will follow as the
mercury falls further.  In contrast, from the mullioned windows emanates a
cosy glow, redolent of oil lamps and a roaring log fire – and indeed
beyond the heavy oak door they are greeted by the scent of paraffin and the
crackle of a blaze from the inglenook.

At
this time of year the Lake District is largely reclaimed by its locals, and the
cosy bar harbours a small contingent of quietly conversing regulars and their lazing
dogs: Lurcher, Lab and Lakeland Terrier among them.  A Border Collie rises
and strolls over to inspect the new arrivals, but it is jerked back by a sharp
“That’ll
do!”
from a gnarled shepherd who nurses a half-pint of mild in a dark
corner.  Skelgill makes a little motion of the hand at waist level, and
the old man responds with the faintest of nods.  Otherwise their entrance garners
little notice.

The regular
landlady is not in attendance – though a female member of staff in her late
twenties with spiked hair and a knowing smile eyes DS Jones with a casual
interest.  Skelgill orders a pint of bitter, and a
Martini-and-slimline
for his companion, and a mild to be delivered to the shepherd.  They don’t
have a booking – but there is no need – and indeed rather than pass
through into the deserted restaurant area they opt for a small round table close
beside the fire.

For a
few moments DS Jones continues to shiver, and Skelgill takes the opportunity to
peruse the menu while she recovers her composure.  However, she soon chuckles
when he announces that he “can feel a black pudding coming on” – he is a
man of habit when it comes to his stomach.  She would no doubt predict
that home-made steak-and-ale pie should follow as his choice of main course. 
After a minute he glances up and turns expectantly to the bar.  He catches
the eye of the young woman, who may have been keeping them under low-grade surveillance. 
She emerges to reveal a slim figure, trim in a tailored charcoal polo shirt bearing
the pub logo, and tight-fitting black jeans of a satiny material.  She
knows she draws his eye and, with notepad and pen poised, she stands just
behind and to one side of DS Jones.  Skelgill becomes conscious that he is
the object of attention of at least two varieties, and folds his arms rather
defensively as he places their order.  When the waitress departs he
reaches for his jug and takes refuge in its depths until he seems to think it
is safe to emerge.  He bangs it down decisively upon the table.

‘Not
so smart Smart.’

DS
Jones understands his meaning; she nods and gathers herself to speak.

‘He got
us to tell him everything we know so far, Guv – first thing this morning,
that was – and then at the end of the meeting he just stood up, acting
really cool – he said we couldn’t see the wood for the trees – and
he went straight up to the Chief.’  She pauses to take a measured sip of
her drink.  ‘The next thing we knew he was dragging DS Leyton out to go and
arrest Dr Bond.’

‘I bet
he didn’t say
we
.’

‘Sorry,
Guv?’

‘I bet
he didn’t say
we
couldn’t see the wood for the trees.’

DS
Jones winces apologetically.

‘You
know what he’s like, Guv.’

Skelgill’s
eyes narrow.

‘I’m
surprised he didn’t take you with him, over to Bond’s place.’

DS
Jones lowers her gaze.

‘DS
Leyton got the impression that the Chief had decided he should accompany DI
Smart – perhaps because of yesterday.’

‘So
you’ve not been involved in the interviews?’

‘No,
Guv – but DS Leyton is keeping me in the picture, where he can.’ 
She leans forward, suddenly eager to please.  ‘And here’s something to
make you smile, Guv – Dr Bond is now demanding that you’re put back in
charge of the investigation!’

Skelgill
shakes his head; his features remain stern, though there is perhaps the tiniest
glint of jubilation in his eye.

‘What’s
Smart’s case?’

DS
Jones intertwines and studies her fingers: it seems they provide an excuse to avoid
eye contact while she is obliged to iterate the unwelcome opinion of her new
superior officer.

‘I
suppose it’s logical really, Guv.  If the two of them
were
poisoned, then it looks like medical knowledge and access to the drugs are the
key factors.  Dr Bond stands out by a head and shoulders.  Plus, if
he gave them a medicine, they’d probably take it without question.’  She
pauses to brush away a strand of hair from her eyes.  ‘That’s the line DI
Smart is taking.  Apparently he’s pressurising Dr Herdwick to make a
categorical statement about the concentration levels.  And he’s arguing
that the complaint against you was as good as an admission of guilt.  He
wants you to provide a statement that Dr Bond was acting suspiciously at
Grisholm Hall.’

Skelgill’s
face is implacable.

‘Motive.’

He
delivers this single word as though he considers it is a knockout blow. 
But DS Jones’s reaction is one of sudden anxiety.

‘There’s
something I haven’t mentioned to anyone yet, Guv – I’ve only had it
verbally – I heard just before close of play – and DI Smart had
gone home.’

‘Better
fire away, then.’  Skelgill casts about the table and then the bar room. 
‘I think we can safely say this conversation’s off the record.’

‘About
Bella Mandrake’s rejection letter – from Rich Buckley Publishing?’

Skelgill
nods, though now he seems a little agitated.

‘Have
you told Smart?’

In
turn, DS Jones looks more concerned.

‘Er,
no, Guv – I imagined you’d put it in your report – of your trip to
Scotland?’

Skelgill
forces an ironical grin.  It would appear he is not intending to do DI
Smart any unnecessary favours.  Indeed, his sketchy initial draft contained
little more than that Bella Mandrake was certainly a pen name for Jane Smith,
and that Sarah Redmond had no intention of allying herself with Rich Buckley
Publishing; but there was no mention, for instance, that the two women were not
entirely unacquainted.  The only cat that came out of the bag, so to
speak, travelled back to Cumbria in his car.

‘Aye
– maybe I did – you know what my memory can be like.’

DS
Jones nods, a little relieved, though guardedly so, for the adjective applicable
to his memory is
selective
.

‘Well
– it gave me the idea to contact Constance Belgrave.  I asked her to
check whether the firm had rejected manuscripts from any of the other writers
who went on the retreat.  She said they didn’t keep records of rejections,
but that if the author had sent a cheque to pay for return postage –
recorded delivery – then they would have the Post Office receipt and an
entry in their ledger.’

‘And?’ 
DS Jones has only paused for breath, but Skelgill is quick to chivvy her along.

‘Dr
Bond, Guv – he had a manuscript rejected in February – nine months
ago.’

Skelgill
folds his arms.

‘Anyone
else?’

DS
Jones gives a little shake of the head.

‘No. 
No others.  At least – as I say – not that there is a record
of.’

Skelgill’s
gaze wanders away from his companion and drifts about the low-ceilinged room,
eventually coming to rest upon a dusty glass cabinet, one of several fixed against
the opposite wall.  It contains an ancient stuffed and faded Polecat, its
facial mask barely distinguishable; it looks like it must have been frozen in its
snarling pose for the best part of a century.  Whether contemplating its
life and times distracts him, or even that its weaselly countenance recalls his
nemesis DI Alec Smart, it is impossible to know, but when Skelgill finally
speaks it is evident that his thinking has moved on some.

‘You
said Bella Mandrake was pestering Dr Bond for tablets?’

‘That’s
right, Guv – maybe
she
upset him, too.  I mean, what if he
actually
is
crazy, Guv?  DI Smart’s going round boasting that he’s
caught the next Harold Shipman.’

‘It’s
Smart that wants his head examined.’

Skelgill,
however, looks determined that this
should
be the case, rather than
absolutely confident that DI Smart is wrong.  And the dark brown eyes of
DS Jones, too, harbour a hint of doubt that Skelgill can be so sure.

‘We’ve
not found anything at Dr Bond’s house, Guv.’  She seems to perk up in
delivering this information.  ‘I mean – by way of medicines that
could have been switched at Grisholm Hall.’

Now, paradoxically,
it is Skelgill that plays devil’s advocate.

‘Aye
– but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave that sort of stuff lying
around – especially after your first visit.  That’d be long gone
down the Eden.’

DS Jones
nods.

‘I
know, Guv – DS Leyton’s calling at his former practice in Appleby
tomorrow – to find out if he still has connections or access there. 
He might easily have kept a set of keys.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘As
far as Smart’s theory goes, I still come back to motive.  If Bond’s a
nutcase, why not kill all of them?’

‘Perhaps
he was planning that, Guv?  Or at least as many as he could get away
with.  Imagine if he leaves a trail of apparently innocent deaths wherever
he goes?  Maybe there would have been more incidents – on this hiking
trip he’s got planned?’

Skelgill
looks doubtful and reaches for his beer.  He could mention Dr Bond’s forthright
remark at Grisholm Hall – about his attending to corpses in various
hotels in which he has lodged – or indeed that the good doctor was among
the most insistent that he should not attempt the swim that might have saved
the life of Bella Mandrake.  But he does neither.

‘Jones
– you’re starting to sound like Smart.  Constance Belgrave is more
likely to have tampered with Buckley’s medicine than Bond – and at least
she has a motive, poor woman.’

Skelgill
probably does not intend to sound severe, but now he rather glowers at DS
Jones, and her elegant cheekbones appear to colour in the glow from the hearth. 
Her gaze becomes forlorn, and her full lips form the beginnings of a petulant
pout.  Skelgill, for once, seems to detect the impact of his mordancy; he
reaches out, and with surprising gentleness brushes a knuckle against her
cheek.

‘Cheer
up, lass – it’s not over until the fat lady sings.’

DS
Jones blinks and leans back in surprise and grins at this somewhat nonsensical
remark.  Then she nods in agreement, and seems to gain a new determination
to support his cause.

‘Guv
– another thing I’ve been looking at is all the emails the attendees at
the retreat have forwarded to us – from the untraceable Wordsworth
company.’

‘Aye?’

‘We’ve
got them from everyone except Bella Mandrake and Rich Buckley – Constance
Belgrave still can’t access his system, and she thinks he probably would have
used a private email account, anyway.  But the interesting thing is that
they were sent on different dates.  The earliest was to Sarah Redmond
– by over a week.  Then Angela Cutting and Dickie Lampray were
contacted on the same day as one another – and after that it was another
week before the novice authors received their applications.’

Skelgill
does not react – in fact he glances rather impatiently towards the bar,
as if he is wondering what has become of their food.  Then, in a rather
offhand manner, he turns his attention back to DS Jones.

‘So
– what can you read into that?’

DS
Jones is eager to supply an answer.

‘Well,
remember, Guv – Dickie Lampray said he was surprised that Rich Buckley
even went on the retreat?  He said it couldn’t be for the money –
and that it was more likely he was interested in Sarah Redmond, since she was
supposedly looking at moving to a new publisher.’