Murder on the Lake (27 page)

It is
about halfway through the second round of toast that lightning strikes, although
Skelgill looks like he has broken a tooth.  Eating – especially
alone – is one of those peculiar activities, requiring little conscious
effort and yet quite absorbing, which can bring on a sort of reverie – a
dwam
,
as the Scots call it.  And in such a place, pennies are known to drop. 
Mid-mouthful, Skelgill stops chewing and regards with some wonder the remaining
piece of bread and honey (for the mystery opaque filling is
set honey
). 
He turns it in his hand, staring as if he can’t quite believe what he is
seeing.  Of course, it is his mind’s eye at work here, and actually he
can’t believe what he is thinking.

He sits
upright and glances about.  Perhaps switching into a more deliberative
mode of reasoning, he recommences chewing, and swills down his mouthful with
the half-capful of tea that remains.  But he replaces the unfinished
portion of toast in its wrapper, and carefully folds over the crinkled foil, as
if to preserve some valuable evidence.  It is clear his thoughts are
racing – and his pulse, too, if his quickened breathing is anything to go
by.  His eyes dart about his surroundings – with no particular
purpose, it would seem – until his attention is drawn once again by the
kayaks.  Without him being particularly aware, they have in fact passed
behind Grisholm, and now, one after the other, they are beginning to appear
beyond its northerly point.  It takes under a minute for all eight red craft
to emerge into view, and the mini armada paddles away on a course parallel to
the shore of the lake.  But now he continues to watch – not the
flotilla, so much, but the tip of Grisholm.  He watches... and he watches. 
Another minute passes... and then another.  And then Skelgill reaches for
his oars.

*

Skelgill’s
boat noses silently into the boathouse.  He berths it alongside the
apple-green kayak.  He jumps out over the bow dragging a steel chain. 
This is fastened by a staple driven into the gunwale, and serves as an
anti-theft device when the need arises.  He slips the chain through a
rusted iron mooring ring, and padlocks the loose end to the staple.  He
pats his breast pocket to confirm the presence of his mobile.  Then he
slings his rucksack on one shoulder and clambers out lugging his oars.  He
hides all three items in the thicket of rhododendrons at the back of the
boathouse.  Then he re-enters and unties the kayak, drags it to the end of
the jetty, and pushes it out into the lake.  It slides beyond the rocks at
the entrance to the little harbour, and he watches until it begins to drift
away.  Then he sets off at a jog along the woodland path.

In its
secluded clearing Grisholm Hall appears as silent and deserted as ever.  Taking
in this scene, Skelgill dwells beneath the sweeping branches of a Western
Hemlock, one of the non-natives that provide the evergreen screen around the
property.  After a couple of seconds he breaks cover and makes a dash for
the front door.  He manhandles the large brass latch, and winces as it sends
a hollow ring into the hall beyond.  But the door is locked.  Now he
retraces his route of yesterday, keeping close to the building and ducking under
each window that he passes.  Reaching the courtyard, and treading softly
on the mossy paving, he quickly tries the doors: that of the kitchen, and the
two fire exits – but all three are firmly closed, and either locked or
fastened from the inside.  He stands, arms akimbo, and casts about, biting
the side of his mouth.

The
low autumn sun is angling across the courtyard, illuminating the first-floor
corridor windows of what had been the ‘Women’s Wing’ during the retreat. 
As Skelgill glances up something moves across the nearest window to the angle
of the building.  It is little more than a dark shape – but it can
only be the top of a head covered by a black hat or hood.  From Skelgill’s
position beside the kitchen door, he cannot see how far the intruder continues
along the passage.  But immediately he makes up his mind to enter the
property.  As before, he scrambles onto the windowsill – more nimbly
without the extra effort required to counterbalance his heavy rucksack. 
He yanks down the upper sash – again it squeals a protest – to him
it must sound like an air-raid warning siren – and he holds his breath
and listens intently for a few seconds.  But the kitchen is a good way
from the bedroom wing, and there are potentially several closed doors between
it and any eavesdropper.  He determines that all is clear and clambers
through the opening – this time taking care to land softly.  His
rubber-soled boots can be sneaky when needs must, and he silently crosses the
flagstones all the way to the foot of the main staircase.  From here there
is worn carpet, although progress still requires care, as creaky risers threaten
to betray his presence.  On the central landing the doors of the four
‘VIP’ suites are all shut; but Skelgill makes directly for the interconnecting
door that leads to the ‘Women’s Wing’.  This has no catch – it
merely swings on hinges and is returned to its position by means of a hydraulic
closer.  Just as he begins to pull it open there is a distinct sound from
beyond – perhaps the hollow clunk of another door closing.

Cautiously
he enters the corridor.  Bright rectangles of sun spotlight each of the
three bedroom doors – and all three here are shut, too.  The sound,
however, seemed to emanate from the far end of the corridor.  Skelgill tiptoes
along to the furthest door.  This was the chamber allocated to Lucy
Hecate.  He pauses outside, leaning against the jamb and straining to
listen, grimacing and breathing through bared teeth.  After a couple of
seconds he turns the handle – it squeaks alarmingly – and wrenches
open the door.  But the room is empty.  He enters and quickly checks
the en suite – but finds the same result.  There is no obvious sign
of disturbance, and he leaves the room and re-closes the door behind him. 
Then he pauses and looks broodingly at the narrow staircase that leads down to
the fire exit.  His next decision, however, is to investigate the remaining
bedrooms.  Using the same stealthy method, he works his way back along the
passage, onto the landing, and into the ‘Men’s Wing’, successively finding
empty the rooms formerly occupied by Linda Gray, Bella Mandrake, Sarah Redmond,
Angela Cutting, Rich Buckley, Dickie Lampray, Dr Gerald Bond, Burt Boston and
– finally – himself.

In
this latter room he pauses in the centre of the carpet and brings his hands up
to his face, covering his mouth, with his fingertips touching the tip of his
nose, in a kind of praying posture.  He begins to rotate on the spot, and finds
himself staring back at the door, and the small occasional table on which
stands the candlestick.  The
empty
candlestick.  With a sudden
realisation he homes in on this and strides across, snatches it up, and stares
at it with alarm.  Then he replaces it and turns to face the room. 
After a moment’s consideration he rounds the bed and strides across to the
window.  The sun streams in here too and makes him squint.  But in a second
his eyes have widened.  Down below, bordering the outside wall of this
wing is an overgrown ornamental shrubbery – now an unkempt mix of dwarf
conifers and azaleas and deciduous varieties of cinquefoils and St John’s worts
that have already dropped most of their leaves.  And in their midst, bent
over and obviously searching for something amongst the thick mulch, is the
black-clad canoeist.  The anonymous figure even wears black gloves and a
black balaclava – of which Skelgill caught a glimpse.  And the click
of the door must have been, not a bedroom, but the closing of the fire escape
as the intruder left the building.

Acting
upon impulse – perhaps unwisely – Skelgill yanks up the bottom sash
of the window.  The resultant screech instantly alerts the individual
below, who immediately turns and runs, raising their gloved hands to conceal
what little of their face is visible.

‘Stop
right there – police!’

Skelgill’s
hollered entreaty is in vain.  The person pays no heed and disappears from
sight, darting first to the wall of the building, where there is a narrow shingle
path, and then sprinting in the direction of the front of the house. 
Skelgill now has a decision to make.  His quickest exit is via the fire
escape at the foot of the stair outside his bedroom – provided it is operational
– but this will bring him out on the wrong side of the wing.  The
kitchen window is further still, and will only deliver the same result –
egress into the courtyard.  Meanwhile a locked mortise renders the great
front door impregnable.

Eschewing
these options he rolls out onto the windowsill.  To one side is the
downpipe from the en suite bathroom.  He lurches at this and just manages
to get a grip with both hands.  His legs follow and he swings into an
improvised abseil brace position.  Flakes of black paint and rust splinter
from the pipe, and its brackets grumble alarmingly, but he doesn’t hang about
to test their stamina – he shins down like a native coconut harvester who
has just met a giant python, and opts to jump the last six feet.  He lands
on his toes, but his outward momentum causes him to perform a backward roll
into a Juniper bush.  Perhaps propelled by its unforgiving foliage, he
pounds in pursuit of his quarry.

The
winding path to the boathouse is clear, although there are skid marks and ruts
in the damp earth where the runner ahead of him took corners at speed.  Arriving
at the shore he finds the little harbour deserted, and for a moment his eyes
flash with alarm and he scans the water – as if to confirm that the
fugitive has not decided to swim for freedom.  But then he hears a movement
from within the boathouse.  He is breathing hard, but he inhales deeply
and gathers himself as if in readiness for the confrontation that awaits. 
But then there is a second sound – a voice – more of a sob, in
fact.  And he relaxes.  For a moment he half-turns and gazes
meditatively across the lake, and ruefully shakes his head – as if what
he is about to do troubles him.  He lets out the great breath as a kind of
sigh and, rather like an automaton, he walks slowly to the boathouse, and steps
across the threshold.

‘You
didn’t find your scarf, then, Lucy.’

By the
time DS Leyton and DS Jones arrive with keys for Grisholm Hall, and a back-up
team of constables and scene-of-crime officers, Skelgill and Lucy Hecate regard
one another calmly from opposite sofas in the drawing room, beside a roaring log
fire.  The
Kelly Kettle
stands upon the stone hearth, and they each
have an enamel mug of tea before them on the low table.  It is of the
builders’ variety rather than Earl Grey, and Skelgill’s third cup.  Not
surprisingly, therefore, he is relieved in more ways than one when a pair of
WPCs arrives to assume responsibility for his charge.  Solemn as ever, her
pale cheeks streaked with the stains of what must be tears, Lucy Hecate casts
one last mournful glance at Skelgill, and is led away.  Skelgill smiles
grimly.  There is no sign of triumph in his eyes, and he excuses himself a
moment later.

When
he returns, he brings a jug of water and two mugs borrowed from the
kitchen.  And he seems to have perked up.  He gestures to his
sergeants to make themselves comfortable, and busies himself with recharging
his contraption.  As he rather audaciously steals embers from the grate, using
his fingers as tongs, his somewhat bemused colleagues begin to offer items of
news.

The
first of these – that DI Smart has declined to accompany them, being
determined to extract a confession out of Dr Gerald Bond, along the lines that
he was a co-conspirator – raises a hysterical laugh from Skelgill. 
Indeed, from his kneeling position by the fire, he performs a truncated goal-scoring
celebration.

The
second is that DS Leyton has heard from the bank that handles the land agent’s
account.  The cheque that was submitted as a deposit for the hire of
Grisholm Hall has surfaced – marked ‘refer to drawer’ – and an investigation
has revealed that it was written from a chequebook last properly used a month
earlier in a small independent pharmacy in Covent Garden, and subsequently ‘misplaced’
by its unwitting owner.  The eyes of the three detectives meet as DS
Leyton utters the word
pharmacy
– albeit Skelgill’s demeanour suggests
this is not entirely news to him.

Thirdly,
DS Jones also bears important information.  This is in response to
Skelgill’s urgent telephone request.  However, it is clear that events
have overtaken this research and, for the time being, she holds her peace.

It is
not long before Skelgill has brewed up more tea, to his somewhat idiosyncratic
recipe (tea bag, powdered milk, sugar and boiling water, all in together), and
placed mugs carefully before each of those present. 
Carefully
,
because also aligned on the table before them are several items, which appear
to have been emptied from a small streamlined black fabric backpack, of the
sort more often used by city commuters than outdoor junkies.  Of course,
it belongs (or belonged) to Lucy Hecate.

DS
Leyton leans forward and squints at a two clear jars placed beside each
other.  One is a miniature breakfast portion, the other a more standard
retail size, although unlabelled.

‘Honey,
Guv?  You’ve been having quite a picnic while you were waiting.’

Skelgill,
leaning back against the settee and looking relaxed with his tea, narrows his
eyes.

‘It’d
be no picnic if you ate that, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton’s eyes widen.

‘Poison?’

Skelgill
nods.

‘Atropine
– it’s intensely bitter – like sloes but worse.  That’s why
poisonings from eating the berries of Deadly Nightshade are uncommon.’ 
(As their superior begins to pontificate along these lines, DS Leyton’s jaw
begins to drop.  But DS Jones’s reaction is more one of circumspect intrigue.) 
‘In order to disguise it, you need something very, very sweet.  Such as
honey.’

 ‘Cor
blimey.’  DS Leyton gulps – but then a thought strikes him. 
‘But what about that bowel medicine, Guv – I thought that’s what killed
Buckley?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘What
better way to make it look like an accident – than to plant some pills
that contain the same compound?’

DS
Jones sits forward, her brow now creased.

‘But,
Guv – there were the same tablets in Rich Buckley’s office.’

‘Aye
– and when we search Lucy Hecate’s flat I imagine we’ll find a spare set
of keys for it.’

‘But,
Guv–’ DS Jones begins again to raise a query – but then she sees
it.  She stares at Skelgill, enlightened.  ‘She worked there, Guv.’

‘Aye,
she did.’

Now it
is DS Leyton’s turn to appear confused.  He looks from one to another of
his colleagues.

‘I
don’t get this bit – what do you mean – she worked there –
what, at the publisher’s?’

DS
Jones glances to Skelgill, anticipating that he will answer – but he
gestures that she should explain.

‘They
employed students as interns – you know, unpaid work experience?’ 
DS Leyton nods and she continues.  ‘So Lucy Hecate had a job there.’ 
But now she holds out her hands in appeal to her boss.  ‘But, this is
amazing, Guv – given what I found out this morning.’

Skelgill
nods slowly.

‘I
know.’

‘She
told you, Guv?’

‘What
she wanted to – mainly about Buckley.  And Myra. ’

DS
Jones shakes her head.  DS Leyton is still looking bewildered.  She
turns to him.

‘The
woman you interviewed – Rich Buckley’s widow – she’s Lucy Hecate’s
mother.  Lucy Hecate is the child that she had as a teenager and that was
brought up by the father.’

DS
Leyton is now getting the idea.

‘But
– wouldn’t Buckley have recognised her?’

Skelgill
is shaking his head.  He takes over.

‘Aye
– as an ex-employee, perhaps.  But in the family context he never
met her.  Lucy and the mother are estranged.  That’s part of the grand
design.’

‘The
grand design?’  This is DS Jones.

‘Lucy
got a job at Buckley Publishing.  She knew who Buckley was, but didn’t let
on.  The guy treated her like dirt – and worse – the extreme
end of sexual harassment.  While she was there she submitted a novel she’d
written, under a false name.  He ripped it to pieces.  Meanwhile she
found out what else he was up to – abusing her mother, women on the side
– and she overheard his scheme to cut Myra out of his fortune.  It
was all too much for Lucy – and perhaps she saw it as a chance for
reconciliation.’

‘With
her mother?’

‘With
her mother.’  Skelgill brushes the fingers of one hand through his
hair.  ‘With Buckley dead prior to the divorce, Myra would inherit
everything.  I don’t know how Lucy planned to approach her – maybe
as a fellow victim of Buckley – but she had some idea that she could pick
up the reins of the publishing business.’

They
are all three silent for a minute or so.  Then DS Leyton pipes up.

‘So
this retreats company – that we can’t find – it was Lucy Hecate?’

Skelgill
is nodding.

‘She
set up a false email account – probably did it from an internet café to
make it harder to trace – made all the offers of extravagant fees with no
intention of paying.’

DS Leyton
slaps a hand on his substantial thigh.

‘And
the stolen cheque, Guv.’

Skelgill
flashes him a confirmatory glance.

‘She’s
been doing part-time jobs in retail – one of them being a
pharmacy.’  He gestures towards DS Jones.  ‘As our colleague’s
research will confirm, Lucy Hecate’s degree is in biochemistry.’  (DS
Jones nods as Skelgill continues.)  ‘So that’s how she got hold of the
chequebook – not to mention the various drugs.’  He inhales
suddenly, and then lets out the breath more slowly.  ‘One of which, I have
yet to tell you about.’

DS
Jones is eager to interject.  She seems to miss the sense of gravity in
Skelgill’s final statement.  Instead, she raises her hands with fingers
spread, as though she holds an open book with the story now revealed.

‘Suddenly
everything falls into place, Guv.  It’s been driving me crazy trying to
work out the connection between everyone on the retreat – and now we know
it’s Lucy Hecate.’

But Skelgill
shakes his head decisively.

‘Rich
Buckley Publishing is the connection.  Lucy Hecate joined up the dots
– but the pieces were already in place.  So she hatches a plot and
collects all the contact details.  I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still
got access to their computer system.  She strikes lucky with Sarah Redmond
and
bingo!
– Buckley signs up to the retreat drooling like
Pavlov’s dog.  She hand picks a group of people that will give her the
best possible cover if things go wrong – if Buckley’s death is considered
suspicious.  People who know him in the industry – who might have
their axes to grind – maybe they’ll come clean, once they know they’re in
the clear.  And a bunch of unsuspecting novice writers – all of whom
you can bet have had manuscripts rejected by Buckley.  She might even have
written the rejections herself – spiced them up, like the one sent to
Bella Mandrake.  And enlisting the doctor was a masterstroke –
almost.  She even casually pointed the finger at him when I spoke with her
in London.’

DS
Jones has listened intently to Skelgill’s thesis.  She reaches to pick up
her tea – so far untouched – and regards the floating blobs of
powdered milk with some suspicion.

‘Guv
– what made you so sure it wasn’t the doctor – you told me that
before you got your breakthrough this morning?’

Skelgill
gestures with one hand towards the entrance of the drawing room.

‘If I
walked in here, where would you expect my mobile phone to be?’

They
each look puzzled, as though they believe it’s a trick question.  DS
Leyton offers a conveniently dumb answer.

‘In
your pocket, Guv.’

‘Exactly,
Leyton.’  Now Skelgill points towards the windows.  ‘So you wouldn’t
run off down to the jetty and shove my boat out into the lake, would you?’

‘I
dunno, Guv?’  Skelgill frowns and DS Leyton corrects his answer. 
‘No, Guv.’

‘But
someone did, Leyton.’  He nods several times.  ‘All along, I’ve been
certain that someone untied my boat and let it drift away – knowing it
had my phone aboard.’

‘So,
how does that exempt Dr Bond?’

‘Because,
Leyton, when I announced that it was safe in a dry bag in the hold, he wasn’t
in this room.  Nor was Linda Gray, come to that.’  He raises his arms
in a reference to their surroundings.  ‘When I retraced my steps I
realised that whoever wanted to keep me here, and make sure we stayed incommunicado
– it wasn’t Bond, and it probably wasn’t Linda Gray.  I reckon the
boat was cast off when I went up with Bond and Dickie Lampray to look at Rich
Buckley’s body.  It had to be one of the others – and given what
happened to Bella Mandrake, it probably wasn’t her either.’

Now
both sergeants are looking expectantly at Skelgill.  It is DS Jones who
tentatively breaks the silence.

‘Bella
Mandrake, Guv – that
was
Lucy Hecate?’

Skelgill
looks at each of his colleagues, then he points to a small self-sealing plastic
bag that lies on the table next to the honey jars.

‘I
think we’ll find that contains good old-fashioned extra-strong sleeping tablets
– from the same apothecary in Covent Garden.’

DS
Leyton is pursing his lips.

‘Why,
Guv?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Unfortunately,
she saw something – or, at least, that’s what Lucy Hecate thought.’ 
He shakes his head regretfully.  ‘Bella Mandrake made such a fuss –
about evil forces – she might as well have signed her own death warrant.’

DS
Jones is nodding.

‘Was
that why Lucy Hecate wanted to prevent you from calling for help, Guv – to
kill Bella Mandrake before she named her?’

Skelgill
seems a little unsure.

‘Maybe.’ 
He casts about the room and then apparently decides to make an admission. 
‘Look – I got some expert advice about poisons – an old chap I know
from way back – he was a famous toxicologist.’  He pauses to check their
reactions, but neither officer appears in the least bit surprised that Skelgill
has been pursuing his own private inquiries whilst on fishing leave. 
‘Apparently atropine disappears quickly from the human body.  It leaves no
inflamed organs and can be hard to detect.  I suspect Lucy Hecate was
hoping to put as much time as possible between Buckley’s death and any proper
medical examination.  Leaving the drugs containing atropine was just a fall-back
– but doubly smart to think of planting some in his desk to make it seem certain
they belonged to him.  Failing that, suspicion would shift to one of the
others – with Gerald Bond first in the queue.’

Now DS
Jones seems perplexed.

‘But,
Guv – it was Lucy Hecate who went out in the storm looking for assistance. 
That doesn’t fit with the idea of creating a delay.’