Murder on the Lake (28 page)

Skelgill
grins in a rather superior fashion.

‘I
doubt she was looking for help, Jones.’

‘No,
Guv?’

‘No. 
I reckon she was intending to dispose of this stuff.  The contaminated
honey at least.  It served its purpose – so chuck it in the
lake.  She had on a big long coat, and I believe this was hidden
underneath it.  Then she bumped into me and decided not to take the risk.’

‘But
why call out to you at all, Guv?’

‘Because
I spotted her first.  She must have realised that if there had been an
investigation, and some random fisherman later reported seeing her – and
she hadn’t cried for help – it wouldn’t look too clever.

DS Leyton
shakes his head.

‘Must
have been the last thing she’d have expected – running into a copper,
Guv.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘She
was cool as a cucumber.  She sussed that all my gear was on the boat
– and nipped back out and made it look like the storm had washed it
away.  It certainly bought her more time.’

‘So
what
about Bella Mandrake, Guv.’

‘I
don’t know, Leyton – I’m not sure if that was in Lucy Hecate’s plan at
that point.  I reckon Bella Mandrake only started really playing up when I
arrived – looking for attention.’

DS
Jones raises a hand.

‘Guv
– why did you ask me to investigate Linda Gray’s marital history –
you said you’d eliminated her?’

‘On
the basis of the phone and the boat, I had.’  Skelgill points to the
smaller of the two jars.  ‘But Buckley was poisoned by the honey being switched
on his breakfast tray.  Linda Gray left that tray outside his door.’

DS
Jones is nodding, though she is not yet completely satisfied with the
explanation.

‘But
how does that relate to her previous marriage?’

Skelgill
now looks at DS Leyton.

‘Remember
– Leyton found out that Buckley had been married twice before.’  (DS
Leyton nods to confirm.)  ‘I had to consider that she might have been one
of those ex-wives – she was about the right age – if not the right
type.’

DS
Jones shakes her head.

‘She
was married to a farmer from Cleator Moor, Guv – for nearly twenty
years.’

Skelgill
grins.

‘Give
her a medal.’

His
colleagues raise their eyebrows – but DS Jones is still eager to
understand exactly what took place.  She indicates with a hand the honey
jars on the table before them.

‘The
breakfast tray, Guv – that could be what made Bella Mandrake suspicious? 
If she’d been in Rich Buckley’s room when it was delivered – say she
heard something – or even disturbed Lucy Hecate tampering with it?’

Skelgill
nods.

‘And if
she did have a little liaison with Buckley – that might have kept her
from saying too much about it.’  Looking pensive, he drums the nails of
one hand against his tin mug.  ‘Mind you – Lucy must have switched
the poisoned jar back for the original – got it out of Buckley’s room
– that would be a second occasion when she might have been noticed.’

DS
Leyton finishes his tea and grunts as he reaches forward with some difficulty
to place it on the edge of the low table.

‘But Lucy
Hecate poisoned Bella Mandrake with these, Guv?’  He gestures to the self-sealing
bag.

‘Aye
– after putting me out of action.’

Both
sergeants glance sharply at Skelgill.  DS Leyton is first to speak.

‘What
do you mean, Guv – I thought you’d been on the old River Ouse?’

‘Well,
thanks for your vote of confidence, Leyton.’  Skelgill’s scowls severely
at his subordinate, though his tone is forgiving.  ‘Since when has half a
bottle of red had me keeling over?’

DS
Leyton nods in a conciliatory manner.

‘Good
point, Guv – so what happened?’

Skelgill
shifts in his seat and glances at DS Jones, and then about the room, as if he
is composing a version of events that will suit his purposes.  He folds
his arms before he begins to speak.

‘I
think she slipped a sleeping tablet into my meal – although Linda Gray
cooked it, Lucy served me with a second helping.  We had this game of
Scrabble
after dinner – did I tell you I blew them all away?’  (His sergeants
nod enthusiastically, eager that he should press on.)  ‘Aye, well –
and halfway through the game I started feeling like if I didn’t lie down I’d
fall asleep on the spot.  I was first up to bed.  Then that’s what helped
me narrow it down to Lucy.’

Clearly,
this final sentence does not make sense, and both officers look like they want
to ask Skelgill by what criteria he managed this elimination, but are afraid to
ask.  It appears he is not going to volunteer the answer, although his
thumb drifts subconsciously to his mouth and he gently brushes his lips. 
That the truth concerns kissing, almost certainly means this aspect of his
deductions will forever remain an official mystery.  And just at this
moment there is a sharp knocking, and a forensic officer sticks his head
between the double doors of the drawing room.  Exultantly, he brandishes a
clear polythene bag that contains a white stick-like object.

‘Found
it, sir – almost exactly where you thought.’

Skelgill
gives the thumbs-up sign, and the man disappears.

DS
Leyton looks baffled.

‘What
was that, Guv?’

‘A
candle.’

‘Come
again?’

‘The
candle from my bedroom.  My guess is it’s got Lucy Hecate’s DNA on the
wick – from when she snuffed it out.  Another little piece in the
jigsaw if she decides to plead not guilty.  I caught her looking for it
today – she’d thought of everything.’  He shrugs casually, perhaps
aware of DS Jones’s interrogative gaze.  ‘When I interviewed her –
she even asked if we’d searched the island – she said she’d lost a scarf
of sentimental value.  What a nerve!  All along she was planning to
come back to get these things that she’d hidden in her room – plus the
candle from the garden.’

DS
Leyton looks perplexed.

‘What
was it doing there, Guv?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘That’s
down to you pair.  You turned up at the crack of dawn on Monday –
she probably wasn’t expecting that we’d get help before noon.  I reckon
she realised the risk – tiny though it was – and nipped in here and
lobbed it out of the window.  I would never have thought of it in a
million years – it was only because I noticed the candlestick was empty
that my mind got working.’

DS
Jones is watching Skelgill through narrowed eyes.

‘Guv,
why was Lucy Hecate snuffing out your candle?’

Skelgill
looks momentarily cornered, but he has an ace up his sleeve.

‘She
chloroformed me.’

‘What?’ 
Both sergeants in unison utter this exclamation.

‘Aye
– belt and braces.’  Skelgill now points to the last of the items on
the table, a small brown bottle with a pipette cap.  ‘In case the drug wasn’t
working – I’d told them all I was a light sleeper – and I assume she
didn’t want to risk one of the strong ones on me.  So she crept in and
made sure I was out for the count.  Remember my headache?  Dizziness,
confusion, fatigue – all the classic symptoms.  I have it on the
best authority.’

DS
Jones seems willing to be convinced.

‘So,
Bella Mandrake, Guv – what do you think really happened?’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘Maybe
Lucy will tell us in time.  She could have switched the strong tablets for
something Bella was taking anyway – or maybe dissolved them into her
bedtime water.  Then she sneaked back later and left the empty packet of
the standard pills for us to find.’  He pauses for a moment and leans back
against the sofa.  ‘And you have to consider – if Bella didn’t
suspect any particular person, Lucy might have popped along to her room and offered
her something that would help her sleep – Bella was drunk, remember. 
If she mixed them with a drink she could conceal a fatal dose.  I don’t
doubt Bella was the gullible sort – and quiet little Lucy’s probably the
last person you’d put money on in a game of
Cluedo
.’

DS
Jones now looks reflectively at her superior.

‘Do
you think she will plead guilty, Guv?’

Skelgill
stares into the fire.  The wood is burning down, there are fewer flames, and
glowing embers nestle amongst a bed of white ash.  A log slips and sends a
little burst of sparks rushing up the chimney, a spirit escaping.  He has
been holding his breath while he considers this question, and now he sighs
quietly.  His response, when it comes, is somewhat obtuse – almost
the answer to a different query, and one reflecting his torn frame of mind.

‘Look
– I shouldn’t say it – Buckley probably got what he deserved. 
But killing Bella Mandrake?’  Skelgill shakes his head.  ‘It’s like
going out deer-stalking and shooting a sheep.’

The
day has remained clear and bright and, although the sun has set on Grisholm,
its rays still illuminate Derwentwater’s eastern shoreline and the fells beyond. 
The breeze has dropped, and the water is calm, as Skelgill dabs his oars and
guides his craft out of the boathouse and into the sharpening air of the
premature dusk.  He sits on the centre thwart, facing DS Jones in the
stern.  It is time to return his boat to Bassenthwaite Lake, and she has
agreed to accompany him to where his car and trailer await, to lend a helping
hand on the slipway.

Skelgill
appears pensive, as he has been on and off since the arrival of his
colleagues.  It seems the experience of arresting Lucy Hecate has left him
with an uncomfortable wound.  Sensing this, in making conversation, DS
Jones opts for a lighter subject.

‘DS
Leyton tells me you’ve got a cat, Guv?’

Skelgill
makes a tutting sound.

‘Just
temporary – I plan to repatriate it to Scotland.’

This
statement does not sound very convincing, and DS Jones grins encouragingly.

‘It’ll
be company for Cleopatra, Guv.’

Skelgill
harrumphs.

‘They
haven’t met yet – the dog’s lodging with Sammy the Wolf this week.’

‘Has
it got a name?’

‘I
don’t even know if it’s a he or a she.’

‘How
about Anthony, Guv?’

‘Very
witty, Jones.’

DS
Jones smiles.

‘Well,
at least cats look after themselves, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘Aye
– if push comes to shove, maybe.  This one wants tinned food, though. 
Last night I arrived back to three voles and a shrew lined up on the step.’

‘That’s
its way of saying thank you, Guv.’

Skelgill
shakes his head ruefully.

‘Thing
is – pets are all very well – good company and so on – but
they cost a fortune.  Vet’s bills, kennelling, dog-walking and whatnot. 
Can you believe, some folk even pay for insurance?’

DS
Jones nods sympathetically.

‘What
are you going to do about the bet, Guv?’

Skelgill
scowls, as though he does not wish to be reminded of it.  Restored though
his professional pride must be – to have solved the case and proved wrong
his doubters – there is a surely a part of him that resents the forfeiture
of half a day’s fishing, and its corollary in financial terms.  His reply
is terse.

‘Lose
it.’

DS
Jones frowns – she seems reluctant to see him give in.

‘There’s
still time, Guv – when does the bet end?’

Skelgill
is beginning to put his back into his strokes, now that they have cleared the
harbour and are running up beside Grisholm’s wooded banks.  He cocks his
head in lieu of an indifferent shrug.

‘Midnight.’

‘I
don’t mind staying out with you, Guv – if there’s something I can wear to
keep warm?’

Skelgill
glowers disapprovingly.

‘Jones
– I’ve been out since six – I’ve tried everything.’

This,
of course, is not strictly true.  He was rudely interrupted by his
subconscious, only minutes before he was about to test out the professor’s
loaned lure.  And now his eyes fall upon the said
Beebi Haug
, which
lies still attached to its trace, among the rods that are laid along the bottom
boards, two on either side of the boat.  Following his gaze, and perhaps
reading the germ of thought that must take root in his mind, DS Jones makes a
suggestion.

‘I
could fish, Guv – at least while you row back?’

Skelgill
looks uncomfortable.

‘It’s
not an approved method.’

DS
Jones grins – she thinks he must be joking – that perhaps this must
be a macho preserve, or something similar.

‘Why
not, Guv?’

‘Trolling
– that’s what it would be – dragging a lure along behind the boat
– that’s not fishing – where’s the skill in that?’

Now DS
Jones smiles endearingly.

‘Guv
– it would be skill if I were doing it.’

Skelgill
grits his teeth and grimaces as he pulls harder at the oars, fighting the urge
to have one last dip at the challenge.  Then he relents and stops rowing
for a moment.  He reaches down and slides his spinning rod out from
beneath the thwarts.  He flicks over the bail arm and tosses the lure past
DS Jones into the water at the stern.  Then he hands her the rod.

‘Here. 
Let that run out, while I row for a bit.  Don’t want it too near the
boat.  Sit sideways.’

DS
Jones does as ordered, and watches the line issue unchecked from the reel with
each of his strokes.  Skelgill is watching the water beyond the stern, and
after half a minute he angles the boat through about fifteen degrees, perhaps
so that the lure is no longer running in the wake.  DS Jones, still
staring at the emptying spool, suddenly makes a sharp intake of breath.

‘Guv
– should it be going this fast?’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘Look,
Guv.’

She
rotates at the waist and brings the rod round so he can get a better
view.  The line is streaming off, no longer forming loose loops as it
goes, but straight and almost taut.  In Skelgill’s eyes, there appears a
tiny spark of hope.

‘Turn
the reel.’

‘What?’

‘Turn the
reel!’

His
barked command prompts her to act.  She winds over the reel and re-engages
the bail arm.  A second later the rod is almost jerked from her grip, and
it bends like a willow as an invisible force threatens to drag her over the
stern.

‘Guv!’

Her
screamed entreaty must carry all the way to Keswick, but acting on what can
only be instinct, pluckily she hangs on with both hands and drops to her knees
on the floor of the boat so that she can brace against the transom. 
Skelgill has stopped rowing.  For a moment he is transfixed.  For
there, no great distance away, a monster pike – a good thirty pounds
– tail-dances on the water.  And then he steps into the breach.

Releasing
the oars he lurches forward and, not standing on ceremony, wrenches the rod from
DS Jones.  Then in one smooth sweeping movement, he stretches upright and
strikes to ensure that the hooks are engaged.  Feeling the full weight of
the fish, the anxiety in his features dissolves into an expression of elation. 
As he enters the fray, he rocks and sways like the conductor of an orchestra,
lost in the moment, engulfed by the maelstrom, fulfilled in employing the skills
he has honed during a lifetime’s dedication to his craft.  While he is
thus spiritually adrift, DS Jones contrives to crawl past him and take up the
oars – and she seems to know to hold the boat steady, just a gentle
movement against the direction of play.  Within a minute or two Skelgill
begins to make progress, and gradually wins back line onto the reel.  It
will not be too long before the magnificent creature – albeit temporarily
– comes aboard to be photographed.  His eyes flaming, his hair
streaming, grimacing like a deranged Mongol warrior on horseback, Skelgill
glances jubilantly over his shoulder at his companion.  He calls out to
her, loudly, as if a storm is raging about them.

‘Jones
– what do you know about Tallinn?’

‘Isn’t
that Estonia, Guv?’

‘Aye. 
It is.’

***