Murder on the Lake (3 page)

Skelgill
frowns as he pops the last piece of scone into his mouth.

‘Not
very handy in case of an emergency.’

‘It
was positioned as one of the benefits of the retreat – no irritating
alerts, no facile ringtones, no intrusive email, no distracting internet. 
Just perfect peace in which to write.’

‘Or
die.’

Now Dickie
Lampray averts his eyes from Skelgill’s scrutiny.

‘With hindsight,
Inspector, you are quite right.’

Skelgill
gets to his feet, brushing crumbs from his lap.

‘And
you have no boat.’

This
is a statement of fact – something that was obvious to Skelgill having
arrived at the small pier with its empty boathouse.

‘Not
that any of us would be competent to use one, Inspector.’

At
this juncture another of the party, hitherto silent, pipes up.

‘I
think I could have got us out of here.’

The
man, perhaps in his early forties, though of an athletic-looking build with
short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, designer stubble and a tanned complexion, and
dressed in slim black jeans and a tight matching t-shirt that emphasises his
cut musculature, sits diagonally opposite Skelgill, with legs crossed and an
arm casually thrown along the back of the settee.

Skelgill
casts a disinterested eye in the man’s direction, as a professional might dismiss
the ill-informed pronouncement of an amateur.  The man does not seem fazed
and coolly returns Skelgill’s gaze.  Dickie Lampray perhaps senses the
slight tension in the air, and manufactures a hearty chuckle.

‘Mr
Boston is our resident action man, Inspector.’  He lifts a conspiratorial
finger and taps the side of his nose.  ‘Ex-SAS we suspect, though he is
very close.  A clue is that he is writing a debut novel about the last
Balkan war.  At this very moment we might all have been afloat on a raft
made from mattresses, if Burt had had his way.’  He affects a
shudder.  ‘I use the word
afloat
reservedly, Inspector.’

The
man so named as Burt Boston makes a slight shrug of his shoulders, but does not
comment.  His expression remains impassive.  Skelgill’s narrowing
eyes, however, betray a hint of discontent.  Dickie Lampray continues.

‘Without
your serendipitous arrival, Inspector, the reality is we would have been
entirely marooned until we could attract the attention of someone at first
light tomorrow.’

Skelgill
bends down to retrieve his hot chocolate.  He takes a thoughtful pull at
the mug.

‘There’s
not many folk on the lake this time of year.  Not least in this weather. 
You might have been lucky to see anyone all day.  And there’s no road
beside the bank down at this end of Derwentwater.  Just woods.  Wouldn’t
be of great use trying to signal.’

Perhaps
Skelgill has already reached the conclusion that a raft would have been their
best bet – a competent outdoorsman could surely fashion a seaworthy means
of escape and an improvised life vest.  It would only take one person to
raise the alarm – there would be no need to risk the lives of the entire
group.

‘Well,
as I say, Inspector – we are indebted to your dedication to angling under
such adverse conditions.’

Skelgill
shrugs modestly.

‘Call
it pig-headedness, sir.  I’m meeting a couple of pals later in the pub
– I’ve got a bit of a running bet concerning a particular size of pike
I’ve been hoping to catch from Derwentwater.’

Dickie
Lampray nods sympathetically and checks a worn silver fob timepiece that he
extracts from the watch pocket of his waistcoat.

‘Well
– I hope, at least, we shan’t keep you from your appointment, Inspector
– it is not yet six p.m.’

As
Skelgill begins to make his way between the coffee table and the sofas, the one
woman to whom he has not been introduced, directly or indirectly, rises to let
him pass.  She is a striking redhead of just over medium height in her
early thirties, her slim figure accentuated by ochre stretch jeans and a
close-fitting floral sleeveless top.  She has electric-blue irises and
high freckled cheekbones that combine to give her a rather wild-eyed look, and
she returns his inquisitive gaze with a defiant appraising stare of her
own.  Dickie Lampray seems to notice this frisson, and intervenes with a
diplomatic
ahem
.

‘I
ought to introduce you to Sarah, Inspector – she is popularly known as
Xara Redmond – as author of the
Chief Inspector Frances Furlough
mysteries.’

Skelgill
and the woman exchange polite nods.

‘Until
your arrival, Inspector, I was beginning to think we had a plot in the making
for Sarah’s next bestseller – but perhaps, all the same, you could give
her a few tips that might be of local literary interest?’

Skelgill
grimaces and then grins apologetically at the woman.

‘I
struggled to get beyond
Swallows and Amazons,
I’m afraid, madam.’

Skelgill
picks his way gingerly through the intense darkness of the woods towards the
landing stage.  In the hour he has spent indoors dusk has slipped into the
wings and night’s curtain has fallen.  The gale is still tearing at the
treetops high overhead, and heavy drips splatter continually upon him.  It
is by tread alone that he can tell he keeps to the damp mulched path.  As
such, his progress is slow – nobody at the hall owns so much as a pocket
torch; a provisional search has revealed no oil lanterns to hand, and –
while there are candles aplenty in all of the rooms – a naked flame would
not survive the inclement conditions.  When fishing earlier, the advent of
the rain prompted him to secrete his mobile phone and flashlight with other sensitive
items in a large dry-bag stored in a compartment beneath the rear thwart of his
boat: thus he has no means of creating artificial light until he reaches the
craft.

His superficial
examination of the body of Rich Buckley, and an equally cursory inspection of its
surroundings – a well-appointed suite with bathroom facilities and an
adjoining sitting room and writing desk – has produced nothing to raise
any suspicions.  The dead man was wearing corduroys and a loose-fitting designer
label shirt beneath a silk dressing gown – as though he had been lounging
about his quarters – and exhibited no marks of anything untoward having
befallen him.  Dr Gerald Bond, who – along with Linda Gray
accompanied Skelgill – indicated such signs as might point to sudden
cardiac arrest (frankly, it must have seemed to Skelgill, by a process of
elimination of other possible diagnoses).  Linda Gray, meanwhile, drew
attention to a copy of a hardback business book,
Damned Publishers
, that
she had picked up from the floor on entering the room, and had placed on the
bedside table prior to attempting to raise him.

Skelgill
then held a brief audience in the drawing room.  He explained that under
such circumstances it was necessary for a practising doctor to certify the
death, and that he could probably organise for the said official to arrive in a
covered motor launch that would be more suitable than his rowing boat for
conveying those present to a temporary refuge on the ‘mainland’, so to
speak.  It was his view that the body could probably not practically be
removed until tomorrow, when the relevant undertaking services could be
mobilised.  Then there was the matter of contacting next of kin, the
property owners, and other formalities.  There had ensued among the
delegates a rather fraught debate about what they ought to do – whether
the retreat should be abandoned in its entirety as the Inspector seemed to be
suggesting, or whether to continue, perhaps at another venue – that is,
if they could contact the organisers, Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats.  The
spectrum of opinion ranged from Bella Mandrake’s dramatic reiteration that she
could not be expected to spend a night on a secluded island in the same creaky
old house as a corpse, to the phlegmatic Burt Boston’s stance, who was all for remaining
at Grisholm Hall.  This point of view was supported by Dr Gerald Bond who,
rather in keeping with his county stereotype, was quick to point out that the
place was booked and paid for, and – after all – that people die in
adjoining rooms in hotels all the time –– it is just that the staff
do not make a song and dance about it; a fact to which he is privy, having often
been called to such incidents, both on and off duty.  Skelgill had left
them with the discussion still in full flow.

Now,
as he suddenly comes upon the jetty, he must realise, however, that the
debate’s outcome is academic:
for his boat is gone
.

Though
it might be dark – albeit less intensively so than beneath the woodland canopy
– there is sufficient contrast between the various shades of charcoal for
him to discern its absence.  In any event, he would expect to hear the
gunwale grating against the timbers of the small pier, as the craft is rocked
by the heavy swell.  He approaches the sturdy upright mooring post and, on
bended knee, slides his hands down its circumference, feeling for the
painter.  There is no trace of the rope.

He rises
and stares into the blackness of the gale that rages across the lake. 
Wind and rain lash his features, but he ignores any discomfort, his arms hanging
loosely by his sides.  Perhaps he is replaying in his mind the moment he
tied up the boat, under the watchful eye of the silent girl: she may be able to
corroborate his version of the knots.  Or maybe he is considering the limited
range of scenarios, one of which must have occurred during his absence.  The
jetty faces due west, and the storm is blowing up from the south west. 
Had the boat somehow become free of its own accord, it ought still to be pressed
into the little rocky inlet, either against the pontoon or even to have been driven
into the ramshackle boathouse at the foot of the pier.  At the very worst it
might have been sunk on the spot by the wash.  If so, his dry-bag may be
recoverable.

Cautiously
he makes his way back along the slippery boards, and passes into the pitch-black
entrance of the boathouse.  The clean splash of the waves tells him it is vacant,
as it had been on his arrival.  He begins to feel his way along the rough planks
of the adjacent wall.  He dislodges a polystyrene lifebelt from a bracket
– carefully he weighs it for efficacy.  Slowly, he moves on – and
then lets out a little grunt of satisfaction.  He has found what he seeks:
a wooden boat hook, damp and slimy and somewhat warped, but about ten feet
long.

Now,
like a gondolier trying to divine a safe course, he begins to prod into the
water, methodically covering the surface as far out as he can reach, beginning
in the boathouse, and gradually working his way along the jetty.  But he
draws a blank – all he encounters is the jarring rocky bottom and, in
places, yielding patches of mud.  The depth ranges from about three feet
inside the boathouse, to perhaps six or seven feet off the end of the
pier.  He does not attempt to replace the long pole upon its fixings, but
instead slides it inside the boathouse, against the near wall.

A
little more purposefully, he returns to the very end of the pier.  There
is a second mooring post here, cut off at about waist height.  He places the
heels of his hands upon it, and leans over the water, like a forlorn figurehead
adorning the skeleton of a wrecked ship.  While there is little to see, he
seems to be listening to the rush of the tempest.  He knows the lie of the
land, the curvature of the island’s shoreline beyond the inlet.  It would
just take one good push to propel a small boat past the little point, whence it
would be picked up by the wind and surface current and be carried into the open
reaches of Derwentwater, perhaps to sink, perhaps to come to rest on some
distant shore.

Of
course, a simpler explanation is that someone rowed it away.

*

‘Gone
– it can’t be gone!’

‘I’m
afraid so, madam.’

‘What
about your mobile phone, Inspector?’

‘I’m
afraid that’s gone, too.’

‘But
how?’

Skelgill
shrugs his shoulders.  There are dark patches around the collar bones of
his jacket, where the wax proofing needs to be restored and water has soaked
through.  Methodically he begins to unfasten the brass press-studs, biting
one side of his lower lip as he does so.

‘That’s
what I’d like to know, madam.’

The
woman, Angela Cutting, stares accusingly at Skelgill as though she suspects him
of some subterfuge.  Yet she herself poses conspiratorially beside a rather
dumbstruck Dickie Lampray, who is in his original position beside the hearth. 
They are the only two persons remaining in the drawing room, caught in confab
by Skelgill upon his somewhat ignominious return.  Skelgill runs his hands
restlessly through his damp hair.

‘Is
everyone still here?’

Blinking,
Dickie Lampray rapidly shakes his head in the fashion of someone recovering
from an unexpected clip around the ear.  He sits forward and straightens
his bow tie, as if this act will restore his powers of speech.

‘I
believe some of them are packing, Inspector.’  He rises mechanically to
his feet.  ‘I’ll go and round them up, shall, I?’

Skelgill
nods.

‘I
think – just to be on the safe side – we should do a roll call, sir.’

Dickie
Lampray squeezes past Angela Cutting, patting her lightly at the top of one
arm, in a reassuring gesture.  Rather short in stature, and plump around
the midriff, he has a queer gait, and leaves the room with a series of small
steps that seem to articulate at the knees.  For a moment or two there is
an awkward silence, but then the woman’s severe demeanour seems to soften, and
she leans back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, causing her midnight-blue
satin pencil skirt to strain against her sheer stockinged thigh.

‘Why
don’t you reclaim your place, Inspector?’  She gestures regally to the
position more or less opposite her, where Skelgill sat earlier.  ‘This
fire gives out so little heat, you ought to take priority, since you are the
one who has been braving the elements.’

Skelgill,
under close scrutiny, has now finished removing his outer garments for a second
time.  He raises a quizzical eyebrow, but nonetheless, he complies with
her suggestion.

‘Don’t
worry, madam – that’s top of my list to sort out.’

Indeed,
he reaches for the heavy poker, and with a couple of heaves he separates the
logs, skilfully racking them into a more open lattice.  Immediately, the
fire responds – first with a rather ominous billowing of smoke, but then
with a sudden burst of bright orange flame.  The woman claps her hands
together gleefully, and slides sideways to be closer to the grate.  Her
dark eyes glint as they reflect the growing blaze.

‘What
a relief to have a man about the house.’

She
says this rather musingly.  Skelgill seems unprepared for the compliment.

‘I
thought your Mr Boston was a Special Forces trooper, madam?’

She
seems entranced by the by the flames that lick and leap about the woodpile, but
now she flashes him a dismissive sideways glance.  Her response, however,
is somewhat oblique.

‘I
haven’t felt properly warm since we arrived here on Thursday.’

‘It
has been rather autumnal, madam.’

Now
she considers him more resolutely.

‘You
are
allowed to call me by my name...
Inspector
.’  She smirks as she
emphasises the enunciation of his title.  ‘To my friends I’m Ange.’

Skelgill
hesitates; he seems unsure of how to respond to the woman’s self-confident
manner.

‘Sorry,
madam – er,
Ange
– it can be tricky when there’s a whole
crowd of new people and I’ve not quite taken in their names.’  He pulls at
the knees of his jeans as if to restore non-existent creases.  ‘Plus I get
the feeling I’m now definitely on duty, given the latest development.’

The
woman, her torso twisted towards the fire, languidly raises a shoulder and
turns her head to face him.  ‘Well, at least you can call me Ange in
private...
Inspector
.’

Skelgill’s
high cheekbones have acquired a reddish tinge – it may be the extra warmth
of the fire, or perhaps the heat subtly applied by his companion.  He inhales
as though he is about to reply, but as he does so the door of the drawing room
swings open and people begin to enter.  Angela Cutting uncrosses her legs
and demurely tugs down the hem of her skirt.

‘In
the meantime,’ (she speaks quietly, as if for Skelgill’s ears only) ‘let’s see
if we have a missing castaway.’

Skelgill
glances at her; she returns his gaze with a shrewd narrowing of her eyes. 
But now he watches with care as the members of the retreat file into the room;
he seems to be counting them in, perhaps rehearsing their names and occupations
– something that he has a better memory for than he is prepared to admit.

Angela
Cutting
,
literary critic – already seated opposite him.

Bella
Mandrake
,
aspiring writer (actress – resting?) – wearing an elaborate ball
gown that emphasises her bosom, she glides theatrically over the carpet and is
quick to nestle in beside Skelgill.

Burt
Boston
, aspiring
writer (and ex-SAS man?) – he occupies the same position as before,
diagonally opposite Skelgill, on the same settee as Angela Cutting.

Sarah
(aka
Xara
)
Redmond
,
successful writer – she also resumes her former seat at one end of the
cross-bench sofa.

Linda
Gray
, aspiring
writer (and chef) – she takes the other end of the aforementioned sofa.

Dickie
Lampray
–
literary agent – he pushes ahead of the two people yet standing to commandeer
the space between Burt Boston and Angela Cutting; though it is noticeable he settles
closer to the latter.

Dr
Gerald Bond
,
aspiring writer (and erstwhile GP) – awkwardly he squeezes past those
already seated and lowers his lanky form between Linda Gray and Sarah Redmond,
facing the hearth.