Murder on the Lake (4 page)

Lucy
Hecate
–
aspiring writer (and perhaps too young either to have completed or failed in
some other career) – she hangs back rather reticently, and requires encouragement
from Dickie Lampray to take the remaining empty place beside Bella Mandrake. 
Skelgill watches as she alights, his eyes sliding down her bare calves, and lingering
upon the toes of her dainty green ballet pumps, which are still stained with dampness
from earlier.

Even
if Skelgill has not indeed been counting, the fact that each of the
three-seater sofas has its full complement of backsides tells him that all
eight people who could come, have come.  He makes nine; one more would
have been a crowd.  It must be evident from the anxious faces around him
that Dickie Lampray has conveyed the headline news about the missing boat. 
Accordingly, Skelgill gets straight down to business.

‘Ladies
and gentleman, as I see it we have three options.’  He coughs to clear his
throat.  There is a mood of hopeful expectation as they – the
majority, at least – surrender themselves to his capable expertise. 
‘The first, and simplest, is to stay put.  Batten down the hatches, and
wait until morning.  The storm will ease, and once it is light we may be
able to attract attention.  If my boat is found drifting, there will be
search activity out on the lake.’

A little
murmur ripples around the group.  Perhaps it is the morbid realisation
that a believed-drowned fisherman might ironically bring help their way. 
Skelgill continues.

‘Secondly,
we try to signal.’  He holds up a palm to silence some questioning words.  ‘As
I have already said, I don’t hold out much hope in that regard.  It’s now
pitch dark.  There’s a mist in the rain – I doubt if a light on the island
is visible from the shore – even if there were anyone about to see
us.  We also lack the means of flashing an SOS.’  He raises his hips
from the seat cushion and digs into a back pocket.  He produces a small
orange item and holds it up.  ‘A mountain whistle is useless in these
conditions – I’ve tried it – you can barely hear yourself think out
there.’

‘What
about an explosion?’

Suddenly
all heads turn towards Burt Boston.  He has adopted what appears to be his
customary pose, legs crossed (in the male fashion, one ankle upon the opposite
knee), an arm trailed casually along the back of the settee.  Before
Skelgill can respond – or is willing to do so – Dickie Lampray
pipes up.

‘Burt,
my good man – what do you mean
an explosion
?’

Aware
that the spotlight has switched to him, Burt Boston uncrosses then re-crosses his
legs.  He gestures loosely with one hand in the direction of the exit
doors.

‘There’s
a reserve gas cylinder in the courtyard outside the kitchen door.  We
could lug it down to the northern tip of the island.  I could rig up a
detonator with materials I’ve seen about the house.’

The
audience is silent.  Some are open-mouthed.  The man’s features take
on a hard set, as if he is imagining himself back in the bedlam of a Balkan
warzone.  Then, without warning, he clicks his fingers loudly.

‘Boom. 
Big bang.  Big flash.’

Bella
Mandrake, beside Skelgill, starts and clutches fretfully at his sleeve.

Burt
Boston folds his arms and tilts his head to stare at the ceiling.  Meanwhile
the faces turn back to Skelgill, anxious for his reaction.

‘Fine
by me.’

Skelgill
seems unfazed by the apparent usurping of his authority.  However, Angela
Cutting does not appear content with this state of affairs.  She leans forward,
her tone regaining something of its critical edge.

‘Wouldn’t
that be rather dangerous... Inspector?’

Skelgill
shrugs nonchalantly.

‘I’m
sure Mr Boston knows what he’s doing... madam.’  There is the hint of a
raised eyebrow.  ‘I’d say the main risk is to the gas supply.’

Dickie
Lampray looks a little alarmed.

‘What
do you mean, Inspector?’

Skelgill,
perhaps conscious that, with his implied objection, he has now drawn the
attention of Burt Boston, keeps his eyes steadily fixed upon Dickie Lampray.

‘An
explosion would last – what? – a second or two – depending
how the gas ignited.  If nobody saw it in that one moment – well,
there goes our spare gas.  As for the sound of the blast – even if
it were heard over the noise of the storm – without anyone seeing the
flash there would be no way of knowing where it came from.  And Grisholm
wouldn’t be your first guess.’

Dickie
Lampray is nodding.

‘So
we’d be rather pissing into the wind, in your view, Inspector?’

This
remark raises a titter from more than one person present.

Skelgill
glances at Burt Boston, who returns his gaze.

‘Don’t
get me wrong – it could work – there are three marine flares in my
boat – I was thinking along similar lines – if I had no mobile
signal.  Irrelevant, now, of course.’

The
group is silent for a few moments as they digest the pros and cons of the
signalling option.  It is Linda Gray who speaks first.

‘I
think the gas pressure is already falling – I noticed when I put on the soup
earlier.  The cylinder that’s connected could be about to run out.’

Dr
Gerald Bond leans back and pats his stomach with the palms of both hands.

‘We
wouldn’t want still to be stuck here with no means of cooking – we’ve food
enough for good dinners and a full English breakfast every morning.’

‘And
we would have no lights!’  This outburst comes, somewhat unrestrainedly,
from Bella Mandrake.

‘There
are plenty of candles, Bella.’  Sarah Redmond makes a mischievous
spell-casting gesture with her fingers.  ‘Even more atmospheric than the
gas, don’t you think?’

‘I’m terrified
enough as it is.’ She shudders emphatically.  ‘Just how scary do we need
this place to be?’

As if
he detects that the conversation is taking an undesirable course, Dickie
Lampray clears his throat authoritatively.

‘Inspector
– so what is the third option?’

Skelgill
leans back and intertwines his fingers upon his lap.

‘I
could go for help.’

‘But,
how, Inspector?  Build a raft – in the dark?  It would be
impossible.  And in these conditions – you would capsize.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.  His features are set grimly.

‘I
could swim.’

There
is a collective gasp.  Dickie Lampray is first to summarise the general air
of alarm.

‘Inspector
– surely that wouldn’t be safe – the water is freezing – and
what about the waves – you would drown?’

Skelgill
is impassive.

‘I’ve
dealt with worse conditions.  There’s a kind of triathlon I do every
year.  Not a dissimilar swim.’

As
Skelgill glances about, he can see that Burt Boston scrutinises him through
narrowed eyes, while Bella Mandrake has hers screwed firmly shut, her small
fists balled at her sides.  Angela Cutting and Sarah Redmond share an
expression that perhaps contains a mix of intrigue and admiration.  Lucy
Hecate is turning up the toes of her pumps and looking at them critically.

Now Dr
Gerald Bond intervenes.

‘Inspector
– I have been on first-aid duty at such events.  The participants
wear wetsuits, and there are always safety boats.’

‘Aye,
well – beggars can’t be choosers, sir.’

The
doctor is shaking his head.

‘You
would be at severe risk of cold shock, Inspector – anything below sixty
degrees Fahrenheit and the human body is vulnerable – you could succumb
within minutes.’

This
statement appears to be too much for Bella Mandrake, who throws up her hands
and bursts into tears.  She begins to wail about being left alone without
police protection.  Then she postulates Skelgill dying and that they would
be at the mercy of... of...
evil forces
.  It is difficult to determine
just how much of her histrionics are genuine, but certainly no one seems to
want to offer a comforting arm around the shoulder.  Skelgill, closest on
one side, looks decidedly uneasy, though he does fumble in his pockets as
though he is trying to locate a handkerchief, while Lucy Hecate on the other sits
in a state of rigid diffidence.  However, as Bella Mandrake continues to
sob, Burt Boston rises decisively to his feet and crosses to a drinks trolley
that stands between the two curtained bay windows.  He decants a stiff
brandy and brings it back to the group.  Sarah Redmond takes the glass
from him and presses it upon the near-hysterical woman.  Almost magically,
the strong spirit has the desired effect.  The sobs quickly subside into a
succession of choked coughs, although to Skelgill’s evident dismay the woman lurches
back on the sofa and flops sideways against him.

‘Why
don’t I go?’

The
voice is that of Burt Boston, and once again all eyes fall upon him.

Again
Dickie Lampray assumes the role of inquisitor.

‘What
do you mean?’

‘I
could swim it – instead of the Inspector – then Bella would feel
safe, with the police here.’

Skelgill
is shaking his head.  This time he directly countermands the man’s
proposal.  He rises, perhaps relieved to escape the attentions of Bella
Mandrake.  He holds out his hands in the manner of a negotiator.

‘I
can’t let you do that, sir – it would be more than my job is worth.’

Dickie
Lampray takes a grip of the lapels of his waistcoat, and plays devil’s
advocate.

‘But
why not, Inspector – if he is volunteering?’

‘Sir
– with the greatest respect – I have taken an oath to protect the
public – there’s too much risk of swimming the lake.  When all we
need to do is wait here.’

‘Yet
you were prepared to try it, Inspector.  Surely you have a duty to protect
yourself, too?’

For a
moment Skelgill appears to have no answer to this.  Then in rather bashful
schoolboy fashion, he hooks his thumbs into his pockets and with the toe of a
boot taps an errant log back into place in the hearth.

‘Aye,
well – as my boss is always telling me – I’m my own worst enemy
– so I don’t have to worry on that score.’

This
somewhat cryptic statement raises a chuckle around the room.  It provides
a face-saving exit that, without need for further discussion, leads to an
unspoken consensus that the sensible thing is to follow the first option: to ride
out the storm.

‘But,
Inspector – surely the obvious explanation is that the mooring rope was
worked loose by the action of the waves?’

Skelgill
glares at the indistinct form of Dr Gerald Bond.  The Yorkshireman has
pronounced the word ‘worked’ as
wukt
, and his forthright delivery makes
the question sound a little accusatory.  Skelgill, for a rather terrible
second, looks like he might want to throw a punch – though the distance
of separation is too great – but then he seems to remember he is a guest
of sorts, and recovers his composure.  Glowering disagreeably, he
scrutinises the contents of his plate.  Thankfully, candelabra set at the
centre of the circular dining table render it difficult to see much beyond the
bright golden flames, and it appears his reaction goes largely unnoticed,
although on either side of him Angela Cutting and Sarah Redmond pause in their
movements, as if they have detected the tension coiled within his frame.  The
party – having migrated across the shadowy entrance hall to the equally
ill-lit dining room – is arranged in approximate male-female order,
though for the lack of one man Bella Mandrake and Linda Gray are juxtaposed. 
Burt Boston, who is next to Sarah Redmond, reaches for the claret, and casually
tops up her glass and that of Lucy Hecate to his right.  Then he proffers
the neck of the bottle to Skelgill.

‘What
knot did you employ, Inspector?’

Skelgill
gladly accepts the offer of a refill, and perhaps the question, too.

‘Clove
hitch.’

Anyone
with an understanding of boats would know a clove hitch is a good quick mooring
knot, albeit not one that can be relied upon unless constant pressure is
maintained on the line.  Burt Boston purses his lips and nods.  However,
Skelgill has not finished.

‘Then
a double half hitch.  Tied off with an overhand knot.’  He gestures
across the table with his fork.  ‘Lucy watched me do it.’

Lucy
Hecate looks uncomfortable as faces turn to her for confirmation.  She
glances at Skelgill and then down at the table.

‘It
seemed very secure.’

‘So
how did it come undone, then?’  Dr Gerald Bond seems determined to keep
worrying at the issue.  ‘Like I say, there must be an explanation.’ 
He brays out the ‘neigh’ in the word.

‘How
do we know the boat is really gone?’  This is Sarah Redmond; she flashes a
mischievous sideways glance at Skelgill.  ‘We have only the Inspector’s say
so.  How do we even know he is a real policeman?  What if he is some local
lunatic who prowls the lake in search of victims?  Who plans to slit our throats
in our sleep with his filleting knife?’

She
raises her glass in a mock toast.  Angela Cutting seems entertained by the
idea, and there are some smiles around the table, although Bella Mandrake is
far from amused; affectedly she shakes her shiny coils of hair and makes a grab
for her wine glass, greedily downing its contents and holding it out to Dr
Gerald Bond, who obliges her with a refill.  The rather censorious stares
she attracts from the other women suggest a suspicion that she continues to
play for the sympathies of certain males present.

For a short
while attention switches to the dinner.  To follow the soup course –
a hearty vegetable broth – Linda Gray has produced steaming dishes of
Lancashire hotpot, borne to the table by the evening’s volunteer kitchen
assistants, Lucy Hecate and Burt Boston.  They have explained to Skelgill
that they are operating a rota system, although to date it has been the
‘aspiring writers’ who have tended to fulfil this role, while the ‘professionals’
have been waited upon.  Skelgill reacted to this information as though he
considered himself in the latter category, and now sets to work upon his generous
helping of lamb stew.  To his left, and in stark contrast to his own robust
method, Angela Cutting eats sparingly; though there is something sensuous about
the way she savours each mouthful, her eyes mere slits, and her lips gently caressing
one another.  Next to her, Dickie Lampray consumes swiftly, taking small amounts
in rapid succession; indeed his cutlery and jaws appear to be in perpetual
motion.  He has his napkin tucked into his shirt collar, which appears a
wise precaution.  In contrast, further round the table, after Bella
Mandrake and Lucy Hecate, Dr Gerald Bond seems permanently poised above his
plate like a praying mantis, swooping only occasionally for large forkfuls,
which disappear into the shadows of his beard, and probably not without leaving
trace of their passing.  It is after one of these moments that he resumes
the conversation concerning the boat.

‘Of
course, if it were still there, we could go down to the jetty and see it.’

Sarah
Redmond is quick to gainsay this proposition.

‘Ah,
but Doctor – he may have moved it to a secret harbour.  He has expert
local knowledge, remember.’

‘There
is nowhere else.’  Lucy Hecate quietly interjects.  One might wonder
if she considers Skelgill her discovery, and that she wants to argue his
corner, though her voice is entirely matter of fact in tone.  ‘I’ve been
right round the island.  It’s all too rocky, apart from the inlet with the
pier.’

‘Well,
what about his warrant card?’  Dr Gerald Bond, regardless of the fact that
Sarah Redmond is joking, seems to be firmly drawn into the fantasy.  ‘That
will prove once and for all he’s a policeman.’  He refers to Skelgill as
though he is not present.

Dickie
Lampray breaks off from his busy undertakings.

‘Inspector,
I have often wondered – is it necessary to bear one’s credentials at all
times?’

Skelgill
leans forward so that his craggy features become contrasting highlights and
shadows in the candlelight.

‘It
depends on which force you are in, sir.  Ours recommends you carry it at
all times.  Naturally, for a plain-clothes officer, there are occasions
when it’s the only way to convince a person you represent the police.’  He
glances about the table.  ‘Exactly like now, you could say.’

Sarah
Redmond’s shock of fiery hair has taken on an ember-like hue, and her bright
blue eyes seem to flash with a light of their own.  She turns to Skelgill
and addresses him with an ingenuous curiosity.

‘So,
Inspector, where
is
your warrant card?’

Skelgill
is manifestly expecting the question.  He inhales deeply, like a reformed
smoker still in the habit.

‘With
my flares, my phone, my wallet, my car keys...’

There
are sympathetic nods around the table, though Sarah Redmond has a roguish smile
playing at the corners of her mouth.

‘In
which case, Inspector, how would you go about convincing us?  A hidden
tattoo, perhaps?  I’ve heard they’re increasingly popular among the
police.’

Angela
Cutting chuckles throatily.  Her reaction seems to unnerve Dickie Lampray,
who is quick to quash any line of inquiry that might see Skelgill removing his
shirt.

‘Oh, I
would wager the Inspector could regale us with tales that would persuade us he
is a bona fide policeman.’

‘Tales
of murder and mayhem in the Lakes, perhaps, Inspector?’

Though
Sarah Redmond is eager to prolong the provocation, and Skelgill seems not
averse to her coquettish joshing, he notices that, across the table, Bella
Mandrake is showing continued signs of distress.  At the mention of murder
she has visibly flinched.

‘Oh,
it’s pretty quiet round here.  I doubt it’s the stuff of your detective
novels, madam.’  He lays down his fork and runs his fingers through his
hair, a displacement action that reveals an underlying evasiveness.  ‘Unless
you want to write about badger-bating, or bare-knuckle fighting, or disgruntled
farmers dumping manure outside their local bank.’

Sarah
Redmond now addresses the group as one.

‘I’m
sure the Inspector is being diplomatic.  Doesn’t Cumbria have its robbers...
prostitutes...
killers
– just like anywhere else?’

But
before Skelgill can respond, Dickie Lampray again interjects.

‘You
are
secretly plotting your next novel, aren’t you, Sarah?’

Sarah
Redmond ostentatiously picks up her wine glass and retreats behind it, with
arms folded across her breast.   She contrives a hurt expression, as
though Dickie Lampray is spoiling her fun.

‘It is
rather a golden opportunity.’  Briefly she glances sideways at
Skelgill.  ‘A writers’ retreat is one thing – but how often do you have
a night marooned on a remote island with a real detective inspector?’

The
question is interpreted as rhetorical, and there is a moment’s silence.  Angela
Cutting, with a feline movement, draws her wine glass towards her over the
tablecloth.  From beside Dickie Lampray there is an audible gulp as Bella
Mandrake takes another draft of claret.  Then she raises the glass with
the bulb between two hands like a fortune-teller determined to wring some
response from her crystal.

‘Evil
forces took the boat – I know it.’

Her
voice is beginning to carry the effects of the alcohol, and there is a slurring
in her words.  But Dickie Lampray, who appears to bear the office of
moderator, makes light of her remark.

‘Bella,
I think it rather more likely that a beaver chewed through the rope than there
was some supernatural intervention.’  He turns quizzically to Skelgill and
asks, apparently in all seriousness, ‘I take it you have beavers in the Lake
District, Inspector?’

Skelgill
looks uncertain as to how to interpret this inquiry – wild beavers last
roamed Britain in the eighteenth century, something that he would expect to be
common knowledge.

‘There’s
some up near Bassenthwaite Lake, sir.’  His answer is uncharacteristically
diplomatic: the beavers to which he refers are tame residents of a visitor
attraction.  ‘Perhaps you were thinking of otters?

Dickie
Lampray looks a little anxious, as if he suddenly realises he lacks knowledge
of the distinction.  Burt Boston seems to detect this failing and, though
serious in demeanour, chips in with a healthy dose of irony in his tone.

‘Do
you have Bigfoot in the Lakes, Inspector?’

The
remark raises smiles, and even Dickie Lampray grins as he realises he is the
butt of the joke.  The claret is oiling the ceased-up cogs of
conviviality, and there is clearly an underlying desire to take the
conversation in a more light-hearted direction, despite Bella Mandrake’s misgivings. 
Skelgill is quick to oblige.

‘Bigfoot? 
Aye, she serves behind the bar in the Queen’s Head at Cockermouth.’

The
group laughs, perhaps with exaggerated relief, and Skelgill beams, quick to garner
the credit for their collective mirth.  Meanwhile, Linda Gray pushes back
her chair and rises to her feet.

‘Speaking
of serving – would anyone like seconds?’  Though she phrases the
question with a broad cast, she directs her gaze pointedly at Skelgill, who has
been the first to finish.  ‘Inspector, how about you?’

‘Don’t
mind if I do.’  He taps his fork approvingly on his empty plate. 
‘It’s a cracking good hotpot – make sure you put this one in your
cookbook.’

Linda
Gray simpers bashfully; for a moment she places her hands on the table, as
though the compliment has disoriented her and rendered her a little weak at the
knees.  Watching closely, if surreptitiously, the eyes of the other women
reflect curiously in the wavering light – could it be a flicker of envy,
that so easily has the Cinderella of their little coterie apparently managed to
win over their prince?  Of course, if they only knew Skelgill, they would
understand that, while his stomach is certainly a short-cut to his heart, it is
a route that requires no special emotional dedication or cordon bleu
qualifications, and at best is a temporary diversion from whatever destination
drives his sensibilities at the time.  Nonetheless, Linda Gray pulls
herself together and bows graciously to Skelgill, before turning her attentions
to Dr Gerald Bond, seated beside her.

‘Will
you take some more, Dr Bond?’

The
man pulls a disapproving face, which has the effect of drawing his features
into their bushy surroundings.  He hunches up his shoulders.

‘Under
protest, I might be persuaded.’  Now he lifts an admonishing finger. 
‘Much as it pains me – on the day of the week that we ought to be
enjoying Yorkshire pudding – to yield to Lancashire hotpot.’

There
is a chuckle from around the table, as those present decide to interpret this
‘Roses’ belligerence as an attempt at humour.  This does not go down
entirely well with Dr Gerald Bond, though still he raises his plate for Linda
Gray.

Burt
Boston and Dickie Lampray both replace their cutlery as if they, too, will take
second helpings, and the latter raises his glass in a toast.

‘Three
cheers for Linda!  Once again you have done us proud, young lady.’

As the
oldest of the women present, Linda Gray seems a trifle embarrassed by this
remark, and the congratulations that ensue.

‘Well,
Lucy has to take some of the credit – she helped me to make it –
and she found the chanterelles this afternoon – that’s what’s given it
such a rich flavour.’