Murder on the Lake (5 page)

Now
Lucy Hecate’s pale cheeks seem to colour in the candlelight as she rises and circles
clockwise to collect the plates of Burton Boston, who nods his assent, and of
Skelgill.  Linda Gray meanwhile takes those of Dr Gerald Bond and Dickie
Lampray; the remaining women present, it seems, are watching their figures.

While
second helpings are being assembled in the kitchen, and thus two of the group
are absent from the table, the conversation fragments.  Burt Boston rather
fawningly plies a bored-looking Sarah Redmond with an elaborate question about theming
her novels.  Dickie Lampray begins to regale Bella Mandrake with an
exposition on the particular variety of Bordeaux with which she has become so
well acquainted, and indeed has her rather belatedly tasting its
characteristics.  However, both Skelgill and Angela Cutting silently twist
the stems of their wine glasses, as though each is waiting for the other to
speak.  It is the latter that finally does so, turning conspiratorially to
Skelgill, such that Dr Gerald Bond, who ruminates in silence opposite them, is
unlikely to overhear.

‘The
boat, Inspector – what do you
really
think happened to it? 
Now that you have had time to consider.’

Skelgill
opens his palms in a non-committal gesture.  He is evidently still
reluctant to countenance the idea that his knots had some part to play in the
craft’s disappearance.  However, his eventual reply ostensibly contradicts
this position.

‘Looking
at it logically – most likely it worked itself loose.’

It
appears that, despite Dickie Lampray’s best efforts to hold her attention,
Bella Mandrake is eavesdropping, for her dark eyes glint searchingly at those
of Skelgill, as if she is trying to discern his true belief within.

*

‘
Nephron
? 
My good man – I must challenge you.  What in this world is a
nephron?’

After
dinner the group has retired to the drawing room.  Amidst the break resulting
from the need for clearing the table and washing up – Burt Boston and
Lucy Hecate completing the final phase of their assigned chores –
Skelgill set about restoring the blaze in the hearth to its former glory, while
Dickie Lampray took charge of dispensing liqueurs and suchlike from the amply
stocked drinks trolley.  In due course the party has reconvened upon the
sofas, in considerably livelier fettle than at any time to date.  This
heightened state of banter owes itself largely, no doubt, to the stack of empty
bottles that has accumulated in the scullery.  Indeed, the casual observer
would be shocked to discover that, lying ‘at rest’ only feet above the heads of
this joshing throng, is the dead body of one of their number.

To
complement the alcoholic liberation from their plight, which has lowered
inhibitions and salved reservations, there is now the added distraction of what
is evidently the regular
Scrabble
challenge.  There being three
teams, and this the fourth night, it has emerged that the scores are tied at
one game apiece – and thus tonight’s contest might be the decider. 
The teams’ composition has required revised seating arrangements, with Dickie
Lampray, Linda Gray and Sarah Redmond occupying the cross-bench sofa, Dr Gerald
Bond, Lucy Hecate and Burt Boston on the left wing, so to speak, while, on the
right, Skelgill is sandwiched between Bella Mandrake and Angela Cutting, the
latter closest to the fire.  Skelgill is, in an unfortunate sense, playing
as substitute for the permanently absent Rich Buckley, and has already several times
pointed out that the English language is not his strong suit – “Just ask
one of my
subsidiaries
.”

His apprehension
perhaps stems from the fierce spirit of competition that clearly exists between
the three sides: as is now reflected in Dickie Lampray’s challenge to Dr Gerald
Bond’s placement of the word
nephron
.  His concern may be heightened
by the revelation that, while it is a team game, each individual member takes a
turn at leading, on a rotating basis.  Not surprisingly, therefore, many
of the words placed to date have reflected the particular expertise of the
participants.  Burt Boston, for instance, has provided ‘mortar’ and
‘hijack’, Linda Gray ‘dough’ and ‘stovies’ (she maintains, a kind of Scottish
stew made from leftovers), and indeed Skelgill himself has contributed the word
‘arrest’ – a particularly low-scoring effort, until Angela Cutting diplomatically
‘noticed’ that they did in fact have the spare letters ‘e’ and ‘d’ –
enabling the past participle to qualify for a fifty point bonus.  That she
has managed somehow to pin the glory for this impressive achievement upon
Skelgill (insisting that only he would have spotted the word
arrest
in
the first place, recognition that he took in his stride) has not gone unobserved
by certain of those others present.  Meanwhile, no doubt in furtherance of
her ongoing devilment, Sarah Redmond has patently eschewed longer,
higher-scoring words in favour of ‘ghoul’, ‘stab’ and ‘terror’.  And, now,
proceedings have drawn to a temporary halt by the dispute over the word ‘nephron’. 
Dr Gerald Bond rises to the challenge.

‘Dickie,
surely a chap with your extensive vocabulary would have heard of a nephron
– indeed would know what one does?’

Dickie
Lampray looks mildly inebriated, and might well have made the challenge out of mischief. 
He glances about with glassy eyes and waves a dismissive hand.

‘I
have heard of nephew, Nefertiti and of being nefarious – ha-ha –
but never nephron.’

‘It’s
connected with the kidney.’

This composed
intervention comes from Lucy Hecate.

Dr
Gerald Bond, who has taken to wearing a pair of half-moon reading glasses for
the purposes of the game, regards her with what would appear to be undue scepticism,
given that she is advancing his case.  He frowns over the top of the
spectacles, as though he is about to rebuke a patient who has had the temerity to
suggest they know their ailment before the good doctor has pronounced. 
However, on this occasion he breaks into a rather macabre grin, and nods slowly
several times.

‘Thank
you, Lucy – I am glad there is at least one scientifically educated
person amongst us, since we don’t have the benefit of the requisite dictionary.’

‘But
Dr Bond – Lucy is on your side – surely we should have independent
corroboration?’

Angela
Cutting smirks as she says this; though the game is being taken seriously it
does appear that she is merely winding up the pompous Yorkshireman.

‘That’s
all very well, Ms Cutting –’

‘Angela,
please.’

‘Angela,
then – but what I’m saying is, when the only knowledgeable person is on your
own team, it’s hardly fair to penalise for that.’

Now
Dickie Lampray butts in.

‘Oh,
Angela, darling – I think we ought to let them have it – clearly young
Lucy is as honest as the day is long.’  He winks across at her. 
‘Besides – it’s only eight points.’

Angela
Cutting takes a long slow sip of her martini, and narrows her eyes in a
serpentine manner.  She has kicked off her heels and has her feet drawn up
beneath her, their soles resting against Skelgill’s thigh.

‘Very
well, Dickie – if you insist.’  She moves sinuously and slides her
free hand over her calf and ankle, and then she drums her fingers over the
fabric of Skelgill’s jeans.  ‘All the sooner for our turn – it’s you
to go for us... Inspector.’

Skelgill
has evidently been waiting, and hoping for a space to remain clear, for he eagerly
gathers up five of the tiles.

‘There’s
no holding back the Inspector.’

Dickie
Lampray makes this remark, but he – and several of the others suddenly
fall silent, open mouthed, even.  For Skelgill has put down the word
bumfit
.

Now,
if this were only admissible, it would be a humdinger of a score, with
forty-eight points to begin with (landing a double letter score for the ‘f’ and
a triple word score for the word itself), plus another thirty-three points for
converting ‘plum’ into ‘plumb’, with the ‘b’ landing on the triple word square. 
A grand total of eighty-one points.  If it were only admissible.

However,
for a terrible moment there is an awkward silence, with all eyes seemingly
glued to the board.  Who will take on the embarrassing task of querying
this apparently new and rather rude-sounding addition to the English language?  Skelgill,
meanwhile, sits back, folds his arms and looks very pleased with himself.

Perhaps
not surprisingly, Dr Gerald Bond – guided by Yorkshire plain speaking,
and thus bound by fewer courtesies than others of the group (and perhaps
encouraged by the malt he is drinking) – sallies forth with an objection.

‘Inspector
– so what have we got here?’

Skelgill,
tilting his own glass to his lips, raises a poker player’s eyebrow.

‘Fifteen.’

Bella
Mandrake pitches forward; she manages to shoot out a hand to prevent herself
from toppling onto the table, but not without revealing just how drunk she is.

‘It’s lots
more than fifteen – it counts as two words
and
it’s on a triple
word score!’

Skelgill
throws her an appreciative glance.

‘No,
love – it
means
fifteen.  Bumfit.’

Several
of the audience are looking at Skelgill as though – having referred
earlier to
Swallows and Amazons
– he has now reverted to the use
of some correspondingly strange childhood backslang, and is trying to inveigle
it into the contest.  He serves only to amplify this impression when he
begins to recite a curious string of lyrics.

‘Yan. 
Tyan.  Tethera.  Methera.  Pimp.’

‘Pimp?’

Dickie
Lampray seems half hypnotised as he repeats the final word.  But Skelgill
continues.

‘Sethera. 
Lethera. Hovera.  Dovera.  Dick.’

‘Dick?’

Now
Dickie Lampray
is
entirely bamboozled – reciting his own
diminutive has him gazing at Skelgill in a cross-eyed fashion.

‘What
is this, Inspector –
pimp... dick... bumfit
– some kind of code
used by your Vice Squad?’

Now
several of the group burst into laughter.  Dickie Lampray remains
bewildered, while Skelgill simply appears perplexed.  But as the hilarity
subsides, it is the quiet voice of Lucy Hecate that speaks first.

‘There’s
an English opera called
Yan Tan Tethera
.  We performed it at my
school.  It’s about shepherds and the devil.’

There
follows another moment’s silence.  Glances are exchanged.  Mention of
the devil seems to have Bella Mandrake all of a quiver.  Then Skelgill elucidates.

‘Lucy’s
right.  It’s how shepherds count their sheep.’  He points a gunfinger
at Dr Gerald Bond.  ‘I’m surprised you don’t know it Dr Bond – given
your interest in writing about the fells.’

Dr
Gerald Bond looks a little – well – actually,
sheepish
, and
shrinks into his seat.  Skelgill’s chest seems to swell in inverse
proportion.

‘It’s
widespread across the northern uplands of England – speak to any
shepherd.  There are variations in most of the dales – I learned the
Borrowdale version from a farmer called Arthur Hope when I was knee-high to a
grasshopper.  In Borrowdale two is
tyan
not
tan
.  It’s
Cumbric – a relic of the Celtic language – not so different from
Welsh.’

Dickie
Lampray takes a large gulp of his Benedictine and appears to wink at Skelgill.

‘Well,
Inspector – you amaze us all – and you have independent corroboration,’
(he scowls at Dr Gerald Bond) ‘from an unimpeachable source and not just a
scientist, it seems.  Rather a fount of knowledge.  I should not wish
to go up against her on
Mastermind
.’

Lucy
Hecate lowers her eyes modestly.  Though she like the others has
apparently been drinking steadily, her role has been as an undemonstrative
member of the group.  However, while she might be shy, and perhaps a
little in awe of the brash worldliness that threatens at times to swamp her,
she has surfaced confidently to present an opinion – or, rather, a fact
– as the opportunity arises.

Dr
Gerald Bond harrumphs – but he realises he can’t have his cake and eat it
too; the rules are the rules.  Dickie Lampray, on the other hand, despite
being on the end of a good thrashing, seems jubilant.

‘Well,
Inspector – it looks like you have your
bumfit!
’  He leers
drunkenly across at Skelgill.  ‘And if we hear you talking like that in depths
of the night, we shall know you are merely counting sheep.’

Skelgill
grins ruefully.

‘Not
usually one of my problems, sir, getting off to sleep – just tend to be woken
by the slightest sound.’

As if
to illustrate his point, Skelgill is suddenly overcome by a great yawn.  This
clearly takes him by surprise, and for a moment he appears quite disoriented.

Dickie
Lampray seems concerned.

‘Perhaps
we are keeping you up, Inspector – after all, we have rather burdened you
with our plight – and I don’t doubt you were out fishing with the lark,
if you will excuse the mixed metaphor.’