Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 81
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘Who found him?’
Linda Gray, who has lowered herself into the space beside Skelgill, raises a tentative finger, as though about to make an admission.
‘That was me, Inspector – I went up to see whether he wanted soup or a cold starter tonight. We were all gathered here for afternoon tea – it’s a convenient time to ask – when you know you’re not interrupting anyone – and he was the only one of us missing.’
‘I take it his room wasn’t locked?’
‘No, Inspector.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘When I couldn’t wake him I came down here and – well – I suppose I raised the alarm. The others went up again with me and the doctor confirmed that he had died.’
‘And you didn’t see anything that would make you suspicious?’
She shakes her head vehemently.
‘Like the doctor says – you’d just think he was asleep.’
Skelgill has been eyeing his scone, and now – eschewing the selection of spreads – he takes a substantial bite. There is a silence while he swallows and sluices it down with a gulp of hot chocolate. He appears immune to the effects of the still-steaming liquid.
‘Well – I suppose I ought just to have a look – then get someone over from the relevant authorities to deal with the formalities.’
Going by the collective body language, there seems to be a little ripple of relief that runs through the group around Skelgill. Dickie Lampray sits up and straightens his bow tie. Skelgill takes another swig of his drink and glances about to seek out the girl, Lucy, who brought him to the hall. She is standing a little aloof from their coterie, over towards a curtained window, one hand resting on an occasional table. She has removed the loose coat to reveal a close-fitting pale-green woollen dress, and apparently little else beneath. He watches her as he speaks.
‘Lucy mentioned that you have no means of communication.’
Dickie Lampray follows Skelgill’s gaze, and then looks back at him.
‘Given the lack of mains services, you won’t be surprised to hear there is no landline, Inspector. Moreover, we were requested not to bring our mobiles or laptops. Of course – there is no electricity – so those of us who did bend the rules soon found our devices had run out of charge.’
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.’
2. THE PIER
Sunday 6pm
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 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.
