‘Dickie Lampray, Inspector – I can introduce you to everyone when appropriate – young Lucy Hecate, you’ve met already, of course.’
Skelgill shakes the man’s hand and then, as he lets go, indicates with a sweep of his arm towards the shadows of the high, ornately corniced ceiling.
‘This place is generally empty.’
‘I believe it is available for special hires such as this, Inspector.’
Skelgill nods. The man continues.
‘We are on a writers’ retreat. A local boatman conveyed us from our rendezvous at Brandlehow Inn on Thursday afternoon. This is our fourth night of a planned seven.’
At this juncture there is fidgeting among the group listening in, as if they harbour differing opinions regarding the idea of seeing out the full week.
‘Abel Thurnwyke.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector?’
‘The name of your boatman, sir.’
‘Ah – I see, Inspector. He was somewhat taciturn, if I may say so.’
‘That’s him being chatty.’
‘Well – it was a rather disconcerting journey, what with all nine of us and the luggage and water sloshing about in the boat – and he let us off at the landing stage and was gone before we knew it.’
‘So, is there an organiser here?’
‘Well, though it may seem curious, Inspector – there is no organiser – at least not in person.’
Skelgill looks puzzled.
‘Don’t you have writing classes – that kind of thing?’
‘It’s probably not entirely odd, Inspector. Naturally there was an outline proposition for how we should spend our time – to which I assume we each individually responded. Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats they call themselves. But the agenda was positioned as largely open for interpretation as we saw fit. Six of the party are writers, and there is an agent – myself – a critic,’ (he gestures towards a rather severe-looking woman in her late thirties, with tightly drawn jet-black hair and aquiline features, who is perched on the sofa that faces the fire; she inclines her head somewhat haughtily) ‘and a publisher.’ He coughs discreetly. ‘Was a publisher.’
Skelgill’s demeanour suggests he intends to return shortly to this point. Dickie Lampray continues.
‘The idea is for the writers to gain optimal peace and quiet to write, and obtain informal advice as they might seek it. The, er... professionals among us drew up a programme of informal talks for the evenings.’
Ever the pragmatist, Skelgill homes in on to matters closer to his own heart.
‘What about meals – cooking? Are there no staff?’
The man shakes his head, though he gives no impression of disapproval.
‘The event was advertised as self-catering, Inspector. The kitchen was provisioned prior to our arrival. As it turns out we are fortunate enough to have among our number a chef – she aspires to write cookery books – Linda Gray, who is presently making your hot chocolate.’
‘How many people does the building accommodate?’
‘Well – there are ten bedrooms, Inspector – so it is more or less full under these circumstances – but perhaps one person did not turn up – or they failed to sell all the places.’
‘Or maybe it was intended for a course leader?’
The man frowns.
‘Well – I don’t think so, Inspector – I’d need to re-read the literature, if I have kept it – and you’d have to ask the others – but I don’t believe we were led to expect someone in residence – it was positioned as a communal effort, easy as you go. This is not entirely atypical.’
Skelgill glances around the group, to see that this assessment is met with small nods and gestures of agreement. He returns his attention to Dickie Lampray.
‘And someone has died – your publisher person.’
The man nods earnestly.
‘You have a mobile telephone, I take it, Inspector?’
‘In a dry-bag in my boat.’
Dickie Lampray appears relieved.
‘His name is Rich Buckley, Inspector – you may have heard of him – rather a high-flyer in the book trade.’
Skelgill purses his lips, but is non-committal in his response.
‘How did he die?’
The man does not reply immediately, but instead raises an uncertain hand to his chin. Just then the drawing room door opens, and he removes the hand to point to the newcomer.
‘Ah, Inspector – here’s the chap best placed to answer your question.’ Now he raises a palm like a diner summoning a waiter, and addresses the new entrant, a tall bowed man of retirement age, whose prominently boned features protrude from the surroundings of a bushy grizzled beard and matching hairdo. ‘Dr Bond – this is Inspector Skelgill of Cumbria CID. He was just inquiring about the cause of death.’
A flicker of apprehension seems momentarily to crease the doctor’s heavy brow, but he quickly composes himself and with a loping stride crosses to the rear of the sofa on which Skelgill sits in order vigorously to pump his hand.
‘Gerald Bond – at your service.’ He has a pronounced Yorkshire accent and a bluff manner to go with it. ‘‘I’m a retired GP, Inspector – planning to write guide books about walking in the Lake District.’
Skelgill looks alarmed. For a second it seems he might be about to inform the good doctor that he should not waste his energy – that he was beaten to this particular summit by the peerless Wainwright, half a century ago. Sensibly, however, he keeps his own counsel long enough for the man to continue.
‘Heart failure appears the most likely cause – he was lying on his bed, fully dressed as though he’d been reading.’ He contrives a wry grin. ‘No indication of foul play, I’m afraid, Inspector.’
There is a sense of expectancy in the air as he glances around at the semi-circle of silent faces that are turned upon him. Skelgill does not respond to the doctor’s little attempt at humorous melodrama.
‘What was the time of death?’
Again there is a hint from his demeanour that the doctor is momentarily discomfited. Skelgill has posed the question in the brusque manner he would of his regular forensic physician, demanding a proficient response.
‘Er, well – that would be hard to say, Inspector.’ He folds his arms defensively. ‘I merely confirmed he had no vital signs. He was discovered about an hour ago – but he’d remained in his room all day. There had been a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door since this morning.’
Dickie Lampray interjects.
‘I ought to point out this has been very much his habit, Inspector. Our rooms are self-contained suites. Rich has not been an early riser – I believe each day so far he has breakfasted in bed in lieu of lunch.’
Linda Gray has re-entered the drawing room bearing a tray at chest height. Dickie Lampray glances at her for confirmation. She nods enthusiastically.
‘That’s right, Inspector – I’ve done a continental breakfast – rather like this – for three or four people who’ve not made it down. Mr Buckley was one of them.’
‘And how was he this morning?’
The woman places the tray before Skelgill. He nods with approval when he sees there is a large home-made buttered scone, and assorted single-portion jars of preserves.
‘I’ve just been leaving trays outside the rooms – his was taken inside at some point, but I never saw him. I’m not sure anyone did.’
Skelgill looks back to Dickie Lampray.
‘When was he last seen alive?’
‘We have discussed this, naturally, Inspector. We believe he was here in the drawing room until approximately two a.m. with myself, Angela Cutting’ (again he inclines his head towards the woman he introduced as a literary critic) ‘and Bella... er, Miss Mandrake. The actress – you know?’ Now he indicates with a palm the woman whom Skelgill had been unable to fend off a couple of minutes earlier. Though Skelgill shows no sign that he recognises either her face or her name, and regards her rather blankly, she smiles coyly in response.
‘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 6 p.m.
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 curso
ry 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.
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 2