‘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.
3. DINNER & AFTER – Sunday 8:30 p.m.
‘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.’
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.
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 4