Skelgill looks to DS Jones – who has finished reading the email – for her input.
‘Mr Lampray, it invites you as a highly regarded practitioner to provide advice about getting the best out of working with a Literary Agent?’
‘That is correct, sergeant.’
‘Wouldn’t this suggest that they knew who you were – it mentions your reputation, and details about your agency and its achievements?’
Dickie Lampray makes a waving gesture with both hands, as if to say ‘not necessarily’ and rises again from his seat. Once more he visits the bureau, and this time returns with the current edition of the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook. There are several pages marked with slips of paper, and he flips open the hefty tome at one of these and lays it on the table before them.
‘Our industry bible.’ He points to a small entry, three-quarters of the way down one page. It is headed ‘Lampray & Associates Literary Agency’ and comprises a couple of paragraphs of small text. Then he flicks through some of the adjoining pages. ‘There is a whole section here – most British agents are listed – everything you really need to know, in a nutshell.’
‘So you might have been selected at random, sir?’
Dickie Lampray nods.
‘Quite possibly, sergeant.’
He looks anxiously to Skelgill, who has been taking the opportunity of DS Jones’s questioning to dunk and devour custard creams. Skelgill swallows and clears his throat to speak.
‘You seemed to be familiar with the other members of the retreat, sir?’
‘Well of course, I do know – at least I knew Rich – and Angela, and naturally I have heard of Sarah Redmond and have been at several events at which she has appeared – but I would be able to say the same of almost any random combination of publisher, critic and established author that you would care to choose – it’s a small world in the book trade and we many of us are connected for business purposes. I can’t claim to be acquainted with them any better than I am with several dozen other people who equally well might have attended. The budding authors, however, they were all complete strangers to me.’
‘What about the remaining professionals like yourself – how had they been enlisted to participate?’
Dickie Lampray frowns.
‘I really couldn’t say, Inspector – it wasn’t something that came up in conversation – I imagine I’d supposed they had been recruited in the same manner that I was – and you understand how people like to keep mum about their earnings – one never knows if a would-be author is a taxman in their day job – ha-ha – just joking, of course!’
Skelgill evidently decides not to react to this remark, and continues to gaze at Dickie Lampray as though he expects him to continue. After a slightly awkward moment or two his silent treatment pays off.
‘I must confess, Inspector – I was rather surprised to find Rich there – I shouldn’t have thought the money would have been a factor – I rather wondered if it was because he knew Sarah Redmond would be attending.’
Skelgill pauses, a biscuit hovering midway twixt cup and lip, which is akin to a sudden pricking of his ears.
‘Why is that significant, sir?’
‘Ah, well, Inspector – book trade gossip, you see.’ Dickie Lampray taps the side of his nose. ‘Rumour has it that she is in the market for a new publisher – that she has rather outgrown her Scottish outfit – so it would have been quite a coup if she’d gone to Rich Buckley.’
‘Did you know she would be there, sir?’
Dickie Lampray shakes his head.
‘No – I had no knowledge of my fellow delegates until we assembled at the waterside rendezvous.’
‘I see, sir.’ Skelgill looks thoughtful. ‘You mentioned a moment ago about Mr Buckley being ‘top dog’, as you put it – what did you mean by that?’
‘Ah, inspector – the pecking order of the publishing business.’ Dickie Lampray shakes his head ruefully. ‘Although the digital revolution has rather put the cat among the pigeons, for the time being the traditional hierarchy largely prevails – in which the publisher is all-powerful. The humble agent,’ (he gestures emotively to his breast with both hands) ‘and the even more humble would-be author, is at the mercy of the publisher. No publishing contract, no food on the table.’
Skelgill nods sympathetically.
‘So where do the others fit in, in that regard?’
Dickie Lampray momentarily takes hold of the tips of his shirt collar, as if he is straightening an invisible bow tie.
‘Well, of course, Angela is something of a law unto herself.’ He glances at DS Jones and says by way of explanation, ‘She is a Literary Critic – syndicated to all the leading media outlets. With a stroke of her pen she can make or break a book – or a heart, come to that.’
‘So she’s top of the pecking order, really?’
‘Rather soaring around above it, I should say, Inspector – since she is not really a link in the practical chain of origination and publication.’
‘And what about Sarah Redmond?’
‘Well, of course, once an author has ‘made it’, so to speak, they can call their own tune – and Sarah Redmond has certainly made it – there is a hardly a week goes by when she is not among the top ten bestsellers.’
Now Skelgill nods, as if the situation is becoming clearer.
‘So at the retreat, sir – it was Mr Buckley that took charge?’
Dickie Lampray concurs.
‘It was apparent after we had settled into our rooms and gathered for a discussion, that there was a requirement for a chairman of sorts. Rich quite naturally assumed that role and I was content to see him do so. Angela and Sarah strutted like smart peacocks amongst a flock of rather less brainy hens – they subtly complied only with the arrangements that suited them. The aspiring authors, of course, were desperate to impress – so I’m afraid to say they were somewhat taken advantage of when it came to communal chores and suchlike. When Rich died – only shortly before your own arrival, Inspector – as one of the more senior members of the group, in age if nothing else, I rather felt it behove me to take things in hand. But I had no formal role, and until then I took a back seat in what limited affairs there were.’
Skelgill’s countenance has perhaps unwittingly hardened as he listens to this explanation – and he suddenly seems to become conscious he should overtly demonstrate this is not the interrogation of a suspect.
‘Well, sir – it's very good of you to fill us in with these details – obviously I had a bit of an insight myself into the situation.’
‘Oh, it is no trouble whatsoever, Inspector – just ask away – it is a pleasure to do one’s civic duty.’
Skelgill nods several times, and he becomes conspiratorial in his manner. He leans forward, his elbows resting upon his knees and his hands entwined.
‘You’ll understand, sir, that I’m constrained in what I can say about the deceased persons – but it appears that Mr Buckley’s death may have been brought about by the side-effects of a medicine he had in his possession, and in Ms Mandrake’s case we believe she took an overdose of sleeping pills.’
Dickie Lampray is nodding in confirmation, as though this much has already reached his ears – either at the time of the evacuation from Grisholm Hall, or by means of some social grapevine since. Skelgill continues.
‘So I don’t know, sir, if – in the light of that knowledge – there’s anything that struck you as notable as far as either of them were concerned – the state of their health, or something about their behaviour, for instance?’
Dickie Lampray nods slowly and gazes reflectively in the direction of the lounge window. A courier’s van has pulled up outside, although its manoeuvre is just to let another vehicle pass, and it draws away.
‘Well, Inspector – you saw Bella Mandrake for yourself – she certainly wasn’t the most stable of personalities, so I am unsurprised by what you say regarding sleeping pills. However, from a point of view of external vigour she s
eemed entirely robust – quite a formidable presence, indeed, as you experienced, Inspector.’
Skelgill does not comment, but Dickie Lampray continues with barely a pause.
‘As for Rich – well, he seemed in rude health, too. Certainly he was burning the candle at the midnight end, if you get my gist.’ He blinks apologetically. ‘You see, I’m a bit of a night owl myself, and I don’t believe there was an evening when Rich turned in before me – but then again he was correspondingly late in rising.’
‘What was he doing – in staying up late?’
‘Oh, just generally socialising, Inspector – there was no shortage of alcohol,’ (at this Dickie Lampray coughs rather discreetly, and DS Jones keeps her eyes fixed firmly upon her notebook), ‘and always someone willing to keep Rich company – though I don’t think any of us could match his staying power.’
‘What about on the night before he died, sir – you mentioned previously that yourself, Ms Mandrake and Ms Cutting were the last to be up with him – until about two a.m. I believe you said?’
Dickie Lampray nods.
‘That is correct, Inspector – although I was first to succumb to the lure of my bed – so I am afraid Angela is your best bet to provide any last minute details. When I left the drawing room the three of them were huddled on a sofa, ostensibly poring over a piece of writing Bella had produced and insisted they should critique – though I rather think they were humouring her.’
Skelgill nods.
‘This work – that you were all supposed to do as part of your contracts – how was that organised?’
Dickie Lampray now looks a touch shamefaced.
‘Well I must be honest, Inspector, it was hardly challenging. I was expected to give a short talk before dinner on a couple of evenings, and then to be loosely available for any of the authors who wanted to chat about things – how to find an agent, what to expect from them, how to treat them – ha-ha.’
‘And how much were you called upon?
‘Frankly, Inspector, the authors were jolly diligent – of course the primary idea of a retreat is to get one’s head down and write away furiously in perfect peace – and that is what they seemed to do most of the time – so I think you’ll get a similar answer from Angela and Sarah – which is that their services were not strenuously tested.’
‘Was it not a bit boring, sir?’
Dickie Lampray shakes his head decisively. ‘Oh, I always have plenty of work to do, Inspector.’ He gestures to a neat stack of papers that sits beside the hearth. ‘These days agents are exploited as free readers by publishers. I had a whole suitcase of manuscripts to work my way through. I almost sank that rowing boat single handed.’ He sighs. ‘Perhaps one day I shall discover my own Sarah Redmond.’
Skelgill gazes at the nearest set of bookshelves, although there is no flicker of recognition in his eyes.
‘Were there no future best-selling authors on the course?’
Dickie Lampray, perhaps rather surprisingly, does not appear to dismiss this notion out of hand.
‘Well, Inspector, Linda Gray’s cooking was certainly fit for haute cuisine, especially in light of the limitations of the kitchen – but her writing was rather more cafeteria, if I may put it that way – nonetheless she certainly succeeded in showcasing her talents.’ Then he shakes his head, perhaps reluctantly. ‘But there are so many cookery writers these days – and of course fiction is my bag, in any event.’
‘How about the others?’
‘Well – I probably don’t need to tell you about poor Bella Mandrake – may she rest in peace – her writing was of a juvenile standard, unfortunately. Dr Bond wrote stodgily and was such a terrible pedant about the Lake District – until you arrived to put him in his place – and the ex-solider chap, a little too facile – although there’s probably more of a market in what he has to say.’ He pauses, as if he is trying to remember whom he has omitted from his appraisal. ‘Oh, yes – young Lucy Hecate – now she was a bit of a dark horse, somewhat retiring, her writing rather complex and deep – but an intelligent and knowledgeable girl – I sense she is destined to be an author, if that is what she wants – but of course you made rather an impression on her yourself, Inspector.’
Skelgill appears not to notice DS Jones’s inquiring glance. He tips his head to one side in a casual gesture.
‘I think that was just the coincidence of her being the person that summoned my help, sir – it could have been any of you.’
‘Ah, but there you go, Inspector – just another example of her quiet determination – she had resolved to venture out and brave the storm, when all the rest of us had given it up for the night – and she was proved right – she found you!’
Skelgill opens his palms, as if to say ‘these things happen’, and takes the cue for his next question.
‘When I appeared, sir – obviously you’d had the shock of Mr Buckley’s death – but I got the impression you were all getting along very well as a group – considering, as you say, that you’d been thrown together largely as a bunch of strangers.’
Dickie Lampray considers for a moment, as if perhaps this generalisation is not entirely the case. His reply however strikes a conciliatory chord.
‘Well, of course, it was a slightly artificial situation, to the extent that the professionals among us represented channels to publication – Rich, and myself to a lesser degree – but even rubbing shoulders with Angela and Sarah perhaps seemed like a harbinger of good fortune – so it was natural for the novice authors to want to impress us in whatever ways they could. I suppose that helped to create a harmonious and cooperative atmosphere.’
‘You didn’t sense any rivalries?’
Again there is some hesitation from Dickie Lampray; perhaps even the faintest twinge of discomfort, as if Skelgill’s question has prodded a raw nerve. But quickly he gathers himself.
‘Well, Inspector – as you witnessed – Bella Mandrake was no shrinking violet, she had few qualms about insinuating herself into whatever conversation was in progress. The others were less pushy as such, though Dr Bond was somewhat presumptuous – I shouldn’t like to have been one of his patients – and Burt Boston, frankly a bit of a show-off. Linda Gray was rather dowdy – but then she was able to let her food do her talking – and Lucy Hecate altogether more reticent.
Skelgill’s attention seems to waver during this answer – perhaps because these superficial impressions he had already assimilated during his time at Grisholm Hall. But he gathers his wits and develops his line of enquiry.
‘How about among the professionals?’
Dickie Lampray shakes his head.
‘Perhaps if instead of a publisher, an agent and a critic there had been three publishers all wooing Sarah Redmond, then it might have been a different matter – as it was, our sub-group was strictly non-competitive – apart from when it came to Scrabble – at which you of course gave us all a bit of a lesson in ruthlessness.’
Skelgill affects modesty; though it is plain he is pleased by this assessment.
‘Put it down to beginner’s luck, sir.’
‘Oh, I think it was more than that, Inspector – do you do crosswords, by any chance?’
Skelgill appears guarded – until he remembers he has reinforcements at his side. He gestures casually at DS Jones.
‘Actually, my sergeant here is more of a dab hand than me.’
Dickie Lampray regards DS Jones with interest.
‘I rather imagined all modern detectives do crosswords – I suppose it comes from watching too much Inspector Morse – these repeats are never off daytime television.’
DS Jones nods politely. The course of the conversation has taken a diversion – of Dickie Lampray’s making – but Skelgill seems content with this state of affairs. He slaps his hands on his knees and rises.
‘Would you mind, sir – if I just nipped to your bathroom before we go?’ He gestures to the cafetière, as if to pass some of the responsibility for his predicament to Dicki
e Lampray. ‘I’m not a regular coffee drinker.’
Dickie Lampray looks momentarily discomfited, but he realises he has little alternative than to accommodate Skelgill accordingly.
‘Of course, Inspector – be my guest – it is directly ahead at the top of the stairs.’
Skelgill nods politely and leaves the room. When he reappears a couple of minutes later, Dickie Lampray has moved to sit beside DS Jones on the leather settee, and they are both leaning over a folded copy of The Times.
‘Ah, Inspector – your sergeant certainly is a dab hand.’ He lifts the journal and wafts it triumphantly above his head. ‘She has solved my final two clues: tanager and pelican – both of them birds – amazing how obvious they are once one knows the answer!’
Skelgill looks quizzically at DS Jones, who returns his glance with a slightly helpless expression, as though the exercise was thrust upon her in his absence.
‘Well, sir – I’m glad we’ve been of some use to you.’ Skelgill offers a hand, which Dickie Lampray reciprocates. ‘We might have some luck tracking down the retreats company – but in the meantime if you hear from them please do let us know.’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
They shuffle out into the hallway. Dickie Lampray moves to head off the Cavalier, but the small canine seems content to remain nestled in its blanket – perhaps the run-in with the Morkie and Schnoodle gang has proved a little overwhelming.
‘Well, thank you for your help, sir – and your hospitality.’ Skelgill bows, rather ostentatiously. ‘We shouldn’t need to be troubling you again, sir.’
They take their leave, and exit from the diminutive front garden, which is mainly filled with shrubs such as Buddleia and Cotoneaster. As DS Jones turns to fasten the gate, she glances up to see Dickie Lampray watching from the bay window of the lounge. He is cradling his dog and, rather comically, manipulates one of its paws in a puppet-like farewell. DS Jones giggles and acknowledges the gesture.
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 10