The professor allows himself a wry grin. Skelgill is silent for a moment; he chooses another sandwich.
‘I’ve never seen it growing hereabouts.’
The professor shakes his head.
‘I am no great botanist, Daniel – although I believe it is a species that favours chalk downlands.’ He lifts a hand, correctly in a south-southeasterly direction. ‘However, the chemical agent is commonly available in medical and scientific circles – it is used in many preparations. The Edinburgh poisoner simply ordered extra stocks of atropine sulphate for his experiments.’
Skelgill nods.
‘So, you wouldn’t have to use an extract from the plant?’
‘The liquid form would be more convenient. How was the poison administered?’
‘As you just touched upon – the victim was taking a medicine that contained atropine. But the concentration in the body doesn’t correspond to the concentration in the pills.’
‘What were the symptoms?’
Skelgill shrugs reluctantly.
‘He was found dead some time later. No one knew he was ill. The actual cause of death was heart failure.’
The professor blinks a couple of times, though his features remain implacable.
‘Atropine may lead to a coma before death. It is metabolised quickly and leaves no inflamed organs for the pathologist. In some circumstances it could be the tool for the perfect crime. Although it sounds like your people have detected a flaw.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘We can’t be certain – statistically – but there’s grounds for suspicion. Not least because of a second death at the same place the following day.’
‘Also by atropine?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Looks like an overdose of sleeping pills – but we’re told something’s awry, given the brand involved – also too weak a concentration.’
The professor regards Skelgill with an affectionate concern.
‘It sounds like you have your work cut out. Perhaps I should undertake a little research and come up to your office.’
Skelgill shifts rather uneasily in his seat.
‘This visit – it’s... er, kind of unofficial.’
‘Ah.’ The professor nods slowly several times. ‘But I may still give you advice – perhaps by telephone?’
Skelgill, too, nods – though with considerably more energy.
‘Well, in the meantime – have another sandwich – I had a late breakfast – you still have much exercise to do – and your complexion is not as robust as I remember it.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows resignedly.
‘Maybe it’s the weather. The sun’s hardly shone for a fortnight. And I’ve been busy – I haven’t been out as much as I would have liked.’
But the professor does not look convinced, and Skelgill perhaps feels obliged to elaborate.
‘I wasn’t too grand on Sunday night – felt a bit tired and dizzy – then I had a blinding headache on Monday morning.’ He shrugs. ‘I put it down to too much red wine.’
The professor is observing him closely – indeed, watching as much as listening to his words.
‘Were you by any chance in the vicinity of those who were – shall we say – poisoned?’
Skelgill glances up in surprise, a sandwich mid-way to his lips.
‘Aye, I was.’
‘Then perhaps you were lucky.’
Skelgill seems unsure of how to respond to this insight, and in lieu of a better course of action he takes a large bite of the bread. The professor sips his beer in silence. Then slowly he intones a little ditty.
‘Hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, and mad as a hatter.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An old saying about the symptoms of atropine poisoning.’
Skelgill chuckles.
‘Sounds more like me, flapping about on this case.’
The professor shakes his head.
‘I think you will solve it, Daniel. Your record is excellent, no?’
Now Skelgill sighs guardedly and contemplates the platter and its remaining sandwiches, though with apparently diminished enthusiasm.
‘The Chief doesn’t set great store by past records.’
‘She has a fiery reputation.’
‘Don’t mention the word fire.’
The professor tilts his head to one side, perhaps assessing the nuance in Skelgill’s warning.
‘But you have some thinking time.’
Skelgill glances up.
‘I’m stalking a pike.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
For a moment Skelgill appears more animated. He gestures towards the lake.
‘Hans – what’s the biggest you’ve had out of Derwentwater?’
The professor contrives a somewhat confessional expression.
‘Ah, Daniel – in five years of trying – and despite your trademark plugs – only nineteen pounds and ten ounces.’
Skelgill seems to fight back the urge to swallow – he has limited success and reaches for his beer as cover. The professor does not seem to notice his unease, and begins to reminisce.
‘My adoptive home lake, as well – it is a long way short of my Bassenthwaite best, caught with your expert assistance – and, can you believe, less than a quarter of the Estonian record?’
Skelgill shakes his head – though now his expression is one of wonderment.
‘I think I need a long weekend in the Baltic.’
‘Catch your poisoner – and they will surely give you one.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows rather doubtingly; as things stand, he shall neither solve the crime nor – when his bungled bet expires in the next thirty-six hours – be able to afford a holiday.
17. THE YAT – Thursday 9 p.m.
‘Guv – DI Smart has arrested Dr Bond.’
Skelgill, having casually slammed shut his car door and set off jauntily marching towards his waiting colleague, is visibly rocked by this howitzer of news discharged across the pub car park. His face rapidly falls in, when a second earlier it was dominated by a demob-happy grin (enhanced it seemed as DS Jones stepped into the moonlight to reveal a most un-detective-like outfit). Now he halts a yard or two short of the embrace that would befit the meeting of such an attractive young woman. Reduced to his more customary attitude of watchful sentry, he realises she is shivering.
‘Come on, lass – let’s get inside and sat down – then you can tell us proper.’
The hostelry, an old coaching inn that – while popular with those in the know, and renowned for its excellent food and generous portions – is one of those out-of-the-way places where couples of all descriptions can meet without announcing themselves to the entire county. Tonight, highlighting its isolation, a near full moon spreads a silvery shroud over the low building and its silent environs, a harbinger of the frost that will follow as the mercury falls further. In contrast, from the mullioned windows emanates a cosy glow, redolent of oil lamps and a roaring log fire – and indeed beyond the heavy oak door they are greeted by the scent of paraffin and the crackle of a blaze from the inglenook.
At this time of year the Lake District is largely reclaimed by its locals, and the cosy bar harbours a small contingent of quietly conversing regulars and their lazing dogs: Lurcher, Lab and Lakeland Terrier among them. A Border Collie rises and strolls over to inspect the new arrivals, but it is jerked back by a sharp “That’ll do!” from a gnarled shepherd who nurses a half-pint of mild in a dark corner. Skelgill makes a little motion of the hand at waist level, and the old man responds with the faintest of nods. Otherwise their entrance garners little notice.
The regular landlady is not in attendance – though a female member of staff in her late twenties with spiked hair and a knowing smile eyes DS Jones with a casual interest. Skelgill orders a pint of bitter, and a Martini-and-slimline for his companion, and a mild to be delivered to the shepherd. They don’t have a booking – bu
t there is no need – and indeed rather than pass through into the deserted restaurant area they opt for a small round table close beside the fire.
For a few moments DS Jones continues to shiver, and Skelgill takes the opportunity to peruse the menu while she recovers her composure. However, she soon chuckles when he announces that he “can feel a black pudding coming on” – he is a man of habit when it comes to his stomach. She would no doubt predict that home-made steak-and-ale pie should follow as his choice of main course. After a minute he glances up and turns expectantly to the bar. He catches the eye of the young woman, who may have been keeping them under low-grade surveillance. She emerges to reveal a slim figure, trim in a tailored charcoal polo shirt bearing the pub logo, and tight-fitting black jeans of a satiny material. She knows she draws his eye and, with notepad and pen poised, she stands just behind and to one side of DS Jones. Skelgill becomes conscious that he is the object of attention of at least two varieties, and folds his arms rather defensively as he places their order. When the waitress departs he reaches for his jug and takes refuge in its depths until he seems to think it is safe to emerge. He bangs it down decisively upon the table.
‘Not so smart Smart.’
DS Jones understands his meaning; she nods and gathers herself to speak.
‘He got us to tell him everything we know so far, Guv – first thing this morning, that was – and then at the end of the meeting he just stood up, acting really cool – he said we couldn’t see the wood for the trees – and he went straight up to the Chief.’ She pauses to take a measured sip of her drink. ‘The next thing we knew he was dragging DS Leyton out to go and arrest Dr Bond.’
‘I bet he didn’t say we.’
‘Sorry, Guv?’
‘I bet he didn’t say we couldn’t see the wood for the trees.’
DS Jones winces apologetically.
‘You know what he’s like, Guv.’
Skelgill’s eyes narrow.
‘I’m surprised he didn’t take you with him, over to Bond’s place.’
DS Jones lowers her gaze.
‘DS Leyton got the impression that the Chief had decided he should accompany DI Smart – perhaps because of yesterday.’
‘So you’ve not been involved in the interviews?’
‘No, Guv – but DS Leyton is keeping me in the picture, where he can.’ She leans forward, suddenly eager to please. ‘And here’s something to make you smile, Guv – Dr Bond is now demanding that you’re put back in charge of the investigation!’
Skelgill shakes his head; his features remain stern, though there is perhaps the tiniest glint of jubilation in his eye.
‘What’s Smart’s case?’
DS Jones intertwines and studies her fingers: it seems they provide an excuse to avoid eye contact while she is obliged to iterate the unwelcome opinion of her new superior officer.
‘I suppose it’s logical really, Guv. If the two of them were poisoned, then it looks like medical knowledge and access to the drugs are the key factors. Dr Bond stands out by a head and shoulders. Plus, if he gave them a medicine, they’d probably take it without question.’ She pauses to brush away a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘That’s the line DI Smart is taking. Apparently he’s pressurising Dr Herdwick to make a categorical statement about the concentration levels. And he’s arguing that the complaint against you was as good as an admission of guilt. He wants you to provide a statement that Dr Bond was acting suspiciously at Grisholm Hall.’
Skelgill’s face is implacable.
‘Motive.’
He delivers this single word as though he considers it is a knockout blow. But DS Jones’s reaction is one of sudden anxiety.
‘There’s something I haven’t mentioned to anyone yet, Guv – I’ve only had it verbally – I heard just before close of play – and DI Smart had gone home.’
‘Better fire away, then.’ Skelgill casts about the table and then the bar room. ‘I think we can safely say this conversation’s off the record.’
‘About Bella Mandrake’s rejection letter – from Rich Buckley Publishing?’
Skelgill nods, though now he seems a little agitated.
‘Have you told Smart?’
In turn, DS Jones looks more concerned.
‘Er, no, Guv – I imagined you’d put it in your report – of your trip to Scotland?’
Skelgill forces an ironical grin. It would appear he is not intending to do DI Smart any unnecessary favours. Indeed, his sketchy initial draft contained little more than that Bella Mandrake was certainly a pen name for Jane Smith, and that Sarah Redmond had no intention of allying herself with Rich Buckley Publishing; but there was no mention, for instance, that the two women were not entirely unacquainted. The only cat that came out of the bag, so to speak, travelled back to Cumbria in his car.
‘Aye – maybe I did – you know what my memory can be like.’
DS Jones nods, a little relieved, though guardedly so, for the adjective applicable to his memory is selective.
‘Well – it gave me the idea to contact Constance Belgrave. I asked her to check whether the firm had rejected manuscripts from any of the other writers who went on the retreat. She said they didn’t keep records of rejections, but that if the author had sent a cheque to pay for return postage – recorded delivery – then they would have the Post Office receipt and an entry in their ledger.’
‘And?’ DS Jones has only paused for breath, but Skelgill is quick to chivvy her along.
‘Dr Bond, Guv – he had a manuscript rejected in February – nine months ago.’
Skelgill folds his arms.
‘Anyone else?’
DS Jones gives a little shake of the head.
‘No. No others. At least – as I say – not that there is a record of.’
Skelgill’s gaze wanders away from his companion and drifts about the low-ceilinged room, eventually coming to rest upon a dusty glass cabinet, one of several fixed against the opposite wall. It contains an ancient stuffed and faded Polecat, its facial mask barely distinguishable; it looks like it must have been frozen in its snarling pose for the best part of a century. Whether contemplating its life and times distracts him, or even that its weaselly countenance recalls his nemesis DI Alec Smart, it is impossible to know, but when Skelgill finally speaks it is evident that his thinking has moved on some.
‘You said Bella Mandrake was pestering Dr Bond for tablets?’
‘That’s right, Guv – maybe she upset him, too. I mean, what if he actually is crazy, Guv? DI Smart’s going round boasting that he’s caught the next Harold Shipman.’
‘It’s Smart that wants his head examined.’
Skelgill, however, looks determined that this should be the case, rather than absolutely confident that DI Smart is wrong. And the dark brown eyes of DS Jones, too, harbour a hint of doubt that Skelgill can be so sure.
‘We’ve not found anything at Dr Bond’s house, Guv.’ She seems to perk up in delivering this information. ‘I mean – by way of medicines that could have been switched at Grisholm Hall.’
Now, paradoxically, it is Skelgill that plays devil’s advocate.
‘Aye – but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave that sort of stuff lying around – especially after your first visit. That’d be long gone down the Eden.’
DS Jones nods.
‘I know, Guv – DS Leyton’s calling at his former practice in Appleby tomorrow – to find out if he still has connections or access there. He might easily have kept a set of keys.’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘As far as Smart’s theory goes, I still come back to motive. If Bond’s a nutcase, why not kill all of them?’
‘Perhaps he was planning that, Guv? Or at least as many as he could get away with. Imagine if he leaves a trail of apparently innocent deaths wherever he goes? Maybe there would have been more incidents – on this hiking trip he’s got planned?’
Skelgill looks doubtful and reaches for his beer. He could mention Dr Bond
’s forthright remark at Grisholm Hall – about his attending to corpses in various hotels in which he has lodged – or indeed that the good doctor was among the most insistent that he should not attempt the swim that might have saved the life of Bella Mandrake. But he does neither.
‘Jones – you’re starting to sound like Smart. Constance Belgrave is more likely to have tampered with Buckley’s medicine than Bond – and at least she has a motive, poor woman.’
Skelgill probably does not intend to sound severe, but now he rather glowers at DS Jones, and her elegant cheekbones appear to colour in the glow from the hearth. Her gaze becomes forlorn, and her full lips form the beginnings of a petulant pout. Skelgill, for once, seems to detect the impact of his mordancy; he reaches out, and with surprising gentleness brushes a knuckle against her cheek.
‘Cheer up, lass – it’s not over until the fat lady sings.’
DS Jones blinks and leans back in surprise and grins at this somewhat nonsensical remark. Then she nods in agreement, and seems to gain a new determination to support his cause.
‘Guv – another thing I’ve been looking at is all the emails the attendees at the retreat have forwarded to us – from the untraceable Wordsworth company.’
‘Aye?’
‘We’ve got them from everyone except Bella Mandrake and Rich Buckley – Constance Belgrave still can’t access his system, and she thinks he probably would have used a private email account, anyway. But the interesting thing is that they were sent on different dates. The earliest was to Sarah Redmond – by over a week. Then Angela Cutting and Dickie Lampray were contacted on the same day as one another – and after that it was another week before the novice authors received their applications.’
Skelgill does not react – in fact he glances rather impatiently towards the bar, as if he is wondering what has become of their food. Then, in a rather offhand manner, he turns his attention back to DS Jones.
‘So – what can you read into that?’
DS Jones is eager to supply an answer.
‘Well, remember, Guv – Dickie Lampray said he was surprised that Rich Buckley even went on the retreat? He said it couldn’t be for the money – and that it was more likely he was interested in Sarah Redmond, since she was supposedly looking at moving to a new publisher.’
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 23