A sleuth – even one knowing something of Skelgill’s character – might be challenged to explain how he has gone this long and far, a good fifteen-minute row back across the lake (followed by a considerable pause for thought), without eating the toast, drinking the tea, and trying out the professor’s prized Estonian lure, “Beebi Haug” (‘Baby Pike’).
The explanation lies in the notes. These comprise the concise – though expert – findings, analyses and musings of the professor, following on from as frank a debrief as Skelgill was able to provide prior to his departure yesterday lunchtime. The professor had few words upon handing them over, and instead left Skelgill to peruse them at his leisure – which he did the instant that Hans Sinisalu had left him apparently casting off from the little jetty. Now he takes up the page once more. It has three underlined sub-headings. The first two of these are, not unexpectedly, ‘Atropine’ and ‘Benzodiazepine’, but it is the third that has had most impact upon Skelgill. This is marked ‘Chloroform’.
After a short while Skelgill carefully folds up the sheet, tucks it into his shirt pocket, and fishes out his own notebook from his rucksack. He locates the page headed ‘Grisholm’ and removes the pencil from its band. Of the remaining five names he methodically crosses out two. Now he stares at the list – though his eyes become glazed and unblinking, and it is clear that his mind is drifting from his immediate environs. With the pencil held between his index and middle fingers, he begins gently to brush the tip of his left thumb across his lips. He has full lips for a man – together about the width of his thumb – but now he parts them slightly as his breathing becomes more audible. After perhaps half a minute he seems to become conscious of what he is doing, he blinks suddenly several times, and withdraws his hand from his mouth, an expression of alarm creasing his features. He raises the notebook – and, with less certainty, slowly crosses out two more names. Now there is just one left. He looks away, towards the island – and makes several blind attempts to replace the pencil in its holder – but then some afterthought must strike him, and he inscribes a question mark against the first name he crossed out yesterday morning. Now he jams the notebook back into his rucksack, and fumbles in his pocket for his mobile phone. Hurriedly he brings up a number, and watches the screen intently until the call is answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Jones – can you hear me?’
‘Sure, Guv.’
‘You’re really faint.’
‘I’m whispering, Guv – DI Smart’s just come into the canteen – he’s beside the counter with DS Leyton – he’ll want to know who I’m talking to.’
‘Tell him it’s your fiancé inviting you away for a romantic weekend.’
DS Jones is silent for a moment.
‘That would probably get me in even more trouble, Guv.’
‘Don’t worry – I’ll take the rap – but there’s a couple of things I want you to check – as soon as you get a minute on your own.’
‘They’re scheduled to interview Dr Bond again in a quarter of an hour.’
‘Have you got a pen?’
‘Just tell me quickly, Guv – he keeps glancing over. Better if I don’t write it down.’
Skelgill outlines his requests. As she feared, DS Jones is obliged to hang up before he can elaborate – but she insists she has the gist of what he seeks. Skelgill shrugs resignedly and returns his mobile to his shirt pocket. For the time being, machinations are out of his hands. But, thanks to his Baltic friends, he does have other distractions.
He inspects the Estonian lure, taking care not to snag himself on its evil-looking hooks. A barb in the hand is not worth two in the bush – in fact it means either an eye-watering DIY wrench with a pair of disgorging pliers, or complete abandonment and a trip to A&E at Carlisle General (not an easy drive, with a treble-hook embedded in one hand). The lure itself is a floating plug that dives to about ten feet when it is swiftly retrieved. It is designed as a replica of a small pike – not to scare off other species and leave the waters clear, but because big pike are cannibal. As the professor’s sagely coined phrase goes, “It takes a pike to catch a pike”.
Skelgill deftly replaces Harris with Beebi Haug. He wraps a piece of damp rag around the new lure, and, with all his might, tests the trace, knots and clips. If a big pike bites but gets away, he does not intend it to be with his friend’s prized lure in tow. Now he weighs the rod with its new rig. Beebi Haug is lighter than Harris and will require a more energetic cast. He rises, and widens his stance in preparation, meaning to put his back into the action. He eyes the striated wind lane that trails off the southern tip of Grisholm, a feature that concentrates food and attracts surface-feeding fish (which in turn attract bigger ones from below). But, just as he lifts the rod above his shoulder, at the edge of his vision a red kayak slides into view. Then he sees there is an entire matching school of them, their occupants wearing standard-issue yellow life-vests and red helmets and the whole ensemble recalling the Spanish flag. He lowers his rod and watches. They must be coming up the lake from a boat-hire business not far from the Sinisalus’ cottage; it does a good trade with a number of outward-bound centres dotted around the area. Skelgill counts eight craft – the leader is a male instructor, though it is hard to discern the other rowers’ ages at this distance – and then there is one additional laggard, a couple of hundred yards behind the main group, although its unisex paddler sports an all-black athletic outfit and the kayak is a bright apple-green, and may be unconnected – or perhaps a second instructor catching up.
Although they are a long way from interfering with his fishing (or he their paddling, come to that), it is not clear at the moment whether their trajectory will bring them between him and Grisholm, or if they will pass behind the islet, out of harm’s way. While he awaits the outcome, he turns his attention to the warming picnic thoughtfully provided by Annika Sinisalu. While he has with him, as ever, his trusty Kelly Kettle, it can be a bit of a faff, and in any event far from safe to start a fire aboard a wooden-hulled boat. Thus the simple convenience of a flask, especially one freshly made and piping hot, can win the day. Indeed the rich brown liquid steams in the chilly air as he pours. Then there is the toast – now cooled, but no matter – he can dip it in the tea. He unwraps the foil; there are four thick slices – his legendary appetite goes before him – made up in two rounds. He extracts the first of these and pokes a rather grimy finger between the slices to inspect its contents. There is a generous layer of a pale creamy substance. It looks rather like stiff lemon curd, though the smell appears to baffle him. He might guess at some obscure Estonian delicacy, made from the roe of zander – but when one is angling, it is difficult to smell much other than fish. Undeterred, he takes a substantial crunching bite, and then grins approvingly as he recognises the taste.
It is about halfway through the second round of toast that lightning strikes, although Skelgill looks like he has broken a tooth. Eating – especially alone – is one of those peculiar activities, requiring little conscious effort and yet quite absorbing, which can bring on a sort of reverie – a dwam, as the Scots call it. And in such a place, pennies are known to drop. Mid-mouthful, Skelgill stops chewing and regards with some wonder the remaining piece of bread and honey (for the mystery opaque filling is set honey). He turns it in his hand, staring as if he can’t quite believe what he is seeing. Of course, it is his mind’s eye at work here, and actually he can’t believe what he is thinking.
He sits upright and glances about. Perhaps switching into a more deliberative mode of reasoning, he recommences chewing, and swills down his mouthful with the half-capful of tea that remains. But he replaces the unfinished portion of toast in its wrapper, and carefully folds over the crinkled foil, as if to preserve some valuable evidence. It is clear his thoughts are racing – and his pulse, too, if his quickened breathing is anything to go by. His eyes dart about his surroundings – with no particular purpose, it would seem – until his attention is drawn once again by the kayaks. Wit
hout him being particularly aware, they have in fact passed behind Grisholm, and now, one after the other, they are beginning to appear beyond its northerly point. It takes under a minute for all eight red craft to emerge into view, and the mini armada paddles away on a course parallel to the shore of the lake. But now he continues to watch – not the flotilla, so much, but the tip of Grisholm. He watches... and he watches. Another minute passes... and then another. And then Skelgill reaches for his oars.
*
Skelgill’s boat noses silently into the boathouse. He berths it alongside the apple-green kayak. He jumps out over the bow dragging a steel chain. This is fastened by a staple driven into the gunwale, and serves as an anti-theft device when the need arises. He slips the chain through a rusted iron mooring ring, and padlocks the loose end to the staple. He pats his breast pocket to confirm the presence of his mobile. Then he slings his rucksack on one shoulder and clambers out lugging his oars. He hides all three items in the thicket of rhododendrons at the back of the boathouse. Then he re-enters and unties the kayak, drags it to the end of the jetty, and pushes it out into the lake. It slides beyond the rocks at the entrance to the little harbour, and he watches until it begins to drift away. Then he sets off at a jog along the woodland path.
In its secluded clearing Grisholm Hall appears as silent and deserted as ever. Taking in this scene, Skelgill dwells beneath the sweeping branches of a Western Hemlock, one of the non-natives that provide the evergreen screen around the property. After a couple of seconds he breaks cover and makes a dash for the front door. He manhandles the large brass latch, and winces as it sends a hollow ring into the hall beyond. But the door is locked. Now he retraces his route of yesterday, keeping close to the building and ducking under each window that he passes. Reaching the courtyard, and treading softly on the mossy paving, he quickly tries the doors: that of the kitchen, and the two fire exits – but all three are firmly closed, and either locked or fastened from the inside. He stands, arms akimbo, and casts about, biting the side of his mouth.
The low autumn sun is angling across the courtyard, illuminating the first-floor corridor windows of what had been the ‘Women’s Wing’ during the retreat. As Skelgill glances up something moves across the nearest window to the angle of the building. It is little more than a dark shape – but it can only be the top of a head covered by a black hat or hood. From Skelgill’s position beside the kitchen door, he cannot see how far the intruder continues along the passage. But immediately he makes up his mind to enter the property. As before, he scrambles onto the windowsill – more nimbly without the extra effort required to counterbalance his heavy rucksack. He yanks down the upper sash – again it squeals a protest – to him it must sound like an air-raid warning siren – and he holds his breath and listens intently for a few seconds. But the kitchen is a good way from the bedroom wing, and there are potentially several closed doors between it and any eavesdropper. He determines that all is clear and clambers through the opening – this time taking care to land softly. His rubber-soled boots can be sneaky when needs must, and he silently crosses the flagstones all the way to the foot of the main staircase. From here there is worn carpet, although progress still requires care, as creaky risers threaten to betray his presence. On the central landing the doors of the four ‘VIP’ suites are all shut; but Skelgill makes directly for the interconnecting door that leads to the ‘Women’s Wing’. This has no catch – it merely swings on hinges and is returned to its position by means of a hydraulic closer. Just as he begins to pull it open there is a distinct sound from beyond – perhaps the hollow clunk of another door closing.
Cautiously he enters the corridor. Bright rectangles of sun spotlight each of the three bedroom doors – and all three here are shut, too. The sound, however, seemed to emanate from the far end of the corridor. Skelgill tiptoes along to the furthest door. This was the chamber allocated to Lucy Hecate. He pauses outside, leaning against the jamb and straining to listen, grimacing and breathing through bared teeth. After a couple of seconds he turns the handle – it squeaks alarmingly – and wrenches open the door. But the room is empty. He enters and quickly checks the en suite – but finds the same result. There is no obvious sign of disturbance, and he leaves the room and re-closes the door behind him. Then he pauses and looks broodingly at the narrow staircase that leads down to the fire exit. His next decision, however, is to investigate the remaining bedrooms. Using the same stealthy method, he works his way back along the passage, onto the landing, and into the ‘Men’s Wing’, successively finding empty the rooms formerly occupied by Linda Gray, Bella Mandrake, Sarah Redmond, Angela Cutting, Rich Buckley, Dickie Lampray, Dr Gerald Bond, Burt Boston and – finally – himself.
In this latter room he pauses in the centre of the carpet and brings his hands up to his face, covering his mouth, with his fingertips touching the tip of his nose, in a kind of praying posture. He begins to rotate on the spot, and finds himself staring back at the door, and the small occasional table on which stands the candlestick. The empty candlestick. With a sudden realisation he homes in on this and strides across, snatches it up, and stares at it with alarm. Then he replaces it and turns to face the room. After a moment’s consideration he rounds the bed and strides across to the window. The sun streams in here too and makes him squint. But in a second his eyes have widened. Down below, bordering the outside wall of this wing is an overgrown ornamental shrubbery – now an unkempt mix of dwarf conifers and azaleas and deciduous varieties of cinquefoils and St John’s worts that have already dropped most of their leaves. And in their midst, bent over and obviously searching for something amongst the thick mulch, is the black-clad canoeist. The anonymous figure even wears black gloves and a black balaclava – of which Skelgill caught a glimpse. And the click of the door must have been, not a bedroom, but the closing of the fire escape as the intruder left the building.
Acting upon impulse – perhaps unwisely – Skelgill yanks up the bottom sash of the window. The resultant screech instantly alerts the individual below, who immediately turns and runs, raising their gloved hands to conceal what little of their face is visible.
‘Stop right there – police!’
Skelgill’s hollered entreaty is in vain. The person pays no heed and disappears from sight, darting first to the wall of the building, where there is a narrow shingle path, and then sprinting in the direction of the front of the house. Skelgill now has a decision to make. His quickest exit is via the fire escape at the foot of the stair outside his bedroom – provided it is operational – but this will bring him out on the wrong side of the wing. The kitchen window is further still, and will only deliver the same result – egress into the courtyard. Meanwhile a locked mortise renders the great front door impregnable.
Eschewing these options he rolls out onto the windowsill. To one side is the downpipe from the en suite bathroom. He lurches at this and just manages to get a grip with both hands. His legs follow and he swings into an improvised abseil brace position. Flakes of black paint and rust splinter from the pipe, and its brackets grumble alarmingly, but he doesn’t hang about to test their stamina – he shins down like a native coconut harvester who has just met a giant python, and opts to jump the last six feet. He lands on his toes, but his outward momentum causes him to perform a backward roll into a Juniper bush. Perhaps propelled by its unforgiving foliage, he pounds in pursuit of his quarry.
The winding path to the boathouse is clear, although there are skid marks and ruts in the damp earth where the runner ahead of him took corners at speed. Arriving at the shore he finds the little harbour deserted, and for a moment his eyes flash with alarm and he scans the water – as if to confirm that the fugitive has not decided to swim for freedom. But then he hears a movement from within the boathouse. He is breathing hard, but he inhales deeply and gathers himself as if in readiness for the confrontation that awaits. But then there is a second sound – a voice – more of a sob, in fact. And he relaxes. For a moment he half-turns and gazes med
itatively across the lake, and ruefully shakes his head – as if what he is about to do troubles him. He lets out the great breath as a kind of sigh and, rather like an automaton, he walks slowly to the boathouse, and steps across the threshold.
‘You didn’t find your scarf, then, Lucy.’
19. GRISHOLM – Friday 12 noon
By the time DS Leyton and DS Jones arrive with keys for Grisholm Hall, and a back-up team of constables and scene-of-crime officers, Skelgill and Lucy Hecate regard one another calmly from opposite sofas in the drawing room, beside a roaring log fire. The Kelly Kettle stands upon the stone hearth, and they each have an enamel mug of tea before them on the low table. It is of the builders’ variety rather than Earl Grey, and Skelgill’s third cup. Not surprisingly, therefore, he is relieved in more ways than one when a pair of WPCs arrives to assume responsibility for his charge. Solemn as ever, her pale cheeks streaked with the stains of what must be tears, Lucy Hecate casts one last mournful glance at Skelgill, and is led away. Skelgill smiles grimly. There is no sign of triumph in his eyes, and he excuses himself a moment later.
When he returns, he brings a jug of water and two mugs borrowed from the kitchen. And he seems to have perked up. He gestures to his sergeants to make themselves comfortable, and busies himself with recharging his contraption. As he rather audaciously steals embers from the grate, using his fingers as tongs, his somewhat bemused colleagues begin to offer items of news.
The first of these – that DI Smart has declined to accompany them, being determined to extract a confession out of Dr Gerald Bond, along the lines that he was a co-conspirator – raises a hysterical laugh from Skelgill. Indeed, from his kneeling position by the fire, he performs a truncated goal-scoring celebration.
The second is that DS Leyton has heard from the bank that handles the land agent’s account. The cheque that was submitted as a deposit for the hire of Grisholm Hall has surfaced – marked ‘refer to drawer’ – and an investigation has revealed that it was written from a chequebook last properly used a month earlier in a small independent pharmacy in Covent Garden, and subsequently ‘misplaced’ by its unwitting owner. The eyes of the three detectives meet as DS Leyton utters the word pharmacy – albeit Skelgill’s demeanour suggests this is not entirely news to him.
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 25