‘So, Bella Mandrake, Guv – what do you think really happened?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Maybe Lucy will tell us in time. She could have switched the strong tablets for something Bella was taking anyway – or maybe dissolved them into her bedtime water. Then she sneaked back later and left the empty packet of the standard pills for us to find.’ He pauses for a moment and leans back against the sofa. ‘And you have to consider – if Bella didn’t suspect any particular person, Lucy might have popped along to her room and offered her something that would help her sleep – Bella was drunk, remember. If she mixed them with a drink she could conceal a fatal dose. I don’t doubt Bella was the gullible sort – and quiet little Lucy’s probably the last person you’d put money on in a game of Cluedo.’
DS Jones now looks reflectively at her superior.
‘Do you think she will plead guilty, Guv?’
Skelgill stares into the fire. The wood is burning down, there are fewer flames, and glowing embers nestle amongst a bed of white ash. A log slips and sends a little burst of sparks rushing up the chimney, a spirit escaping. He has been holding his breath while he considers this question, and now he sighs quietly. His response, when it comes, is somewhat obtuse – almost the answer to a different query, and one reflecting his torn frame of mind.
‘Look – I shouldn’t say it – Buckley probably got what he deserved. But killing Bella Mandrake?’ Skelgill shakes his head. ‘It’s like going out deer-stalking and shooting a sheep.’
20. BEEBI HAUG – Friday 4 p.m.
The day has remained clear and bright and, although the sun has set on Grisholm, its rays still illuminate Derwentwater’s eastern shoreline and the fells beyond. The breeze has dropped, and the water is calm, as Skelgill dabs his oars and guides his craft out of the boathouse and into the sharpening air of the premature dusk. He sits on the centre thwart, facing DS Jones in the stern. It is time to return his boat to Bassenthwaite Lake, and she has agreed to accompany him to where his car and trailer await, to lend a helping hand on the slipway.
Skelgill appears pensive, as he has been on and off since the arrival of his colleagues. It seems the experience of arresting Lucy Hecate has left him with an uncomfortable wound. Sensing this, in making conversation, DS Jones opts for a lighter subject.
‘DS Leyton tells me you’ve got a cat, Guv?’
Skelgill makes a tutting sound.
‘Just temporary – I plan to repatriate it to Scotland.’
This statement does not sound very convincing, and DS Jones grins encouragingly.
‘It’ll be company for Cleopatra, Guv.’
Skelgill harrumphs.
‘They haven’t met yet – the dog’s lodging with Sammy the Wolf this week.’
‘Has it got a name?’
‘I don’t even know if it’s a he or a she.’
‘How about Anthony, Guv?’
‘Very witty, Jones.’
DS Jones smiles.
‘Well, at least cats look after themselves, Guv.’
Skelgill nods.
‘Aye – if push comes to shove, maybe. This one wants tinned food, though. Last night I arrived back to three voles and a shrew lined up on the step.’
‘That’s its way of saying thank you, Guv.’
Skelgill shakes his head ruefully.
‘Thing is – pets are all very well – good company and so on – but they cost a fortune. Vet’s bills, kennelling, dog-walking and whatnot. Can you believe, some folk even pay for insurance?’
DS Jones nods sympathetically.
‘What are you going to do about the bet, Guv?’
Skelgill scowls, as though he does not wish to be reminded of it. Restored though his professional pride must be – to have solved the case and proved wrong his doubters – there is a surely a part of him that resents the forfeiture of half a day’s fishing, and its corollary in financial terms. His reply is terse.
‘Lose it.’
DS Jones frowns – she seems reluctant to see him give in.
‘There’s still time, Guv – when does the bet end?’
Skelgill is beginning to put his back into his strokes, now that they have cleared the harbour and are running up beside Grisholm’s wooded banks. He cocks his head in lieu of an indifferent shrug.
‘Midnight.’
‘I don’t mind staying out with you, Guv – if there’s something I can wear to keep warm?’
Skelgill glowers disapprovingly.
‘Jones – I’ve been out since six – I’ve tried everything.’
This, of course, is not strictly true. He was rudely interrupted by his subconscious, only minutes before he was about to test out the professor’s loaned lure. And now his eyes fall upon the said Beebi Haug, which lies still attached to its trace, among the rods that are laid along the bottom boards, two on either side of the boat. Following his gaze, and perhaps reading the germ of thought that must take root in his mind, DS Jones makes a suggestion.
‘I could fish, Guv – at least while you row back?’
Skelgill looks uncomfortable.
‘It’s not an approved method.’
DS Jones grins – she thinks he must be joking – that perhaps this must be a macho preserve, or something similar.
‘Why not, Guv?’
‘Trolling – that’s what it would be – dragging a lure along behind the boat – that’s not fishing – where’s the skill in that?’
Now DS Jones smiles endearingly.
‘Guv – it would be skill if I were doing it.’
Skelgill grits his teeth and grimaces as he pulls harder at the oars, fighting the urge to have one last dip at the challenge. Then he relents and stops rowing for a moment. He reaches down and slides his spinning rod out from beneath the thwarts. He flicks over the bail arm and tosses the lure past DS Jones into the water at the stern. Then he hands her the rod.
‘Here. Let that run out, while I row for a bit. Don’t want it too near the boat. Sit sideways.’
DS Jones does as ordered, and watches the line issue unchecked from the reel with each of his strokes. Skelgill is watching the water beyond the stern, and after half a minute he angles the boat through about fifteen degrees, perhaps so that the lure is no longer running in the wake. DS Jones, still staring at the emptying spool, suddenly makes a sharp intake of breath.
‘Guv – should it be going this fast?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look, Guv.’
She rotates at the waist and brings the rod round so he can get a better view. The line is streaming off, no longer forming loose loops as it goes, but straight and almost taut. In Skelgill’s eyes, there appears a tiny spark of hope.
‘Turn the reel.’
‘What?’
‘Turn the reel!’
His barked command prompts her to act. She winds over the reel and re-engages the bail arm. A second later the rod is almost jerked from her grip, and it bends like a willow as an invisible force threatens to drag her over the stern.
‘Guv!’
Her screamed entreaty must carry all the way to Keswick, but acting on what can only be instinct, pluckily she hangs on with both hands and drops to her knees on the floor of the boat so that she can brace against the transom. Skelgill has stopped rowing. For a moment he is transfixed. For there, no great distance away, a monster pike – a good thirty pounds – tail-dances on the water. And then he steps into the breach.
Releasing the oars he lurches forward and, not standing on ceremony, wrenches the rod from DS Jones. Then in one smooth sweeping movement, he stretches upright and strikes to ensure that the hooks are engaged. Feeling the full weight of the fish, the anxiety in his features dissolves into an expression of elation. As he enters the fray, he rocks and sways like the conductor of an orchestra, lost in the moment, engulfed by the maelstrom, fulfilled in employing the skills he has honed during a lifetime’s dedication to his craft. While he is thus spiritually adrift, DS Jones con
trives to crawl past him and take up the oars – and she seems to know to hold the boat steady, just a gentle movement against the direction of play. Within a minute or two Skelgill begins to make progress, and gradually wins back line onto the reel. It will not be too long before the magnificent creature – albeit temporarily – comes aboard to be photographed. His eyes flaming, his hair streaming, grimacing like a deranged Mongol warrior on horseback, Skelgill glances jubilantly over his shoulder at his companion. He calls out to her, loudly, as if a storm is raging about them.
‘Jones – what do you know about Tallinn?’
‘Isn’t that Estonia, Guv?’
‘Aye. It is.’
***
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 27