Bruce Beckham
__________
Murder on the Lake
A detective novel
LUCiUS
Text copyright 2015 Bruce Beckham
All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2015
CreateSpace edition first published by Lucius 2015
For more details and Rights enquiries contact:
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EDITOR’S NOTE
Murder on the Lake is a stand-alone whodunit, the fourth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. Chronologically, its events take place a few months after those described in Murder on the Edge. It is set primarily in the English Lake District, with scenes in London and the Scottish capital, Edinburgh.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Murder in Adland
Murder in School
Murder on the Edge
(Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)
Murder Mystery Collection
The Dune
The Sexopaths
CONTENTS
1. DERWENTWATER – Sunday evening, late October
2. THE PIER – Sunday 6pm
3. DINNER & AFTER – Sunday 8:30pm
4. GRISHOLM – Monday 7:30am
5. DR HERDWICK’S REPORT – Monday 2:30pm
6. TRAIN TO LONDON – Monday 5pm
7. DICKIE LAMPRAY – Tuesday 9:30am
8. RBP LIMITED – Tuesday 11am
9. ANGELA CUTTING – Tuesday 1pm
10. LUCY HECATE – Tuesday 3pm
11. NEWS OF BURT BOSTON – Tuesday 5pm
12. DS LEYTON’S FINDINGS – Tuesday 6pm
13. Ms J SMITH – Wednesday 8am
14. SARAH REDMOND – Wednesday 11am
15. POLICE HQ – Wednesday 4pm
16. THE TOXICOLOGIST – Thursday 10am
17. THE YAT – Thursday 9pm
18. DERWENTWATER – Friday 8am
19. GRISHOLM – Friday 12 noon
20. BEEBI HAUG – Friday 4pm
1. DERWENTWATER – Sunday evening, late October
It might be surmised that Daniel Skelgill is never happier than when he crouches alone, afloat, alert; a trusty rod gripped in the left hand, an oar deftly manoeuvred in the right; another epic piscine battle about to augment his inventory of pike-infested pub tales. Yet the casual observer would not think so to look at him. At this moment of truth – when defeat may be plucked from the fishy jaws of victory – he appears anything but content. In this instant when intuition usurps rational evaluation, when instinct and experience come together in an artful display of predation – a lupine anticipation takes possession of his demeanour. He is a man transfixed. His pale eyes are narrowed to slits. His lips are drawn back over his teeth. A fearsome grimace grips his features. Indeed he might barely recognise himself – a photograph taken now surely challenging even his indifferent narcissism. He stalks his quarry like a half-starved wolf, hostage to adrenaline that – in the event of failure – will abandon him, hollow with loss. Such stakes perhaps explain the lack of obvious joy – even in the event of triumph, when the stampede of his heartbeat is all consuming.
But on this particular October Sunday evening Skelgill has more reasons to be cheerless. An autumn gale – long forecast but promised for the early hours – has swept prematurely across England’s western seaboard and is making of Derwentwater a storm-tossed Irish Sea in miniature. White horses threaten to breach the bow. Seeking refuge in the lee of Grisholm – an uninhabited wooded islet whence browning leaves of ancient oaks stream like migrating birds against the lowering sky – Skelgill wrestles his small bobbing craft into calmer but still choppy waters. He casts about for a likely spot to fish – but darkness advances and he ought to call it a day. Soaked to the skin and not a little hypothermic, only bloody mindedness now drives him on – he has an appointment with a pint and a fishless blank will spoil his chat.
But if it is a yarn he craves, then perhaps all is not lost. As his boat is drawn shoreward by the refracted waves that embrace the isle, a movement attracts his attention. In the gloom, a pale shape weaves amongst the bankside trees. It is the slim figure of a woman, almost ghostlike. The roar of the wind in the canopy drowns out any sound she makes. She has long fair hair, plastered down by the rain; around her is drawn a fawn mackintosh that reaches her ankles. As she picks her way towards him she stumbles on the uneven ground, and clutches protectively at her midriff. Then suddenly she glances across the water, as if she senses that she is being watched. For a few seconds they exchange curious stares, each squinting into the dusk, like the meeting of an explorer and a savage (in appearance, Skelgill fulfilling the role of the latter). The boat washes closer, and at about twenty feet of separation the woman breaks her silence.
‘We need help.’
Though she calls out, her voice is weak and tremulous.
‘What’s wrong?’
Skelgill has no such trouble in projecting his reply.
Still clutching one hand to her stomach, with the other she wipes beads of rain and strands of hair from her face.
‘Somebody has died – we have no means of communication.’
Skelgill pushes closer to the bank, but there is an empty clunk as the hull strikes a rock and he is forced to reverse.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘It’s a writers’ retreat – at Grisholm Hall – there are nine of us. Eight.’
Skelgill evidently decides he has heard enough. Energetically he begins to row away from the shallows. He calls out, not looking at the woman.
‘I can’t get ashore here – meet me round at the landing stage – you know where that is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Five minutes max.’
The woman nods and turns and disappears into the darkness beneath the trees. Grisholm is a small oval island, barely half a mile at its widest, with its long axis oriented north to south. The landing stage is located on the west bank, diametrically opposite his present position. Skelgill must battle the breakers that surge around either headland – he sets his course in a clockwise direction, to take advantage of the south-westerly once he rounds the point. Spray and spume and precipitation soak him anew, but he bends his back to the task and reaches his destination in more or less the predicted time. The woman is waiting for him, shielding her eyes from the rain with a deckhand’s salute.
Skelgill pulls in his oars and allows the swell to sweep the boat up against the wooden jetty. The woman watches as he leans over the bow and makes fast the painter around a sturdy upright. Then he hauls himself onto the greasy planks and stands beside her, panting from his exertion. He regards her with some surprise – she is small in stature – barely over five feet – and young, too, a girl really: early twenties if her elfin appearance is not misleading. Her skin is fair and – framed by the inverted ‘v’ of her hair – her features are indistinct in the gloom. He notices that she is shivering.
‘You alright, lass?’
‘I’m cold – that’s all. I thought it worth looking for a boat – before it became too dark.’
She is well spoken, her accent privately educated. She seems q
uite calm, though her demeanour is rather solemn.
‘Well, you were right.’
She does not respond, as if she is waiting for Skelgill to take the initiative.
‘I’m Dan, by the way.’
Stiffly she offers a hand in a formal manner, and does not reciprocate his grip.
‘Lucy.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘They’re at the house. The majority think we should wait until the morning. Until the storm has died down.’
Skelgill adjusts his Tilley hat, pulling it more firmly into position.
‘That might be a long wait – this is one of the deepest lows on record.’
The girl looks at him rather blankly, as though meteorology was not included on her finishing school curriculum.
‘We should get you inside. Let’s head up to the hall and see what’s what.’
Skelgill is familiar with their immediate geography. Grisholm Hall, a rather austere Victorian edifice at the centre of the eponymous isle, lies chronically vacant and shuttered, a situation that has persisted for the best part of half a century. With no caretaker in residence, the peeling and tilted ‘Trespassers will be Prosecuted’ signs nailed around the perimeter held little fear for him and his fellow adventurers, who spent many an illicit hour here in their teenage years. From the mooring a winding footpath climbs through dense woodland to a highpoint, where the property rests in a clearing of lush mossy lawn, though entirely hidden from the lake year-round by a judiciously planted inner ring of conifers. It is necessary to climb one of the fells surrounding lower Derwentwater to discover this hidden mansion from afar.
The girl seems accepting of Skelgill’s local knowledge. She walks silently, half a pace behind him. As they move away from the shoreline, rhododendrons close in to banish the wind at ground level. Skelgill tries his hand at making conversation.
‘I thought writers were all old wrinklies.’
The girl might be expected to reply to this clumsy compliment with some degree of energy, but her considered answer is rather perfunctory in its delivery.
‘Agatha Christie wrote her first novel in her twenties.’
‘Shows what I know.’ Skelgill tilts his head in a gesture of bafflement. ‘Not really my bag, fiction.’
A few more moments of silence pass before the girl responds, more casually now.
‘What do you like?’
‘Well – fishing, believe it or not.’ Skelgill hesitates, perhaps weighing the pros and cons of revealing his official vocation. ‘Fell running. Real ale. But in my day job I’m a police officer.’
He glances back at the girl, but it is too dark beneath the trees to gauge any reaction. She appears to be concentrating on her progress, as the path takes a sudden upward bound. So Skelgill chimes in again.
‘You might say you struck lucky.’ He lifts his hat and scratches his head absently. ‘Although my boss would probably disagree.’
She treats this self-deprecating remark with the same detachment as his observation about her youth; but perhaps she is just overawed by his seniority. They emerge upon the edge of the lawn, and she quickens her pace and moves ahead of him. Before them looms the imposing form of Grisholm Hall. It is a substantial construction, though not one that is especially easy upon the eye, even with the benefit of daylight. In the advancing darkness the main impression is of unplanned asymmetry, with wing-like structures added on either side of the original house, and numerous dormers and chimney stacks protruding erratically from the roof. There are just-discernable bay windows in both of the main storeys, and an offset porch reached by a broad flight of stone steps. Perhaps the most salient feature, under the circumstances, is the virtual absence of artificial light, either illuminating the route of access, or emanating from within the building itself. The only sound above the wind is the irregular spatter of rainwater escaping from a blocked gutter. The castaway would be excused for thinking there is no one at home.
The girl, Lucy, might not be forthcoming with chatter, but now she leads the way nimbly up to the darkened entrance. She has to lean upon the heavy timbered door, which admits them with a creak of hinges into a stone-flagged hallway, dimly lit and – the noise of the storm now excluded – filled with the steady background hiss of gas lamps – the explanation no doubt for the lack of external lighting: the island has no mains electricity.
Skelgill hesitates for a second and glances down at his sodden walking boots – but they are washed clean as such and the girl is already entering a room at the end of the hall, through one of a pair of double doors. There is the murmur of voices from within, and, as he hurries to catch her up, she makes an announcement to those persons as yet out of his sight.
‘The police are here.’
Removing his hat, Skelgill enters the now-silent room to be greeted by half a dozen or so inquisitive faces that have abandoned their conversations to look his way. Despite its size the drawing room is cosy and welcoming, its subdued gas lighting bringing out the best of its autumn colour scheme. The members of the party are seated upon a trio of sprawling country house style sofas set around a broad slate hearth, where a log fire smokes in the grate.
If Skelgill were able to adopt a fly-on-the-wall perspective, he might be persuaded that, in the bemused stares directed his way, there is an element of collective anticipation along the lines that someone else is yet to enter the room. This notion is perhaps confirmed by the first person to break the silence, a somewhat nondescript middle-aged man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, who sits closest to the fire, and who is mainly distinctive for sporting an extravagant spotted bow tie and a public school accent.
‘You couldn’t look less like the police, if you don’t mind my saying so, old boy.’
Skelgill fixes the man with a polite but steely glare.
‘Wouldn’t you say, sir – in my profession that might just be an advantage?’
The man does not appear disconcerted by Skelgill’s challenging tone.
‘You mean you are a plain clothes officer?’
‘DI Skelgill, Cumbria CID.’
The girl Lucy takes half a step forward. She begins to unfasten the oversized mackintosh, which, on reflection, she must have borrowed.
‘He was fishing – it’s a Sunday, after all.’
This little intervention seems to break the ice, and several of the group now rise to their feet, and begin to approach the new arrivals. They all try to ask questions simultaneously, but one woman – a rather voluptuous brunette who might, beneath her extensive make up, be around the forty mark – reaches Skelgill first, and fastens on to his upper arm with both hands. Rather swooningly, in the exaggerated fashion of a player in a silent movie, she begins to regale him with her concerns (in summary, along the lines of having to sleep in the equivalent of a mortuary), and apparently to wreathe him – if his reaction is anything to go by – in the coils of her heady perfume. Not to be outdone by this possessive display, a general clamour breaks out from the remainder of the crowd, who begin to bombard him with more requests and opinions. Skelgill backs away – brunette attached – holding up his free hand in protest.
‘Ladies, gentlemen – please!’
He evidently looks suitably disconcerted, for the petitioners seem to realise they have overdone their advances and fall silent, temporarily at least. Into this hiatus, the man who first spoke interjects.
‘Why don’t I explain the background to the Inspector – then if there are any outstanding issues we can take it in turns? The poor chap hasn’t even got his coat off and we’re haranguing him half to death.’
There is one disapproving cough, but that may be aimed at the man’s unfortunate choice of words – otherwise the company falls in with this request, and even the ardent brunette detaches herself from Skelgill with a sheepish flutter of her surely false eyelashes.
The man with the bow tie seems to carry authority. While Skelgill removes his rain-soaked Barbour and zips off his leggings, and drapes them over the back
of an antique Windsor chair, he returns to his place and raises a glass from the low table before the fire.
‘Why doesn’t someone get the officer a drink – what’s your poison, Inspector?’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow.
‘Perhaps a hot chocolate would do the trick, if you have such a thing.’
‘Can’t we tempt you with something a little stronger – or are you considered to be on duty?’
Skelgill is again scrutinising his boots, perhaps contemplating whether to remove them. He seems to conclude in the negative, and clumps across to a vacant position beside the fire, opposite the man.
‘On and off duty tends to be a bit of a grey area in this part of the world, sir. I generally play it safe – never know when I might have to get behind a wheel to reach an emergency.’
Skelgill sinks into the comfort of the settee. Another woman, a brunette whose hair is streaked with grey, perhaps in her mid-forties and plainer in looks and dress than the others present, approaches the end of the table.
‘Do you have any special requests for your hot chocolate, Inspector? We’ve got skimmed, semi-skimmed and whole milk – long life, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh – just the full-fat for me, madam – and three sugars.’
The woman smiles convivially.
‘Shan’t be two ticks, Inspector.’
As the group settles down and order returns, Skelgill inspects the fire with a critical eye. The logs have been arranged laterally, like a stack stored for seasoning; they are crowding one another out, damping down the airflow. It is clear from his reaction that he can see this build deficiency, and that he has to restrain himself from taking up the long cast-iron poker and tongs in order to improve its function. The man in the bow tie clears his throat and reaches across the expansive coffee table with an outstretched hand.
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 1
