Now, as he suddenly comes upon the jetty, he must realise, however, that the debate’s outcome is academic: for his boat is gone.
Though it might be dark – albeit less intensively so than beneath the woodland canopy – there is sufficient contrast between the various shades of charcoal for him to discern its absence. In any event, he would expect to hear the gunwale grating against the timbers of the small pier, as the craft is rocked by the heavy swell. He approaches the sturdy upright mooring post and, on bended knee, slides his hands down its circumference, feeling for the painter. There is no trace of the rope.
He rises and stares into the blackness of the gale that rages across the lake. Wind and rain lash his features, but he ignores any discomfort, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. Perhaps he is replaying in his mind the moment he tied up the boat, under the watchful eye of the silent girl: she may be able to corroborate his version of the knots. Or maybe he is considering the limited range of scenarios, one of which must have occurred during his absence. The jetty faces due west, and the storm is blowing up from the south west. Had the boat somehow become free of its own accord, it ought still to be pressed into the little rocky inlet, either against the pontoon or even to have been driven into the ramshackle boathouse at the foot of the pier. At the very worst it might have been sunk on the spot by the wash. If so, his dry-bag may be recoverable.
Cautiously he makes his way back along the slippery boards, and passes into the pitch-black entrance of the boathouse. The clean splash of the waves tells him it is vacant, as it had been on his arrival. He begins to feel his way along the rough planks of the adjacent wall. He dislodges a polystyrene lifebelt from a bracket – carefully he weighs it for efficacy. Slowly, he moves on – and then lets out a little grunt of satisfaction. He has found what he seeks: a wooden boat hook, damp and slimy and somewhat warped, but about ten feet long.
Now, like a gondolier trying to divine a safe course, he begins to prod into the water, methodically covering the surface as far out as he can reach, beginning in the boathouse, and gradually working his way along the jetty. But he draws a blank – all he encounters is the jarring rocky bottom and, in places, yielding patches of mud. The depth ranges from about three feet inside the boathouse, to perhaps six or seven feet off the end of the pier. He does not attempt to replace the long pole upon its fixings, but instead slides it inside the boathouse, against the near wall.
A little more purposefully, he returns to the very end of the pier. There is a second mooring post here, cut off at about waist height. He places the heels of his hands upon it, and leans over the water, like a forlorn figurehead adorning the skeleton of a wrecked ship. While there is little to see, he seems to be listening to the rush of the tempest. He knows the lie of the land, the curvature of the island’s shoreline beyond the inlet. It would just take one good push to propel a small boat past the little point, whence it would be picked up by the wind and surface current and be carried into the open reaches of Derwentwater, perhaps to sink, perhaps to come to rest on some distant shore.
Of course, a simpler explanation is that someone rowed it away.
*
‘Gone – it can’t be gone!’
‘I’m afraid so, madam.’
‘What about your mobile phone, Inspector?’
‘I’m afraid that’s gone, too.’
‘But how?’
Skelgill shrugs his shoulders. There are dark patches around the collar bones of his jacket, where the wax proofing needs to be restored and water has soaked through. Methodically he begins to unfasten the brass press-studs, biting one side of his lower lip as he does so.
‘That’s what I’d like to know, madam.’
The woman, Angela Cutting, stares accusingly at Skelgill as though she suspects him of some subterfuge. Yet she herself poses conspiratorially beside a rather dumbstruck Dickie Lampray, who is in his original position beside the hearth. They are the only two persons remaining in the drawing room, caught in confab by Skelgill upon his somewhat ignominious return. Skelgill runs his hands restlessly through his damp hair.
‘Is everyone still here?’
Blinking, Dickie Lampray rapidly shakes his head in the fashion of someone recovering from an unexpected clip around the ear. He sits forward and straightens his bow tie, as if this act will restore his powers of speech.
‘I believe some of them are packing, Inspector.’ He rises mechanically to his feet. ‘I’ll go and round them up, shall, I?’
Skelgill nods.
‘I think – just to be on the safe side – we should do a roll call, sir.’
Dickie Lampray squeezes past Angela Cutting, patting her lightly at the top of one arm, in a reassuring gesture. Rather short in stature, and plump around the midriff, he has a queer gait, and leaves the room with a series of small steps that seem to articulate at the knees. For a moment or two there is an awkward silence, but then the woman’s severe demeanour seems to soften, and she leans back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, causing her midnight-blue satin pencil skirt to strain against her sheer stockinged thigh.
‘Why don’t you reclaim your place, Inspector?’ She gestures regally to the position more or less opposite her, where Skelgill sat earlier. ‘This fire gives out so little heat, you ought to take priority, since you are the one who has been braving the elements.’
Skelgill, under close scrutiny, has now finished removing his outer garments for a second time. He raises a quizzical eyebrow, but nonetheless, he complies with her suggestion.
‘Don’t worry, madam – that’s top of my list to sort out.’
Indeed, he reaches for the heavy poker, and with a couple of heaves he separates the logs, skilfully racking them into a more open lattice. Immediately, the fire responds – first with a rather ominous billowing of smoke, but then with a sudden burst of bright orange flame. The woman claps her hands together gleefully, and slides sideways to be closer to the grate. Her dark eyes glint as they reflect the growing blaze.
‘What a relief to have a man about the house.’
She says this rather musingly. Skelgill seems unprepared for the compliment.
‘I thought your Mr Boston was a Special Forces trooper, madam?’
She seems entranced by the by the flames that lick and leap about the woodpile, but now she flashes him a dismissive sideways glance. Her response, however, is somewhat oblique.
‘I haven’t felt properly warm since we arrived here on Thursday.’
‘It has been rather autumnal, madam.’
Now she considers him more resolutely.
‘You are allowed to call me by my name... Inspector.’ She smirks as she emphasises the enunciation of his title. ‘To my friends I’m Ange.’
Skelgill hesitates; he seems unsure of how to respond to the woman’s self-confident manner.
‘Sorry, madam – er, Ange – it can be tricky when there’s a whole crowd of new people and I’ve not quite taken in their names.’ He pulls at the knees of his jeans as if to restore non-existent creases. ‘Plus I get the feeling I’m now definitely on duty, given the latest development.’
The woman, her torso twisted towards the fire, languidly raises a shoulder and turns her head to face him. ‘Well, at least you can call me Ange in private... Inspector.’
Skelgill’s high cheekbones have acquired a reddish tinge – it may be the extra warmth of the fire, or perhaps the heat subtly applied by his companion. He inhales as though he is about to reply, but as he does so the door of the drawing room swings open and people begin to enter. Angela Cutting uncrosses her legs and demurely tugs down the hem of her skirt.
‘In the meantime,’ (she speaks quietly, as if for Skelgill’s ears only) ‘let’s see if we have a missing castaway.’
Skelgill glances at her; she returns his gaze with a shrewd narrowing of her eyes. But now he watches with care as the members of the retreat file into the room; he seems to be counting them in, perhaps rehearsing their names and occupation
s – something that he has a better memory for than he is prepared to admit.
Angela Cutting, literary critic – already seated opposite him.
Bella Mandrake, aspiring writer (actress – resting?) – wearing an elaborate ball gown that emphasises her bosom, she glides theatrically over the carpet and is quick to nestle in beside Skelgill.
Burt Boston, aspiring writer (and ex-SAS man?) – he occupies the same position as before, diagonally opposite Skelgill, on the same settee as Angela Cutting.
Sarah (aka Xara) Redmond, successful writer – she also resumes her former seat at one end of the cross-bench sofa.
Linda Gray, aspiring writer (and chef) – she takes the other end of the aforementioned sofa.
Dickie Lampray – literary agent – he pushes ahead of the two people yet standing to commandeer the space between Burt Boston and Angela Cutting; though it is noticeable he settles closer to the latter.
Dr Gerald Bond, aspiring writer (and erstwhile GP) – awkwardly he squeezes past those already seated and lowers his lanky form between Linda Gray and Sarah Redmond, facing the hearth.
Lucy Hecate – aspiring writer (and perhaps too young either to have completed or failed in some other career) – she hangs back rather reticently, and requires encouragement from Dickie Lampray to take the remaining empty place beside Bella Mandrake. Skelgill watches as she alights, his eyes sliding down her bare calves, and lingering upon the toes of her dainty green ballet pumps, which are still stained with dampness from earlier.
Even if Skelgill has not indeed been counting, the fact that each of the three-seater sofas has its full complement of backsides tells him that all eight people who could come, have come. He makes nine; one more would have been a crowd. It must be evident from the anxious faces around him that Dickie Lampray has conveyed the headline news about the missing boat. Accordingly, Skelgill gets straight down to business.
‘Ladies and gentleman, as I see it we have three options.’ He coughs to clear his throat. There is a mood of hopeful expectation as they – the majority, at least – surrender themselves to his capable expertise. ‘The first, and simplest, is to stay put. Batten down the hatches, and wait until morning. The storm will ease, and once it is light we may be able to attract attention. If my boat is found drifting, there will be search activity out on the lake.’
A little murmur ripples around the group. Perhaps it is the morbid realisation that a believed-drowned fisherman might ironically bring help their way. Skelgill continues.
‘Secondly, we try to signal.’ He holds up a palm to silence some questioning words. ‘As I have already said, I don’t hold out much hope in that regard. It’s now pitch dark. There’s a mist in the rain – I doubt if a light on the island is visible from the shore – even if there were anyone about to see us. We also lack the means of flashing an SOS.’ He raises his hips from the seat cushion and digs into a back pocket. He produces a small orange item and holds it up. ‘A mountain whistle is useless in these conditions – I’ve tried it – you can barely hear yourself think out there.’
‘What about an explosion?’
Suddenly all heads turn towards Burt Boston. He has adopted what appears to be his customary pose, legs crossed (in the male fashion, one ankle upon the opposite knee), an arm trailed casually along the back of the settee. Before Skelgill can respond – or is willing to do so – Dickie Lampray pipes up.
‘Burt, my good man – what do you mean an explosion?’
Aware that the spotlight has switched to him, Burt Boston uncrosses then re-crosses his legs. He gestures loosely with one hand in the direction of the exit doors.
‘There’s a reserve gas cylinder in the courtyard outside the kitchen door. We could lug it down to the northern tip of the island. I could rig up a detonator with materials I’ve seen about the house.’
The audience is silent. Some are open-mouthed. The man’s features take on a hard set, as if he is imagining himself back in the bedlam of a Balkan warzone. Then, without warning, he clicks his fingers loudly.
‘Boom. Big bang. Big flash.’
Bella Mandrake, beside Skelgill, starts and clutches fretfully at his sleeve.
Burt Boston folds his arms and tilts his head to stare at the ceiling. Meanwhile the faces turn back to Skelgill, anxious for his reaction.
‘Fine by me.’
Skelgill seems unfazed by the apparent usurping of his authority. However, Angela Cutting does not appear content with this state of affairs. She leans forward, her tone regaining something of its critical edge.
‘Wouldn’t that be rather dangerous... Inspector?’
Skelgill shrugs nonchalantly.
‘I’m sure Mr Boston knows what he’s doing... madam.’ There is the hint of a raised eyebrow. ‘I’d say the main risk is to the gas supply.’
Dickie Lampray looks a little alarmed.
‘What do you mean, Inspector?’
Skelgill, perhaps conscious that, with his implied objection, he has now drawn the attention of Burt Boston, keeps his eyes steadily fixed upon Dickie Lampray.
‘An explosion would last – what? – a second or two – depending how the gas ignited. If nobody saw it in that one moment – well, there goes our spare gas. As for the sound of the blast – even if it were heard over the noise of the storm – without anyone seeing the flash there would be no way of knowing where it came from. And Grisholm wouldn’t be your first guess.’
Dickie Lampray is nodding.
‘So we’d be rather pissing into the wind, in your view, Inspector?’
This remark raises a titter from more than one person present.
Skelgill glances at Burt Boston, who returns his gaze.
‘Don’t get me wrong – it could work – there are three marine flares in my boat – I was thinking along similar lines – if I had no mobile signal. Irrelevant, now, of course.’
The group is silent for a few moments as they digest the pros and cons of the signalling option. It is Linda Gray who speaks first.
‘I think the gas pressure is already falling – I noticed when I put on the soup earlier. The cylinder that’s connected could be about to run out.’
Dr Gerald Bond leans back and pats his stomach with the palms of both hands.
‘We wouldn’t want still to be stuck here with no means of cooking – we’ve food enough for good dinners and a full English breakfast every morning.’
‘And we would have no lights!’ This outburst comes, somewhat unrestrainedly, from Bella Mandrake.
‘There are plenty of candles, Bella.’ Sarah Redmond makes a mischievous spell-casting gesture with her fingers. ‘Even more atmospheric than the gas, don’t you think?’
‘I’m terrified enough as it is.’ She shudders emphatically. ‘Just how scary do we need this place to be?’
As if he detects that the conversation is taking an undesirable course, Dickie Lampray clears his throat authoritatively.
‘Inspector – so what is the third option?’
Skelgill leans back and intertwines his fingers upon his lap.
‘I could go for help.’
‘But, how, Inspector? Build a raft – in the dark? It would be impossible. And in these conditions – you would capsize.’
Skelgill shakes his head. His features are set grimly.
‘I could swim.’
There is a collective gasp. Dickie Lampray is first to summarise the general air of alarm.
‘Inspector – surely that wouldn’t be safe – the water is freezing – and what about the waves – you would drown?’
Skelgill is impassive.
‘I’ve dealt with worse conditions. There’s a kind of triathlon I do every year. Not a dissimilar swim.’
As Skelgill glances about, he can see that Burt Boston scrutinises him through narrowed eyes, while Bella Mandrake has hers screwed firmly shut, her small fists balled at her sides. Angela Cutting and Sarah Redmond share an expression that perhaps contains a mix of intrigue and admiration. Lu
cy Hecate is turning up the toes of her pumps and looking at them critically.
Now Dr Gerald Bond intervenes.
‘Inspector – I have been on first-aid duty at such events. The participants wear wetsuits, and there are always safety boats.’
‘Aye, well – beggars can’t be choosers, sir.’
The doctor is shaking his head.
‘You would be at severe risk of cold shock, Inspector – anything below sixty degrees Fahrenheit and the human body is vulnerable – you could succumb within minutes.’
This statement appears to be too much for Bella Mandrake, who throws up her hands and bursts into tears. She begins to wail about being left alone without police protection. Then she postulates Skelgill dying and that they would be at the mercy of... of... evil forces. It is difficult to determine just how much of her histrionics are genuine, but certainly no one seems to want to offer a comforting arm around the shoulder. Skelgill, closest on one side, looks decidedly uneasy, though he does fumble in his pockets as though he is trying to locate a handkerchief, while Lucy Hecate on the other sits in a state of rigid diffidence. However, as Bella Mandrake continues to sob, Burt Boston rises decisively to his feet and crosses to a drinks trolley that stands between the two curtained bay windows. He decants a stiff brandy and brings it back to the group. Sarah Redmond takes the glass from him and presses it upon the near-hysterical woman. Almost magically, the strong spirit has the desired effect. The sobs quickly subside into a succession of choked coughs, although to Skelgill’s evident dismay the woman lurches back on the sofa and flops sideways against him.
‘Why don’t I go?’
The voice is that of Burt Boston, and once again all eyes fall upon him.
Again Dickie Lampray assumes the role of inquisitor.
‘What do you mean?’
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 3
