‘But DI Smart, Guv – it won’t wash – never mind we don’t want to work with him.’ DS Leyton despairingly breaks the silence that has cloaked the office like the enfolding darkness beyond the window. ‘His whole system depends on snouts and grasses, Guv.’
DS Jones now joins in the fray.
‘He’ll never work this one out, Guv. He’s not got the patience.’
Skelgill stares at her with surprise. On another occasion, this observation would clearly merit some further explanation – for even Skelgill would admit that, in his personal interactions, he is not renowned for this desirable human quality. But what DS Jones has perceived, of course, is that Skelgill does possess an immense inner patience, one that no fisherman (and perhaps detective) can succeed without. But now he shrugs off her oblique compliment and – in his typically sardonic fashion, makes a virtue out of necessity.
‘Never mind, chaps, I might be buying you all drinks on Friday night.’
DS Leyton scowls.
‘Not if DI Smart has anything to do with it, Guv.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of Smart.’ Skelgill forces a somewhat crooked grin. ‘I’ve got two full days to catch a twenty-five pound pike and save myself a grand.’
16. THE TOXICOLOGIST – Thursday 10 a.m.
Having rowed a good two miles from his temporary berth at the north end of Derwentwater, and despite there being half the distance again still to cover to reach his intended destination, Skelgill has been unable to pass Grisholm without coming ashore.
He ties his boat to the same mooring post as before: a clove hitch, a double half hitch, and an overhand knot. The conditions are considerably more benign than during his last visit, and indeed are forecast to improve further, as the ridge of high pressure that was responsible for yesterday’s easterly in Scotland drifts north-west across the British Isles, drawing the benign bulk of the anticyclone from the continent. His boat rocks gently against the wooden pier, and he steps easily ashore onto the pontoon.
He can see at a glance that the planked boathouse is empty; although he enters and replaces on its brackets the boat hook he had employed to prod for his presumed sunken craft. He stands and regards it now, no doubt running over in his mind the possibilities that might pertain to Sunday night’s events. Then he laughs, and cuffs himself with the heel of his hand upon his forehead. He returns to where the boat is moored, kneels down, and hooks out his old khaki rucksack; it contains his mobile phone and various other essential personal possessions, such as a Kelly Kettle and the wherewithal to make tea.
The short path that winds through the wood must seem familiar, although it was at dusk and then in darkness that he used it previously (apart from Monday morning, when he was somewhat under the weather). He takes his time, walking soundlessly over the mulched earth, alert for signs of life. The dense rhododendron shrub layer, however, affords little lateral vision, and he is restricted to watching the path ahead, and the oaks above, still hanging on to a good many russet autumn leaves, despite the best efforts of the storm. He pauses, hearing a sound, and then waits motionlessly as a little passel of Long-tailed Tits, already coalesced into their wintering flock, bob across the gap a few yards from him, one at a time, like candy floss in miniature, pink-and-white-and-black balls of fluff on sticks, each taking their chance, running the gauntlet of what must be a Sparrowhawk’s feeding corridor. He counts and reaches ten – probably a single family party – and no more, as the soft purring contact calls fade and the flock flits away on its incessant quest for food. He might reflect that, were he to come back here in spring, how many would have survived through the winter: two, or three perhaps?
Moving on himself, he quickly gains the edge of the clearing in which stands Grisholm Hall. There is a path that leads up to the main door, but Skelgill cuts across the damp mossy lawn and makes a beeline for the nearest corner of the property. From here he follows the perimeter of the building, skirting the wing and turning back into the courtyard, around which the rear of the hall makes a u-shape. For a minute he surveys the ungainly edifice: the windows along the first floor are those of the landing and corridors that serve the bedroom wings. At the end of each of these, on the ground floor, there is a fire exit, and also on this level the likes of the library and billiards room. The kitchen is positioned in the central block; it has a door set on one side and two large sash windows. Skelgill aims directly for the furthest of these from the door. Pausing to tighten the straps of his rucksack, he clambers nimbly onto the sandstone sill and, bracing himself in rock-climbing fashion against the stone jambs, stands upright. He leans back to check briefly through the pane at his midriff, and then reaches above his head. Now his purpose becomes clear, for there is a half-inch gap between the top of the upper sash and the frame. He slides his fingers into this space, and tugs. Nothing happens, though a few brittle flakes of paint falling cause him to shy momentarily. With his arms almost fully extended, he has little muscle leverage to bring to bear. Now he tightens his grip with his thumbs, and performs a little hop. The sudden transfer of weight does the trick: with a squeal of protest the sash slides down about eighteen inches and, with a second sharp manoeuvre, he pulls and then pushes it to waist level. On Monday morning he might have been the worse for wear, but he still had sufficient wits about him to notice that the rather tired old window lacks a sash lock.
His route now takes him via a drainer onto the stone flagged floor of the kitchen, with a resounding clump of his boots. He stands for a moment, as though listening to the echo as it scouts about the house and returns with nothing to report. Apart from the obvious absence of any craft at the landing stage, he knows that there are no imminent bookings for the property, and that the agents have been instructed not to send in their cleaners until the police have cleared up their side of the case. So he can be confident that, small mammals excepted, he is alone.
He might be expected now to head directly upstairs and perform a thorough search of the bedrooms – most notably those of Rich Buckley and Bella Mandrake. He does indeed walk through to the central hallway, whence the main staircase leads to these chambers, but instead he does a rather curious thing. To one side of the chief entrance is an alcove used as a kind of robing area. Presumably provided for the benefit of guests, there are half a dozen pairs of partly perished green rubber wellingtons, a vase of furled golf umbrellas, and a series of old coats bunched together on a row of hooks – indeed among them is the long fawn mackintosh that Lucy Hecate must have borrowed when she went out to signal for help. Skelgill loosens one strap of his rucksack and swings it to the ground. Then he sorts through the coats and selects a weathered Barbour that is not so different in appearance from his own rather more scale-spangled version that lies in the bow of his boat. And now, apparently suitably attired, he backs against the front door and closes his eyes.
After a few seconds he opens them and walks across the hall in the direction of the drawing room. One of the double doors is ajar and he squeezes through the gap. Now he stands still and closes his eyes again. After a short while he reopens his eyes, takes off the jacket, and hangs it on the back of a nearby Windsor chair. Then he strides across the room and takes a seat on one of the sofas, beside the fireplace. He leans forward, elbows on knees, chin cupped in upturned hands, and remains deep in thought for some minutes. At intervals he turns to face various parts of the room, nodding his head as though he is acknowledging the invisible actors in whatever little scene is playing out. While the casual observer would be excused for thinking these are the actions of a madman, of course, what he is actually doing is retracing in his mind the events – as best he can recollect – of Sunday night.
This peculiar pantomime does not end here. Employing the same method – move, stop, close eyes, ponder, open eyes, move on – he returns to the hall, ascends to Rich Buckley’s bedroom, descends to the drawing room, leaves the drawing room, pretends to exit the house and then re-enter by the locked main door, re-visits the drawing room, departs for the di
ning room and takes a seat at the empty table (where he has all manner of silent conversations with non-existent fellow diners and servers), returns once again to the drawing room, plays a game of invisible Scrabble (on this occasion allowing himself a triumphant fist-pump when he lays out his killer word, bumfit), and – finally – he goes up to ‘his’ bedroom, and indeed through all the motions that he can evidently recall – including actually using the toilet and, from a prone position on the bed, staring at the empty candlestick, out of reach on the occasional table beside the door, before closing his eyes for a final time.
Just when it seems he might genuinely have nodded off, his eyes spring open, he springs off the bed, and the springs emit a creak of relief. At apparently no time during this performance has he paid any attention to the detail of his surroundings. And now he trots downstairs, collects the Barbour from the drawing room, replaces it (rather reluctantly) upon its peg, slings his rucksack on one shoulder, and strides through into the kitchen. He vaults onto the drainer, clambers out of the open window, and hauls the upper sash back into place, leaving the same half-inch gap as before. He bounds down into the paved courtyard and, checking his watch, sets off at a jog back towards the jetty.
Arriving at the double, he skids to what looks like a surprised halt – but this is due to the unexpectedly greasy boardwalk, and not the fact that his boat has gone – for this time, it is exactly how he left it. He unties the painter and jumps aboard, his momentum transferring to the craft and causing it to float gently away from the pier. He does not, however, immediately take up his oars. Instead, he unfastens a pocket of his rucksack and extracts a small notebook with a pencil held in a band at one side. Flipping this open to a marked page, he stares for a moment at its contents. Beneath the word ‘Grisholm’ is a list, numbered one to ten. Against each number is a name. Number one is Rich Buckley. Number two is Bella Mandrake. And so on, through the members of the retreat, down to number ten, which is marked D.Skelgill!!! – and which appears to have been added as an afterthought. Numbers one, two and ten are crossed through. Skelgill tugs the pencil from its holder and – as if out of superstition as much as expedient – licks the tip. Then he scores out two more names.
*
‘Ah, Daniel – I was beginning to think you were enjoying too much the fishing.’
Skelgill chuckles.
‘Hans, it would be a nice problem to have.’
The older man grins sagely without revealing his teeth. Soon to reach the age of seventy, though looking exceedingly robust, he is of medium height, shorter than Skelgill, though stockier, with close-cropped grey hair, a pinkish complexion, wide-set heavy-lidded pale blue eyes with fair lashes and brows, a broad-tipped nose and protruding lips. This is Dr Hans Sinisalu, an Estonian of Russian parentage, erstwhile Professor of Toxicology at the University of Tartu, Estonia. Having built his reputation on Baltic soil during the Soviet era, the lifting of the Iron Curtain found his specialist knowledge of the adverse effects of chemicals upon human beings to be in global demand. He travelled widely, working in Africa, Australia, the Far East and North and South America, before finally settling in the United Kingdom, where he was retained as a consultant to the British police, and appeared in many high-profile trials as an expert witness. Coincidentally a lifelong fisherman, a chance remark during a telephone conversation some ten years ago with the then Detective Sergeant Skelgill led to the discovery of their shared passion: most notably for Esox lucius (to use the lingua franca) – pike in English or haug in Eesti. It is Estonia’s most widespread species of fish, and one that, unlike in Britain, appears commonly on menus. A conversation about this creature led to an invitation to fish in the Lakes that was in due course taken up and – to cut short a long story – eventually to the venerable academic choosing Borrowdale in Cumbria for the place of his retirement. Here he resides contentedly with his wife – a former zoologist of some eminence – in a small cottage, surrounded by its own grounds and with its own landing stage, in a secluded corner of Derwentwater.
‘Come inside, Daniel – you look tired, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Skelgill grins.
‘I love the way you Ruskies call a spade a spade.’
‘I am Estonian, Daniel, and proud of it.’
Skelgill stops for a moment, and cocks his head on one side.
‘Didn’t we just play you at football?’
‘You did – and you lost – although we “Ruskies” are not known for our gloating. It is our austere upbringing.’
The professor beckons to Skelgill and leads the way through the interior of the stone cottage. It has been tastefully converted to admit modern conveniences, such as central heating and a fitted kitchen, whilst retaining its original seventeenth century charm. There are exposed oak beams barely above head height, and walls of geometrically laid Lakeland slate. They enter a comfortable lounge, where stone flags give way to a deep-pile carpet, and from a log fire in a great stone hearth emanates the pungent scent of pine resin. The room has been extended, and a pair of French doors and their adjacent picture windows afford a magnificent view down to the lake, where Skelgill’s boat can be seen moored at the little landing stage. A couple of wicker armchairs face this view, angled slightly towards one another, with a low oak table between them. Upon this is evidently laid a meal of some sort, beneath a square of fresh white linen.
‘Annika has a yoga class in Keswick – she sends her best regards – she says she is sorry she will not be here to cook verivorstid – but she has prepared a cold lunch for us.’
Skelgill lowers himself into the seat as indicated, while the professor removes the cloth from the food: a selection of open-face sandwiches on thinly sliced black rye and white breads, a mixture of fishes and meats garnished with sliced cucumber, pickles and tomato.
‘Looks delicious, Hans – tell her she’s too kind.’
‘I shall – now, please, help yourself – jätku leiba.’
Skelgill requires no second invitation and does as commanded. The professor pours them each a frothing beer – this a local Lakeland brew – which also meets with Skelgill’s approval.
‘I thought just a small one, Daniel – you will want to be keeping a clear head out on the water.’
Skelgill nods, chewing hungrily.
‘That forms part of the questions I have for you, Hans.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye – but first I wondered what you can tell me about atropine.’
The professor glances sharply at Skelgill, though his implacable Slavic features register little or no change. He takes a small sip of beer and replaces his glass carefully upon the polished surface of the table, aligning it with the whorl of a knot.
‘Atropa belladonna – your Deadly Nightshade – one of the oldest of poisons.’ He gazes unblinking over the lake. ‘Apparently Cleopatra considered it for her suicide – until she saw its effects on the poor slave upon whom she tested it.’
Skelgill’s eyes widen.
‘Did it not work?’
‘It worked – but it did not look pretty. She settled instead upon the bite of an asp. Or so the story goes.’
Skelgill glances rather introspectively at the older man.
‘My dog’s called Cleopatra – I inherited her – the name came as part of the package.’
‘But you are thinking of keeping both?’
Skelgill chuckles.
‘Aye – this concerns a human poisoning – a possible poisoning.’
‘It would not be the first – and of course you have an infamous case of atropine – the Edinburgh poisoner.’
‘Edinburgh?’
Skelgill does a little double take, as though one more coincidence will give him a nosebleed.
‘Two decades ago now – perhaps before your time in the police.’
Skelgill nods.
‘What happened?’
‘He was a scientist – an academic.’ The professor bows his head in a rather apologetic manner, as if
to acknowledge that evil prowls all walks of life. ‘He was found guilty of trying to kill his wife.’
‘Trying?’
‘She did not drink all the poison.’ He picks up his glass and raises it to Skelgill. ‘It was insufficiently disguised in a gin and tonic – you see, atropine is intensely bitter. This is why so few children die by accident – the berries appear delicious – like polished black cherries – thankfully the taste is a deterrent. It is worse than sloes. Yet birds can swallow the fruit with impunity, and are an important vector for dispersal of the seed. And while insects are essential for pollination, there are even reported cases of atropine poisoning from honey, where the bees have relied heavily upon the plant – this is quite a variation on your heather honey that is so popular! Herbal teas have also caused accidental poisoning – when leaves of Deadly Nightshade are picked by mistake and incorporated into the crop.’
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 22
