Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 3
‘What?’
‘The skirt – she slipped right under your nose. Not like you to be so unobservant, Guv.’
‘Behave, Leyton.’
‘Behave?’
‘For a change, eh?’
‘Blimey, Guv – a fortnight with Fast-track and you’ve come over all PC.’
‘That’s what you’ll be Sergeant, if you don’t watch your lip. Leave DS Jones out of it.’
DS Leyton shrugs resignedly. There’s no accounting for DS Skelgill’s capricious mores. And he knows better than to ask about the telephone call his superior has just taken. Instead he grins good naturedly, and says, ‘DC, Guv.’
‘What?’
‘DC – not PC. If I were demoted, they wouldn’t want me as an advert for uniform, would they?’
Skelgill is forced to chuckle. There is something Chaplinesque about the clumsy, self-deprecating but stoic DS Leyton. It’s an endearing combination.
‘Well, pull out the stops and see if you can find the way to Oakthwaite without getting lost. But, first, drop me off at my car in Keswick.’
‘Hold your horses, Guv. Why am I going back to the school?’
‘To interview the groundsman who found the boat.’
‘Is he on our list?’ DS Leyton sounds surprised. ‘I thought it was just teachers.’
‘Have you got the list?’
‘But you’ve got it, Guv.’
Skelgill nods. ‘So it would be easy for you to make a mistake?’
‘But, Guv...’ Then Skelgill’s intention dawns on DS Leyton and a philosophical expression washes across his features. ‘Ah... a mistake.’
‘Just get the exact detail of what happened, and anything he noticed out of the ordinary. I’ll catch up with you in time for the one o’clock appointment.’
‘Right, Guv.’
‘And remember to park less conspicuously.’
DS Leyton grimaces. ‘I bet Mr Goodman wouldn’t tell the Chief where to stick her Seven Series Beamer.’
‘Not many would, Leyton.’
7. THE PROFESSOR
Skelgill noses his car into a tight space in the busy supermarket parking lot. He squeezes out sideways and heads for the store, sniffing the air and casting about for views of his beloved fells. But, while the rain has abated – temporarily, at least – the cloud base clings stubbornly to its early morning level, thwarting his ambitions. A couple of minutes later he strides from the automatic doors clutching a carrier bag, gripping its evidently weighty contents through the flimsy plastic material.
Instead of returning to his car he makes a left and walks briskly in the direction of Keswick’s unimaginatively named Main Street. Despite the gloomy weather the grey stone nineteenth century thoroughfare is thronged with a colourful cagoule-clad procession of trippers and walkers – the former distinguished from the latter by their ill-fitting waterproofs and inappropriate footwear. Still, they mingle amicably, bearing the phlegmatic demeanour of English holidaymakers who today can neither see nor explore the hills they have come to admire.
Skelgill prefers the less-touristy Penrith for shopping: his staples being fishing tackle and outdoor equipment. But Keswick, though its main drag is ornamented with a rather disappointing necklace of retail fare, nonetheless hosts the odd specialist gem that might ordinarily challenge his bank balance. Today, however, he merely pauses for thought at the occasional intriguingly stocked window, before finally succumbing to a different impulse: the enticing aroma of hot sausage rolls that emanates from a bustling baker’s.
Munching on the move, he ducks into a narrow paved ginnel and follows its course with the gentle trickle of rainwater it carries in the direction of Derwentwater. In just a short distance he draws to a halt beside a rather Heath Robinson assemblage of angular modern buildings, and turns into a doorway beneath large white lettering that proclaims this is Keswick Library.
The female receptionist stares at him quizzically. Skelgill raises a Bond-like eyebrow, perhaps mistaking her interest – for there is a prominent flake of pastry attached to the tip of his nose.
He leans forward and in hushed tones asks, ‘Is Professor Hartley in today?’
The woman can’t help brushing her own nose, as if it will cause Skelgill to mirror her and remove the offending morsel. But he stands unmoving and holds her gaze. After a moment she nods and mouths, ‘History section.’ She points to an archway that leads into another room.
Skelgill affects a suave bow and sets off gingerly in the direction indicated, though his wet soles squeak a protest with each step across the parquet surface, raising disapproving glances from several elderly readers.
As he enters he spies his quarry, the sole occupant of the area, a bespectacled man in his mid-sixties, notable for his shock of white hair, poring over a yellowing tome that looks to have been retrieved from some dusty archive.
‘Jim.’
The man glances up, surprised for a moment, seeming severe as he squints over the half-moon reading glasses. Then his expression softens into a smile as he recognises Skelgill.
‘Ah, Daniel.’ He lowers his voice, ‘Let me guess – you’ve been eating pastries.’
‘What?’ Skelgill whispers. He looks down at his jacket for the evidence.
‘Told you I’d have made a good detective.’ Professor Hartley taps his nose.
‘Oh.’ Skelgill gets it and wipes away the crumb, and with it the fleeting realisation that it was present during his interaction a few moments earlier. He reaches out and offers the supermarket bag to the older man. ‘Lagavulin – for that case of flies you tied for me.’
‘Daniel, they were a gift. I enjoy doing them.’
‘Jim, they’re worth five times what this Scotch cost – and they’ve already paid for it in trout alone. A dozen two-pound Brownies.’
‘Ah – excellent, lad. Glad to hear that. Whereabouts?’
‘Just below Little Crossthwaite, where the Derwent flows into Bass Lake.’
‘I know it. Beautiful spot.’
‘Come with me some time.’
‘That would be an honour – though the hours you keep send a shiver down my spine.’
Skelgill grins. ‘A policeman’s lot.’
‘On which note – there must be something I can do: for you to have run me to ground in my lair here.’
‘I did want to pick your brains. It’s about Oakthwaite School.’
‘Be my guest.’
The Professor indicates a chair opposite, but as he does so the shadow of the librarian darkens the doorway beyond, her posture communicating a hint of disapproval.
‘We’re making too much racket, Daniel. Shall we retreat for a cappuccino? Let me just tidy this lot up. I’m giving a talk to the Borrowdale History Society next month: The Flight of Mary, Queen of Scots. She came this way, you know, when she was driven from Scotland?’
‘She got around a bit, I know that.’
‘She was an extraordinary girl – she would have been a media sensation if she’d lived four hundred years later. Not least because she was six foot two in her party shoes.’
Skelgill watches as he neatly stacks and files his meticulous notes and coloured pens: no sign of any new technology. Jim Hartley, now retired, was for many years Professor of Medieval History over at Durham University, some eighty miles due east across the Pennines. A native of Keswick, and an ardent angler, he’d kept on a house in the small Lakeland town, and had come to know the spotty teenage Daniel Skelgill when the latter had attended one of his ‘summer schools’ on fly-casting. He’d identified Skelgill’s natural talent at once, and ‘young Daniel’ became something of a protégé in the absence of children of his own.
They make their way through to the little cafeteria attached to the library. As the Professor takes his seat he says, ‘Oakthwaite – now there’s a curious coincidence, Daniel.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I came across a reference to the place only this morning. Not the school, you understand? There has been a stronghold on the site since the Dark Ages – probably earlier.’
‘What – like a castle?’
‘Yes. Perhaps some kind of broch originally, but certainly a substantial fortress in late medieval times.’
‘What became of it?’
‘It may be that Mary proved its undoing. In 1568, aged just twenty-five, she’d escaped from confinement in Loch Leven Castle, and rallied an army that was on its way to take up position at Dumbarton Castle. Their defences would have been impregnable. But they were intercepted and routed at the Battle of Langside, south of Glasgow, by forces under the Earl of Moray – her half-brother, no less.’
‘Sounds like my family.’
The Professor grins. ‘Then she fled south, misguidedly hoping Elizabeth would help her. From Dundrennan Abbey she was smuggled across the Solway disguised as a fisherwoman, and rumour has it she was given refuge at Oakthwaite. She was a staunch Roman Catholic, naturally, and this part of Cumberland was a clandestine stronghold. It may be that in time the local lords suffered for providing assistance to the pretender.’
‘So the castle at Oakthwaite was destroyed?’
‘If it wasn’t one catastrophic event, certainly the barony was strangled into decline over the course of a couple of generations, the estate with it. I expect half the farms in the vicinity have pieces of the castle stone in their walls. The foundations will still be intact, though, somewhere beneath the school. There would have been extensive vaults, wells, dungeons, and a crypt under the chapel. I’ve read of a tunnel that led away to safety in case the priest ever needed to evade capture. But of course it’s never been excavated: the school was built before they thought of Time Team.’
‘Quite a history, buried away.’
‘But it’s the present you’re interested in, Daniel. I should cut to the chase rather than try out my lecture on you.’
Skelgill grins ruefully. ‘That depends where history ends and the present begins.’
‘Ever the philosopher, Daniel.’
‘I doubt that’s the term my Sergeant would use for me, Jim.’
‘I’m sure you’re secretly admired.’
Skelgill’s cheeks colour a little. He retreats to the invitation to discuss the present. ‘Do you know much about the school today?’
The Professor shakes his head apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not Daniel. It wasn’t ever my remit – admissions – so I didn’t have any direct association. Of course, we had a few Oakthwaite freshers coming up each year into our faculty. Always well presented, diligent, solid performers. The ones that just missed out on Oxbridge, I imagine.’
‘Did you ever visit the place?’
‘Sadly, no. What I’ve assimilated down the years is from local hearsay – folk who’ve worked there. I’ve always had the impression that they operate in a rather cult-like manner. Most of the masters live on site, I believe, and they like to keep their own company. I suppose when you have several hundred charges to occupy round-the-clock during term times, you must run a pretty tight ship. Being a closed community facilitates that.’
‘Ever heard of a family named Querrell? The last one spent his life there, man and boy.’
The Professor stirs the residue of milky froth and chocolate flakes into the last dregs of his coffee. ‘It rings a very faint bell, Daniel. Of course, it’s an unusual name. Was there one at Bosworth, now? I’d have to look that up. Querrell’s your man?’
‘Was. Drowned last week in what appears to be a suicide.’
‘Appears?’
Skelgill nods slowly.
‘I’ll put my thinking cap on. You know how these things can come back to you when you’re least expecting it.’
‘That’s my system, too. At least, it’s my excuse to go fishing.’
‘Quite reasonable, Daniel. Complex problems can’t be solved by rational thought.’
‘Just as well, in my case. However, if it’s any help he was born in nineteen forty-six. Christian names Edmund Donald.’
‘So the parents had a classical education. And a sense of humour.’
‘Come again?’
‘Querrell, Edmund Donald: initials QED. Quod erat demonstrandum. That which is proven.’
Skelgill grins sheepishly. ‘Over my head, Jim. My Latin starts and finishes at Esox lucius.’
‘And no better place to begin and end.’
Skelgill smiles. ‘I’d better let you get back to finding out something about Mary.’
As they rise the Professor asks, ‘How’s your mother keeping these days?’
‘Ah – slowing down at bit. But still cycles over Honister every morning.’
‘I wish I could decline to such heights, Daniel. And I read about your latest fell-running exploits in The Westmorland Gazette. Like mother, like son.’
‘What – mad as hatters?’
8. THE GROUNDSMAN
‘Can you believe it, Guv – they’ve even got a shooting academy!’
‘That would have been popular where you went to school, eh Leyton?’
‘Too right, Guv. It ran in a few families round about our gaff.’ He scratches his head absently. ‘They’re all bang to rights now, of course.’
‘What is it, air rifles?’
‘No – clays, Guv. Twelve-bore, and four-tens for the juniors.’
‘They obviously blood them young, the gentry.’
‘You’re spot on there, Guv. Apparently some of the sixth-formers are expert shots, national competition standard. Half a dozen of them stand to inherit shooting estates, mainly up in Scotland – though there’s one beyond Brough. They do gundog training as well. The groundsman’s got a couple of labs in a kennels round the back of the school – says he used to be a keeper over Cockermouth way. Seemed a bit wide to me, though. Couldn’t be certain, but I think he might have smelled of drink.’
‘Name of?’
‘Royston Hodgson, Guv. Ring any bells?’
Skelgill looks pensive. ‘Maybe. Does he run the shooting club?’
‘He says he just helps out, setting up the clay traps. Apparently it’s all above board. Our licensing boys inspected back in March and renewed their certificate. They’ve got a gun room in the cellars of the main school building.’
Skelgill nods. ‘Be interesting to know who keeps the keys.’
‘A master called Snyder is in charge.’
‘He’s first on our list.’
‘Bit of a red herring though – shotguns – eh, Guv?’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘I guess I just like to know the lie of the land if I’m within a quarter of a mile of a twelve-bore. I developed a dislike of them early in my career.’
‘So you’ve mentioned, Guv.’
Skelgill flashes DS Leyton a disapproving glance. ‘What’s Hodgson’s story, then?’
DS Leyton consults a small black notebook. He flips it open where the elastic band marks a page. Considering his somewhat shambolic deportment, his printing is surprisingly small and neat, if a little elementary.
‘He said the Head called him to ask if he’d seen Querrell – and he replied not since the previous afternoon when he was taking a cricket practice. So Goodman asked him to have a look round and check Querrell’s cottage in case he was ill.’
‘What time was that?’
‘He reckons about eleven. He drove to the gatehouse – he’s got a quad bike that he uses for the mowers and whatnot. It was unlocked and empty – the key was on the inside of the door.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘He’s not sure. He said he wouldn’t be surprised if Querrell didn’t lock up, the generation he was, though the lodge is near the road and an easy target. He says they’ve lost quite a bit of sports equipment in the past couple of years.’
‘Probably the PE staff from my old comp.’
‘Ha-ha, Guv.’
‘Go on.’
‘Querrell owned a motorbike. That was still in its shed, so Hodgson figured he must be somewhere on the property. They’ve got a jogging track that more or less follows the perimeter of the grounds. He didn’t see anything until he passed the boathouse and noticed the boat anchored out on the lake.’
‘What made him stop there, do you think? The water’s shielded by all the vegetation?’
DS Leyton looks quizzically at his superior, as if wondering how he knows this. ‘Dunno, Guv – he didn’t say. Just that he went down onto the landing stage – climbed onto the railing in case Querrell was asleep in the boat. But he couldn’t see anything, and since Querrell apparently wasn’t much of a swimmer that was enough for him to raise the alarm. Obviously it was our search team that found the body.’
Skelgill nods pensively. After a minute’s silence he says, ‘What did they use the boat for?’
‘He said Querrell kept the only key – at least that he knows of. And the boat’s not generally used any more. They don’t let the pupils out on the water – there was some accident years ago. And now there’s all this Health and Safety palaver.’
‘And Querrell didn’t fish.’ Skelgill says this as a statement – it’s something he would know.
‘That’s right, Guv. I asked about that. It’s not proper angling here, apparently.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Skelgill’s hackles rise.
‘It’s all coarse fishing on Bassenthwaite Lake – you’d know this, Guv? For the young gentleman fly-casting’s the thing.’ DS Leyton must notice Skelgill’s black expression, for he quickly adds, ‘According to Hodgson, anyway.’
‘I’ve caught plenty of big pike out there on a fly.’ Skelgill tuts. ‘I’d like to see them try that.’
‘Definitely, Guv. You’re the expert.’
Skelgill nods, apparently feeling vindicated. ‘And what did he say about Querrell?’
‘Nothing untoward, Guv. No indication he was about to top himself. He’d asked Hodgson to use the heavy roller on the juniors’ wicket for the match at the weekend – which he never made, of course.’
‘Who did they play?’
‘School from Edinburgh, Guv.’ DS Leyton checks his notebook. ‘Merchiston Castle.’
