Murder on the Lake Read Online Free PDF

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,