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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: Dead in the Water
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“Yes, he's just gone to pick up Horace Bott.”
Cheringham perked up. “You've found Bott? Then this whole ghastly business will be over soon.”
Daisy turned towards him, opening her mouth. Alec gave her a warning glare. She shut her mouth, wrinkled her freckled nose at him, and departed.
Alec invited Cheringham to sit down, ignoring the intrusive ring of the telephone. If it was for him, Gladstone would inform him. He was rather surprised it hadn't been ringing like billy-oh—somehow the Press hadn't yet discovered where DeLancey had been staying.
“What makes you think finding Bott is the answer?”
“Because he's the one who hit DeLancey,” said Cheringham impatiently. “Oh, I don't blame him, and I dare say it was self-defence, but after all he shouldn't have been anywhere near the boat-house. He must have been going to bash in the boat. I must say, I never would have thought he'd be such an idiot. Dottie's always going on about how brilliant he is.”
“Intelligence and common sense don't always go hand-in-hand.”
“Is that a dig at me? I'm not really jealous of her admiring
Bott, you know. It's only his brain she respects. She has too much common sense to—Now, there you are, Dottie's both brainy
and
practical.”
“Miss Carrick doesn't believe Bott's our culprit.”
Jealous or not, Cheringham flushed. “What's more important is, do you?” he asked with a touch of truculence.
“My beliefs are unimportant. I need evidence.”
But all Alec's questions elicited nothing to change the picture. Though Cheringham was by no means so straightforward a character as Frieth, nor so tolerantly peaceable, his words rang true. He had not left their bedroom last night, could not have done so without disturbing his friend.
Neither Cheringham nor Frieth was so stupid as to lie about anything so easily disproved, though Alec would send Tom to check the room anyway.
He glanced at his watch. If Tom was not back yet with Bott, not to mention Alec's dinner-jacket, Daisy would have to leave for Phyllis Court alone. He didn't like to think of her fraternising with those two American rowers, without his escort.
Not that he was jealous.
“Piper, please go and see if Sergeant Tring is here,” he ordered. Turning to Cheringham, he said, “In view of our future relationship, I hope you'll excuse my probing.”
“Lord, yes.” Cheringham stood up and offered his hand. “No hard feelings. You're just doing your job, and if Rollo and I had done a better job of keeping DeLancey off Bott's back, you might have been able to enjoy a peaceful weekend. I hope you manage a bit of revelry tonight.”
“I'll try.” Alec shook his hand, breathing a silent sigh of relief.
It didn't look as if he was going to have to arrest any of Daisy's relatives.
Cheringham left. Piper returned, followed by a short, slight young man with a fearsome scowl.
Tom brought up the rear. He introduced Alec with a mild courtesy obviously designed to give the cox nothing to complain about. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, sir. Sir, this is Mr. Bott.”
“What the … ?” Bott started belligerently.
Alec interrupted him with a cordial, “Do sit down, won't you, Mr. Bott? Excuse me a moment. I have one or two instructions to give my sergeant.”
The wind taken out of his sails, Bott sulkily subsided into the chair. Alec moved away with Tom and in a low voice told him to give Cheringham and Frieth's room a look-over. “By the way, did any of the servants see Bott last night?” he added.
“Mr. Gladstone and the parlour-maid both saw him come in about twenty past eight, when they were serving dinner. No one saw him after. I fetched your bags, Chief. Mr. Gladstone said to tell you young Fosdyke telephoned. He'll stop at the Catherine Wheel tonight, with his pa. Lady Cheringham wants to know, do you want me and Ernie to stay the night in his room, the one he shared with Mr. DeLancey?”
“Yes, bless her!” Turning back to Bott, Alec caught an apprehensive look, quickly wiped away.
“What the hell's all this about?” Bott demanded. “I suppose you think you can pick on me because I'm not one of the nobs.”
“Everyone in the house has been questioned, Mr. Bott. Basil DeLancey's dead.”
“Dead!” Was that a flicker of panic in his eyes, along with the astonishment?
Alec would swear he was genuinely astonished. “He was hit in the boat-house last night and died this morning of the delayed effect of his injuries. We have reason to believe you went to the boat-house last night.”
“Reason to believe? What the hell does that mean? I had no reason to go anywhere near the boat-house, and I didn't.”
“We found one of your tent-pegs in the bushes.”
Again a flicker of dismay, then Bott became condescendingly logical. “One tent-peg is very like another. Can you prove it's mine? If so, that doesn't prove either that I was the one who put it there, or that it only got there last night.”
Inarguable, and just what Alec had already recognised. “You threatened DeLancey.”
“I did. I had good cause. What has that to do with the boat-house?”
“DeLancey believed you intended to sabotage the boat to get your revenge on him.”
“I'm not responsible for DeLancey's beliefs. I repeat, I did not enter the boat-house last night.”
And Bott continued to reiterate his denial, even when Alec assured him the police would aim for a verdict of self-defence. Those moments of fear weren't evidence, nor even necessarily an indication of guilt. Bott was convinced the world had it in for him, and learning that one was suspected of murder was enough to frighten anyone. As he said, he was not responsible for DeLancey's notions. The odds against his happening to choose the method of revenge that DeLancey happened to suspect must be huge—unless he had heard talk of it.
Everyone, including the servants, should have been asked
whether they had mentioned the matter to Bott, or seen him in a position to overhear others mention it. Now it would have to wait until tomorrow, Alec thought wearily.
So would his visit to the boat-house and inspection of the oar. He needed to discuss with Tom what he had learnt from the servants, and to go over Piper's reports of the interviews. He needed to step back and see the whole case in perspective.
He needed to go and change into evening clothes at once if he and Daisy were not to arrive late at Phyllis Court.
“I'll talk to you again tomorrow,” he said to Bott. “Don't go anywhere, please, without informing my officers.”
Bott stalked out. That he had been evasive, Alec was certain. That he was DeLancey's assailant, Alec was more than half-convinced. That it could ever be proved, Alec doubted.
He needed a confession, and it seemed highly unlikely that Bott would oblige.
“
S
o you're pretty sure it was Horace Bott,” said Daisy, as Alec squeezed the little Austin in amongst the Rolls-Royces, Napiers, Daimlers, Lanchesters, Hispano-Suizas, and Isotta-Fraschinis. During the short drive he had, at her insistence, given her a quick report of the results of his investigations.
“I didn't say so,” he protested.
“No, but you've just about ruled out everyone else.” Waiting for him to come around the car and open her door, she wondered whether he had deliberately misled her as to his interest in Cherry and Rollo. He might want to spare her feelings—or to forestall her interference.
“I haven't crossed anyone off my list,” he said, handing her out. “You look stunning, love. Is that a new dress?”
“No, but Lucy helped me refurbish it. You know how good she is at clothes.” Pleased, but not to be distracted, Daisy went on, “It couldn't have been Cherry because of being stuck in his camp-bed, and it couldn't have been Rollo because his fingerprints were only on the blade of the oar. Fosdyke's weren't on it at all, you said. Nor Bott's.”
“I also said I'm having my doubts of the oar as the weapon,
but never mind that. If it wasn't Cheringham, Frieth, Fosdyke, or Bott, who was it?”
“One of the other four?” she proposed doubtfully.
“None of them appeared the least alarmed at being interrogated, which argues that they didn't consider themselves suspects. Not one was smug, either, as if he thought he was getting away with … murder. I have far more reason to believe it was not one of the four than that it was.”
“What about an outsider, looking for a boat to steal perhaps?”
“The skiffs were outside, moored to the landing-stage,” Alec pointed out patiently. “Besides, DeLancey would surely have spoken up, not to say yelled blue murder, if he'd been attacked by a stranger.”
“He'd have yelled blue murder if Bott hit him.”
“I think not. He wouldn't want to admit to having been bested by Bott, whom he despised.”
“Oh. Perhaps not. I still can't see that it was necessarily Bott.”
“Are you telling me his threats and DeLancey's demise aren't connected?”
“No, of course not. If he hadn't made those threats, DeLancey wouldn't have been in the boat-house. Then none of this would have happened, and we'd have had our weekend … .”
“Let's at least have our evening, Daisy. I don't want to hear another word about the case until tomorrow. Please?”
“Right-oh, darling, my lips are sealed.” But her mind kept working as they entered the club, an attractive Georgian mansion presently far too full of people to be properly appreciated.
If the oar was not the weapon, then the lack of Bott's fingerprints meant nothing. The tent-peg was perplexing, but it
pointed to Bott rather than to anyone else. Alec was right, he was the most likely of the suspects, Daisy thought despondently. Little as she liked him, she was sorry. DeLancey had tormented him brutally. Besides, it was going to be hard on Susan Hopgood, whom she did like.
A pre-dinner sherry in the lounge with her friends, and wine with the meal, effectively drove Bott's fate from her thoughts. After dinner, their host and hostess, of her father's generation, chose to sit on the terrace with coffee and liqueurs. However, they kindly assured Daisy she must not feel herself tied to their apron-strings.
There was dancing, but Daisy, who was convinced she had two left feet, had no difficulty persuading Alec to stroll about the pleasant riverside grounds. They ended up on the croquet lawn, teaching the game to Mr. Codman from Boston, Mr. Hoover from Duluth, and a Swiss, a Norwegian, and a Canadian who had also rowed in the Diamond Sculls.
They had a hilarious time. Daisy had never seen Alec so carefree. Their weekend was not a total disaster after all.
At last it grew too dark to play. Everyone moved down to the river-bank to watch the firework show. Amidst booms, cracks, and whistles, rockets soared in showers of red and green sparks, golden rain fountained, Catherine wheels whirled, Roman candles glittered—all reflected shimmering in the river.
Alec put his arm around Daisy's shoulders. She slipped hers around his waist, under his dinner-jacket, and pressed close to his side.
 
Daisy clung to the last shreds of her dream. Alec was kissing her in the middle of a fountain of sparkling light every colour
of the rainbow, while a heavenly choir sang a song of love.
The song resolved itself into a thrush outside the open window, through which a ray of the rising sun alighted on Daisy's face. She blinked and sat up. It was still very early. Sunday hadn't really quite begun. Maybe she and Alec could steal a few more moments and memories before the rest of the world awoke.
Tish was fast asleep. With hasty stealth, Daisy flung on her dressing-gown and went to tap on the door of Uncle Rupert's dressing-room.
She held her breath. Would being woken at daybreak make him furious?
The door opened. “Daisy, what's wrong?” he mumbled, eyes half-shut.
“Nothing.” She reached out to smooth a tuft of hair sticking up by his ear. He was wearing blue and pale grey striped cotton pyjamas, his feet bare. The sight of his bare feet was oddly intimate, disturbing—Daisy suddenly understood why a poet would write an ode to his mistress's earlobe. “It's a simply glorious morning,” she said hurriedly. “Let's go out in the garden before anyone else gets up.”
Already alert, his grey eyes smiled at her. “Good idea.” He felt his dark-bristled chin.
“Don't bother with shaving, and I shan't powder my nose. Ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later, they sneaked down through the quiet house. With a deliberate effort, Daisy dismissed from her mind the memory of her previous surreptitious expedition. It returned vividly, however, when they found the drawing-room French windows unlocked.
“Someone's beaten us to it,” she said, disappointed.
“Never mind. If we see them, we'll head in the opposite direction.”
The air was fresh, and cool enough for Daisy to be glad of her cardigan. Dewdrops twinkled on the roses and the lawn. Wraiths of mist curled up from the river as they descended the steps and strolled down the path, hand-in-hand.
In the shadow of the boat-house, a figure moved. Daisy gasped.
The sinister shape emerged into sunlight and turned into Cherry, in flannels and his rowing shirt. He came towards them. “I woke up and thought I'd take a skiff out while it's cool and peaceful,” he said, “but the sculls are in the boat-house and it's padlocked. Your doing, I take it, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Sergeant Tring's.”
“An estimable fellow. Oh, in case you're wondering, Rollo cursed me, turned over, and went back to sleep.”
“I have the key. Can you get the skiff's sculls without disturbing anything else? They're different from your racing oars?”
“As chalk from cheese—to a rowing man. We've been putting them on the floor behind the rack while it's occupied with racing oars. Let me at 'em and I'll take the two of you out, if you like. I want the exercise as much as the peace.”
Alec consulted Daisy with a glance. It wasn't quite what she'd planned, but floating on the water as the sun dispersed the golden mists sounded too good to turn down. True, Cherry would be there as well as Alec, but that meant neither he nor she would have to row.
“Let's.”
“I'll get the sculls,” Alec said, taking a key-ring from his trouser pocket.
Suspicious, Daisy warned him sternly, “No investigating.”
“Not till we come back,” he promised, laughing.
“Better bring a boat-hook if
we're
steering, and get a couple of cushions, darling.”
“There's a boat-hook in the boat already,” Cherry said.
Daisy turned to the river as Alec unlocked the padlock. “One of the skiffs is missing!” she exclaimed.
“Yes.” Cherry knelt down on the landing-stage to slot the unshipped rudder into place. “Someone else must have had the same idea, but earlier. I suppose a pair of sculls and the boat-hook got left out yesterday, hardly surprising in the circs.”
Daisy shuddered, recalling the return to Bulawayo with DeLancey's body. There had been great confusion on the crossing. Cherry, soaked after his rescue attempt, had already rowed one skiff across with Tish and Dottie, so much ferrying back and forth had taken place. Small wonder if oars had been forgotten.
Alec handed her two cushions and went back for the sculls, which he passed to Cherry, before replacing the padlock and clicking it shut.
“We'll go upstream, if that's all right with you,” said Cherry. “That way I can take it easy coming back. Anyway, you can't go far downstream before you get to the Hambleden lock and weir.”
They set off, Daisy and Alec together in the stern seat. No other boat was visible on the river, but the water-birds were making the most of the quiet. Swans, removed for the Regatta,
had already returned. A pair sailed by, giving the intruders a haughtily disgruntled glare. Moorhens bobbed about near the reeds, and a grey heron rose from the bank, its huge wings flapping so slowly it seemed impossible it should stay aloft.
In the absence of traffic, Alec was perfectly confident and competent with the tiller-lines. Cherry rowed with long, leisurely strokes. The banks moved steadily past and Temple Island approached ahead.
“We'll go to the left of the island,” Cherry said. “Incorrect, but we're unlikely to meet anyone and the current's not so strong as the other side. I'm going to be good and ready for breakfast.”
“You make it look easy,” said Daisy. “I'd like to take a turn at the oars—sculls—on the way back, when we're going with the current.”
“Have you ever rowed?”
“Not since before the War. We used to take a dory out at Upton-upon-Severn or Severn Stoke, and Gervaise and his friend Phillip usually made me row because they wanted to fish.”
Cherry and Alec laughed. “Right-oh,” Cherry agreed, “I'm prepared to put my life in your hands. Keep over to the island side of the channel, Fletcher, as we're going the wrong way. The current's pretty feeble close in, too—easier rowing. We'll turn around at the head of the island.”
They came to the place where the Regatta course had started. The booms had been moved over to the bank already, out of the way of the boat traffic which would soon begin to move homeward. Still no one was about. The only sounds were the lap of water against the hull, the creak of oars in the
rowlocks, the twitters and warbles of birds in the trees on the island.
Daisy kept an eye out for the first glimpse of the temple. Before she saw it, she heard a shout. A moment later the tranquillity shattered at the crack of a gunshot.
For a moment Daisy was taken back to yesterday's race and the starting pistol. Then another shot rang out, followed by a splash.
“Look! There!” Daisy cried, and pointed to where something came bobbing down the stream from the head of the island, moving with the current out towards mid-channel. Something maroon. Ambrose maroon? “Oh my gosh! It's a man!”
Cherry had already twisted his head to look. Now he swung his sculls in-board, stood up, and dived into the river.
The skiff rocked. It was still making headway from the momentum of his last stroke, but any moment it would start to drift backwards. With cautious haste, Daisy scrambled forward to the rowing bench. Turning to sit down, she saw Alec, his jacket stripped off, leaning over the back of the stern bench to pull the rudder from its slot.
“Daisy, can you manage?” he demanded. “Cheringham needs help.”
“I'll manage.” She swung the sculls out, glad Cherry had left them in the rowlocks.
Alec slipped over the gunwale, rocking the skiff again. Daisy saw him set off after Cherry with a dogged breast-stroke, then rowing demanded all her attention.
Somehow she managed not to catch a crab with her first two clumsy strokes. The rhythm returned—like riding a bicycle: once learned, never quite forgotten. Steering was another
matter. She was facing backwards. Gervaise was not there to shout at her to back water with the right, nor Phillip to fend off if she ran into the bank.
The bank was awfully close. The left scull brushed through the drooping fronds of a leaning willow. Daisy quickly corrected her course, pleased to see that at least she was moving upstream in the quiet water close to the island.
But where was she going?
She remembered the landing-stage in front of the temple. If she could just get beyond it, the current would move her towards it, and it would be easier to get ashore than amongst the trees and bushes. Only that was where the shots had come from. Was a man with a gun standing there, listening, waiting?
BOOK: Dead in the Water
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