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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: Dead in the Water
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Alec laughed. “But if you wrote down what he said in your precious notebook and read it back, you'd find nothing to take exception to,” he pointed out. “All right, set yourself down somewhere inconspicuous and get your pencils ready. Lord DeLancey may not be the brightest star in the galaxy, but I don't think he's stupid enough not to realise a refusal to see me might put ideas into my head.”
Piper settled on a chair against the wall by the door. Alec crossed to the window. Gazing out at the uninspiring prospect of pillars and yellowish gravel carriage-sweep, he planned exactly what he had to say.
They did not have long to wait. The moment Lord DeLancey entered the room, Alec knew Daisy was right again. The man was pale, his eyes hunted, his face sheened with a film of sweat although the day had scarcely begun to warm up.
Lord DeLancey was afraid, his fear far too evident to be disguised by belligerence. “What the devil do you want at this hour in the morning? Couldn't it wait? Can't you let a man eat his breakfast in peace?”
“Have I interrupted your meal, sir?” Alec spared a momentary regret for his own empty stomach. “I beg your pardon. I'd have thought you'd had plenty of time for breakfast since you came in.”
“Came in? Dammit, what do you mean, came in?”
“From the river.”
“The river?” his lordship blustered. “You've got the wrong DeLancey, my good man. My brother was the oarsman, not I. You wouldn't catch me messing about in a boat before breakfast.”
“No?” Alec said softly. He had not mentioned boats. The natural assumption would be that he referred to a stroll on the river-bank. “It's an … exciting experience. The river is singularly beautiful at daybreak, as I found out for myself this morning.”
“Y-you?” DeLancey's voice wavered, but he rallied. “I'm surprised you were able to spare the time from investigating Basil's death. Since you did, I'm delighted to hear you enjoyed it, though this is hardly the moment for social chit-chat. Your river excursion is nothing to do with me. You didn't see me there.”
“True, I didn't. But there was a witness.”
Lord DeLancey licked his lips. “W-who?”
“Someone who knows you well by sight,” Alec said with deliberation. “Someone who went on in the boat after Cheringham and I dived into the Thames in the hope of rescuing Horace Bott. He hadn't been long in the water, but then it doesn't take long to drown, though that's not exactly relevant since he'd been shot in the head.”
“I can explain! It's not what you think. It was his own fault, entirely his own fault.”
“Lord DeLancey, it is my duty to advise you that you have the right to remain silent. If you choose to speak, what you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”
“I didn't do anything,” DeLancey gabbled. “I've nothing to hide. I just hoped to avoid being mixed up in a thoroughly unpleasant business. The newspapers—but I don't have to tell you how they ruin lives with unjustified insinuations.”
“No, sir,” Alec agreed stolidly. Given what Daisy had told him of DeLancey's fear of gossip, his earlier denial was understandable.
“So you did meet Horace Bott on Temple Island early this morning?”
“Yes, yes, I was there. You know I was. You said someone saw me there. If it wasn't you or Cheringham, who the deuce was it? What's his name, Cheringham's friend, the Ambrose crew captain?”
“I'm afraid I can't reveal that, sir.
Why
did you meet Bott on the island at dawn?”
“He asked me to.”
“Did he give a reason?
“He said he had something to tell me.”
“That's all? What did you think he meant, that made you agree to a meeting at such an … unusual time and place?”
“I hoped he had information about Basil's death.”
“That he had not given me?”
“To sell. People of that class have money-grubbing souls,” DeLancey said self-righteously. “They are quite capable of seeking to make a profit from someone else's tragedy. Besides, they regard the police as their enemies.”
Alec did not bother to inform him that on the whole the police found small shopkeepers among the most supportive and cooperative of citizens. “Did it not occur to you to suspect Bott of being your brother's assailant?” he asked.
“Of course it did! He had threatened Basil, as you know. The other Ambrose men are convinced of his guilt.”
“Didn't that make you think twice about going to meet him in such an isolated place?”
“I couldn't imagine any reason why he should wish to harm me, but I took precautions. I took a pistol. Not licensed, I'm afraid, Chief Inspector,” he admitted with a feeble attempt at a man-to-man grin. “It's a Mauser ‘Bolo,' a souvenir of
the War. I'm sorry I took it with me, but I don't suppose it really made much difference. A man bent on suicide will find a way.”
Suicide! Alec made an effort to conceal his surprise. Bott had not seemed suicidal at their interview yesterday. Had an evening spent with those who believed him guilty driven him to try to take his own life?
“Perhaps you'd better tell me exactly what happened on Temple Island, sir.”
“Of course. It turned out that Bott wanted to see me in order to apologise for killing Basil—inadvertently, he claimed. He knew he'd be caught, and he'd decided to kill himself rather than face a trial and prison, or hanging. His life was pretty miserable anyway, since he'd tried to rise above his natural level. He said he was going to drown himself, but I suppose, seeing the Mauser in my hand, he decided shooting would be easier. He seized it from me, shot himself in the head, and fell into the river.”
“There were two shots, Lord DeLancey.”
“Oh yes. One shot went wild before he got it away from me. When he made his grab, I was afraid for a moment that he had changed his mind, that he meant to dispose of the only witness to his confession, so I had my finger on the trigger. It fired when he wrenched it from my hand. But that was not the shot which killed him. The pistol was wholly under his control when he actually put the bullet through his head.”
His lordship was going to be peeved when he discovered he had been misled about Bott's condition. Alec was in no hurry to disillusion him. “I see,” he said. “You tried to stop him, of course.”
“Of course. As he backed away with the pistol, I rushed at
him. I'm afraid that's why he moved far enough to fall into the water.”
“Taking your Mauser with him?”
“Yes. No!” Flustered, DeLancey turned red. “Excuse me, Chief Inspector, it was a terrible experience and I don't like to think about it. Er, no, he dropped the pistol immediately after firing, as he staggered backwards into the river.”
“
Dropped
it? You're sure of that?”
“Dropped it. Let go of it. It fell from his hand,” his lordship said testily.
“Odd. Considering where the pistol was found, I'd have expected Bott to fall into a boat, not the water.”
“Oh. Yes. I can explain that. I told you I've been trying to forget the whole thing. You see, I picked up the pistol without thinking, in a state of shock. As soon as I realised what I'd done, I tossed it away. I didn't want anything to do with it! So you found it?” DeLancey made a half-hearted effort to summon up indignation. “You gave me the impression you thought it had gone into the river.”
“Sorry, sir, just a bit of a misunderstanding,” Alec prevaricated. “It's a pity you picked it up. Your fingerprints will be on top of Bott's.”
“No, they won't. I was wearing gloves. However hot the days are, it's damned chilly at dawn.”
His smugness added to Alec's feeling that his story had been hastily concocted, just in case, despite his denial, he was somehow linked to the events on Temple Island. The gaps in his explanation he still more hastily filled in as they became apparent.
Yet he was not discomposed by the reference to Bott's fingerprints, which suggested there really had been a struggle
for the weapon. Or else it had not yet dawned on him that the absence of Bott's fingerprints would give him the lie.
On the other hand, the whole tale could be true, his odd manner caused by shock and his fear of publicity. Either way, Alec was eager to hear Horace Bott's version of their encounter.
“That will be all for the moment, sir,” he said. “I may have a few more points to clear up later. Let me know, please, if you leave Crowswood. You can contact me through the Henley police.”
“If you insist.” DeLancey preceded Alec and Piper from the anteroom into the hall. As they turned towards the front door, he caught Alec's sleeve. “Look here, Chief Inspector, there surely isn't any need for my presence at the poor fellow's suicide to be mentioned? It's all over and done with, after all. Nothing will bring him back and it'll be deuced uncomfortable for me if the Press gets hold of it.”
“I'm afraid I can't keep you out of it, sir. The provenance of the Mauser will have to be explained.”
“Damn! Will I have to give evidence? There will be an inquest, I suppose.”
“Oh, I hope not, sir,” Alec said with a keen look. “Though Bott is still unconscious, the doctor at Townlands Hospital seems to think he will make a full recovery.”
Lord DeLancey's jaw dropped and his face turned pasty. Stunned? Appalled? Or just furious at being misled? Fury was what would undoubtedly spring to his lips. Alec didn't wait to hear it. DeLancey was not likely to say anything he could not weasel his way out of, but he just might do something stupid if left to his own devices.
O
n the way back towards Henley, Alec gave his constable a chance to shine. “What do you reckon, Ernie?”
“You gave him something to think about all right, Chief.”
“What about his story?”
“Sounded like a load of bumf to me, Chief, 'cepting I can't see why he'd try to kill Bott, and if he didn't, why lie?”
“You don't think revenge is a good enough motive?”
“Not for him,” Piper said cautiously. “Seems to me, he'd be too afraid of getting caught.”
“He does seem a nervy type. So you think Bott shot himself, but for some reason DeLancey's lying about how it happened?”
“There's something fishy. Tell you what, Chief, for a start I can't see a lord going out rowing that early just because a chap he don't think much of says he's got something to tell him.”
“It does seem improbable,” Alec agreed.
“But if he's lying, why didn't he stick to it that Bott got shot when they was struggling for the pistol, 'stead of making up all that stuff about suicide?”
“‘Merely corroborative detail intended to add verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.'” Stopping the Austin while the lodge-woman opened the gates, Alec noticed Piper's blank expression and added, “Sorry, Ernie, just my favourite quotation from
The Mikado.
What it adds up to is the irresistible urge some people feel to elaborate on a story in the belief that complexity equals credibility.”
“Ah,” said Ernie, making use of Tom Tring's favourite monosyllable while he attempted to digest Alec's polysyllables.
Driving on, Alec continued, “But as DeLancey said, he hoped his name might be kept out of a suicide. There would be no chance of that if he admitted to having even partial control of the pistol when it fired. So that could be the extent of his lying—or he might be telling the truth.”
“Could be, Chief. If Bott confessed like Lord DeLancey claimed, he'd be more likely to tell us than to shoot him, wouldn't he? That way he wouldn't get into trouble himself, but he'd have his revenge when we arrested Bott.”
“Hearsay, Ernie. A reported confession is not admissible evidence. We'd have no grounds for arresting Bott unless he repeated his confession to us.”
“But it'd give us more to go on,” Ernie argued, “even if we couldn't just take his lordship's word for it.”
“True. The trouble is, it looks as if it's going to end up that way: DeLancey's word against Bott's. Assuming Bott recovers and will talk.” Alec frowned. “Suicide never crossed my mind, but I didn't notice, and the doctor didn't mention, any powder-burns on Bott's hand. I wonder what dabs, if any, Tom's found on that Mauser?”
 
 
Tom Tring came back into the hospital room with his catlike tread. During his absence, Daisy assumed, he had worked his fingerprint magic on the pistol. She nearly asked if he had found anything of interest, but remembered in time that she had not told Susan about the weapon.
“I rung up the Birmingham coppers, Miss Hopgood,” Tom said. “They'll send someone round to break the news to Mr. and Mrs. Bott.”
“Thanks ever so, Mr. Tring. That's much nicer than getting a telegram.”
“Any sign of him waking up?”
“He hasn't moved or opened his eyes,” said Daisy, “but he did start to mutter. We couldn't make out any words. Listen, there he goes again.”
Tom bent over the still figure on the bed, his ear close to the twitching mouth. The mumble ceased and he straightened, shaking his head. “Dunno if he's making sense or not 'cause I can't tell what he's saying, like you said.”
“It could mean he's coming round, though, couldn't it?” Susan asked hopefully.
“That it could, miss. If you don't mind, I'd better sit next to him so's I can hear proper if he starts talking clearer.”
With reluctance, Susan gave up her place at the bedside. Tom sat down, took out his notebook, and laid it on a thigh like a tree-trunk.
“Ta, miss. Let's have a bit of hush, now. I wouldn't want to miss anything.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, Susan with her gaze fixed on Horace Bott's face. Daisy heard the cheerful voice of a nurse in a nearby room. Beyond the hospital's walls,
the town was Sunday-quiet, until church bells began to peal for the morning service. Impossible—she felt as if a century had passed since she got up that morning!
An early stroll had seemed such a good idea, a half hour snatched from the ruins of the weekend. If only she and Alec had not accepted Cherry's invitation to go out on the river! But Cherry might not have been able to rescue Bott on his own. Bott would probably have died, and no one would have guessed that Lord DeLancey was involved in his death.
Daisy wondered how Alec was getting on with DeLancey. She had not been able to identify him positively, so all he had to do was deny being on the island and stick to his denial. Alec would be stymied.
In that case they would have to rely on Bott's story, always supposing he recovered his wits and his speech, and was willing to talk. Daisy was dying to know what had happened on Temple Island. Just five minutes sooner, and they might have witnessed the whole …
“No!” Bott jerked bolt upright, his eyes still shut. “No! Don't! I can't swim,” he cried in a high, panic-stricken voice.
“Horace!” Susan sprang towards him.
Tom warded her off. “Easy, miss. He's still asleep, see, and dreaming. You don't want to wake him sudden-like. Just you set yourself down again and let me deal with him.” Gently but irresistibly, he pressed Bott back against the pillows. “It's all right, sonny, you're safe now.”
As he soothed Bott, Daisy soothed Susan. “Now we know he's capable of moving and speaking clearly, so it looks as if his brain wasn't damaged by the injury or lack of oxygen. He's just having a nightmare.”
“I s'pose so. He must be dreaming about when that brute DeLancey pushed him into the river.”
For a moment, Daisy wondered how on earth Susan could possibly know about the events on Temple Island. Then she realised the girl was talking about Basil DeLancey's assault at the end of the Thames Cup heat.
Was that what Bott was dreaming of, or had a similar scene played itself out on the island? Why, why,
why
should Cedric DeLancey attack Bott? Could it have been self-defence—but why should Bott attack Lord DeLancey? Why had they met there and then in the first place?
Finding herself once more thinking in circles, Daisy was delighted when Tom said guardedly, “I do believe he's waking up.”
As Bott's eyelids flickered, Susan darted to the side of the bed opposite the sergeant. She took Bott's hand and said in an unsteady voice, “I'm here, Horace. It's Susan. I won't let them bully you.”
“Now, miss,” said Tom, his tone indulgent, “no one's going to do any bullying. But if you want to stay, you'll have to keep mum once I start asking questions.”
Susan sent a glance of appeal to Daisy.
“
I
shan't let him be bullied,” Daisy promised, “not that Mr. Tring is a bully.”
Tom's luxuriant grey moustache twitched as he grinned at her, his little eyes twinkling. “Same goes for you, Miss Dalrymple. One word out of place and you're out. And I'm none so sure the Chief'd let you stay in the first place.”
Having her own doubts, Daisy merely smiled. She moved a chair over beside the night-stand for Susan, who sat down
without letting go of Bott's hand or shifting her anxious gaze from his face.
He raised his other hand to the bandage and moaned. “My head! It hurts like hell.”
“Horace!”
“Sorry, Susie.” His eyes opening fully at last, he gave her a feeble smile. “Like blazes. What happened?”
“That's what we'd like to know,” said Tom Tring.
“Can't you remember?” Daisy asked in dismay, but Bott was staring at Tom.
“Police!” he groaned. “Detective Sergeant Tring, isn't it? What's going on? Where am I?”
“You're in hospital, sir,” said Tom with a warning glance encompassing both Daisy and Susan. “You were pulled out of the Thames half-drowned. What we want to know is how you got there.”
Bott closed his eyes. “The Thames? I fell in?” he said slowly. What little was visible of his forehead furrowed and he winced, raising his hand to his head again. “My foot, I remember now! DeLancey!”
“No, Horace, that was the day before yesterday.”
“Please, Miss Hopgood, no interruptions!”
“The other DeLancey, Susie. By jingo, I shan't let him get away with
this
!”
“You remember where you were, Mr. Bott?”
“On Temple Island, Sergeant. I remember every—Oh God, I'm going to be sick.”
As Susan reached for the basin on the night-stand, Tom helped Bott sit up. “Swallowed a fair bit of the Thames, I dare say. There you go, you'll feel better for getting rid of it.”
Daisy, doing her best to close her ears to the distressing
sounds, rang for a nurse. Sister herself came in. Briskly kind, she wiped Bott's face and gave him water to rinse his mouth, covered the basin and produced a clean one from inside the night-stand.
“How do you feel, young man?”
“I think … my stomach's all right, but I'm a bit … dizzy.”
“Down you go again. I suppose you'll have to stay, Sergeant, but no disturbing him with talk, if you please, and you young ladies …”
“No!” Bott gripped Susan's hand as he subsided onto the pillows. “I'll lie down, Sister, but don't make her leave. And I
want
to talk to Mr. Tring. I
must
talk to him. It will disturb me more not to, truly.”
Sister took his pulse, felt the unbandaged patch of forehead, and nodded. “Very well, then, but if you start feeling dizzy again, or sick, or feverish, or achy, or if you start to cough, I want to know right away.”
“We'll call you, Sister,” Susan promised fervently.
“I'll be back in a few minutes to see how he's doing. Don't excite yourself now, Mr. Bott. Keep calm.”
Bott waited until the door closed behind her before bursting out, “Keep calm! That's a tall order when you've just been the victim of attempted murder!”
“Horace, what
are
you talking about?” asked Susan in astonishment. “Miss Dalrymple, d'you think he's wandering? Shall I call Sister back?”
“No, don't. He's not wandering, I'm afraid.”
“But you two young ladies'll be wandering right out of here,” Tom said sternly, “if you can't keep your mouths closed. Tell you what, Miss Dalrymple, why don't you take notes for me?”
“The devil finds work … ?” Daisy took the notebook and pencil he held out.
He twinkled at her, but spoke to Bott. “Go on, sir.”
“He pulled out a gun and ordered me to jump in the river,” said Bott in a tone of remembered shock. “I told him I can't swim, and he said he knew, he was there when his brother pushed me in. He wanted me dead! Well, I wasn't going to oblige, you can be sure. A ruddy fool I'd be to jump in and drown myself, when he couldn't shoot me. At least, that's what I thought.”
“Why was that, sir?”
“As I pointed out to him, a bullet-riddled corpse would be impossible to explain away as an accident. He said no one would connect him with it, but he was obviously getting the wind up. I don't think he expected me to resist: his mighty lordship commands and the lower orders run to obey!” Bott sneered, and Daisy remembered the “lower orders” who had died at Lord DeLancey's command in the War.
“He didn't want to shoot me,” Bott continued. “He started gabbling about how being shot was a much more painful death than drowning. He was waving the gun around like a peashooter. I shouted at him to be careful, but he fired into the air. I still wouldn't jump into the river for him. Then he lost his head, I think. He aimed at me. I took a couple of steps backwards. I couldn't help myself, with that pistol pointing at me, though I still didn't really believe he'd shoot.
“He did, of course.” Gingerly, Bott felt the bandage. “Either his hand was shaking or he's a rotten shot, or I wouldn't be here talking to you.”
“Oh Horace!”
“It's all right, Susie. I've come off with nothing worse than a headache.”
“But even if he nearly missed you, you could've drowned!”
“Maybe he meant to miss. Maybe he still hoped to frighten me into drowning myself, and hitting me was the mistake. Either way, I'll see his nibs rot in gaol!” Bott snarled.
BOOK: Dead in the Water
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