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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: Dead in the Water
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Daisy rested on her oars for a moment. The birds were still silent after the shock of the shots. She forced herself not to look for Cherry and Alec, to concentrate on listening.
From beyond the top of the island came the creak of oars, the splashing of an inexpert oarsman.
He was escaping! Daisy bent with redoubled energy to the sculls. Slowly, so slowly, the trees crept by. She glanced round and saw between the leaves a patch of white wall, before a dark evergreen blocked the view again. Nearly there.
Drawing level with the temple, she glanced round again. His back to her, a man was rowing clumsily forwards, away from her, towards the Bucks bank.
Clumsy or not, he was pulling away. Daisy's shoulders ached, her arms felt like lead, and she was getting a crick in her neck from trying to see behind her. As she cleared the tip of the island, the current caught her. She couldn't fight it.
One more glance back. Dark hair, white shirt—a fat lot of
help that was. She turned her attention to reaching the island without sinking the skiff.
Stick the left scull in the water and make a strong stroke with the right. Obediently, the skiff turned broadside to the stream. Daisy shipped her oars and snatched up the boat-hook as the river carried her, drifting like thistledown in still air, towards the landing-stage. Another skiff, the twin of hers, was moored there. Kneeling, she reached for it with the boathook, caught the bow, and pulled herself in to shore.
“Daisy! Hullo! Daisy, where the dickens are you?”
An echo in her mind told her Alec had called before, when she was too busy to pay any heed. “Over here!” she shouted, trying to hang on to the boat-hook while grabbing the painter. “Here, at the temple. He got away!”
“All right, stay there, we'll be right there.”
What spoke to Daisy next, as she stepped ashore, was a painful memory from summer days on the Severn: “Don't end up with one foot on the bank and the other in the boat unless someone's holding it.”
Too late. Daisy's frantic effort not to do the splits failed dismally. She toppled into the river.
Coming up spluttering, she found her feet in three feet of water, the end of the painter clutched in a death-grip (Gervaise had not been pleased that time he'd had to swim after the dory). Daisy eyed the landing-stage, a good eighteen inches above the river's surface. She'd have to wait for help.
In the meantime, fending off the skiff as the current kept bumping it against her, she gazed after the presumed villain of the piece. Though the wisps of mist were dispersing, too tenuous to block her view, he was too far off to be clearly visible.
Close to the Bucks bank, he had turned upstream. As Daisy, shivering, watched, he came to what looked like a boat-house, nosed in, and climbed ashore. To her disappointment, he didn't fall in.
“Daisy? Where … ? Great Scott, darling, how did you manage to land in the river?” Alec's face was carefully expressionless, but there was amusement in his voice.
“I decided to take a swim,” she said crossly.
“You
try getting out of a boat on your own.”
“It takes practice.” Cherry, behind Alec, was openly grinning.
He quickly sobered as Alec said, “Here, put him down, Cheringham. Gently does it.”
Between them, Daisy realised, they carried a limp body. “Who is it?” she asked in dread. “Is he … ?”
“He's alive. Unconscious, with a head wound.” Alec knelt to give her his hands.
She handed him the painter and he tied it to an iron mooring-ring set in the landing-stage. Of course he was dripping wet too, as were Cherry and … “Bott?”
“Bott,” Alec confirmed, hauling her out. “He's been half-drowned and creased by a bullet. We have to get him to a doctor, fast. Cheringham thinks it'll be quickest to row back downstream to Bulawayo, telephone the local hospital from there, and run him into Henley by car.”
“Fletcher!” Cherry had tactfully turned his back as Daisy emerged from the Thames with her skirt clinging to her legs. He was stooping over something on the ground near the other skiff. “Here's a pistol. A Mauser.”
“Don't touch! Good find, well done. I'll get the handkerchief from my jacket pocket to wrap it in.”
Alec sat down on the edge of the landing-stage with his legs in the skiff to retrieve his jacket from the stern seat. Daisy went over to Bott.
“Alec, this hankie round his head is soaked through with blood, and it started out sodden with river water, which I bet isn't any too clean. If you've got a clean, dry one, Bott's head needs it more than the gun. The pistol, I mean. Gervaise always insisted that a pistol is not a gun, though why … Never mind. Here, you use my hankie.” She felt in the sleeve of her sodden cardigan and produced a soggy wad.
Alec reluctantly gave her the clean one. He took hers, wrung it out, and unfolded it. “This isn't big enough to wrap the pistol,” he complained.
“Make do.”
Taking off the cardigan, now a source more of discomfort than warmth, she watched as he gingerly picked up the Mauser with the handkerchief. He sniffed the barrel.
“It's been fired, of course. I hope there are fingerprints to help us find the owner, because it must be a War souvenir and it's probably not licensed.” He sighed. “I suppose I'll have to use my jacket to wrap it in. Let's go.”
“There's a pair of sculls in this other skiff,” Cherry reported. “Two of us can row.”
He and Alec lifted Bott again and, with Daisy steadying the skiff, laid him on the nearer arm of the V-shaped forward seat, his head on a cushion from the stern seat. Daisy sat right at the bow, at the point of the V, pressing Alec's folded handkerchief to the long, mercifully shallow furrow in Bott's scalp. If she lifted the pad, blood slowly welled up and trickled down. She couldn't guess how much he had lost, but his face was very white and he lay very still.
Shivering, she could only hope he wasn't going to die while under her care.
Cherry, in command, directed Alec to the sternward rower's bench. “If I can see you,” he explained, “there's more hope of coordinating our strokes.”
Untying the painter, he threaded the loose end through the ring and handed it to Daisy. With her holding it and Alec wielding the boat-hook, there was no fear of Cherry landing in the drink as he stepped into the skiff.
“Right-oh, Daisy, let go and pull the painter in.” He smiled at her over his shoulder as he sat down on the nearer bench. “I'll show you how to do the whole thing solo when we're not in a rush.”
“After this weekend, I don't think I'll ever want anything to do with boats again,” Daisy muttered.
“Fletcher, shove off, please. Leave the sculling to me until we're clear.”
Once out in the channel, with the current bearing them downstream, Cherry had Alec take a couple of strokes, then fell into rhythm with him. Daisy waited till it looked as if Alex knew what he was doing before she addressed the back of his head, beyond Cherry.
“Alec, I saw the man who shot Bott.”
“You didn't recognise him?” Alec asked a trifle breathlessly.
“He was facing away from me, even though it meant rowing backwards. Or forwards, depending on how you look at it. All I could see was that he had dark hair, so I couldn't identify him by his looks, but he went ashore on the Bucks bank, at a boat-house, and I think that must be Crowswood land. There's no public towpath along that side, is there, Cherry?”
“That's right. You can walk through the meadows from Bulawayo to Crowswood, I think, but it's all private property. The boat-house over there belongs to Crowswood Place.”
“And only one person connected with the case is staying at Crowswood,” Daisy pointed out.
“Lord DeLancey,” said Alec, a world of perplexity in his voice.
D
istracted by Daisy's revelation, Alec caught a crab. The resultant shower hit the empty stern seat, not that, wet as they were, anyone would have cared about getting splashed. Alec rocked back but just managed not to topple into Cherry's lap.
In spite of this lapse, the banks slid by infinitely faster on the way back to Bulawayo than they had on the outward voyage. The men were silent, their breath needed for rowing, and Daisy stayed mum so as not to disturb Alec's concentration again. Her mind seethed with speculation, though.
What on earth was Lord DeLancey doing on Temple Island at dawn with Horace Bott? Apart from shooting him, of course. If DeLancey believed Bott responsible for his brother's death, the shooting must be revenge. But what on earth was Horace Bott doing at dawn on Temple Island with Lord DeLancey?
One thing was certain: they couldn't possibly have met by chance. If the encounter was proposed by DeLancey, Bott would have had to be crazy to turn up—unless he was both innocent and unaware that he was the prime suspect.
On the other hand, why should Bott want to meet
DeLancey? In the hope of convincing him of his innocence? Proving it to Alec was more to the point.
A rendezvous with pistols at dawn sounded like a duel, but the custom of duelling had died out in England more than half a century ago. Anyway, duels were between gentlemen, and Lord DeLancey did not accord Bott that status.
Could it have been someone other than Lord DeLancey? That seemed even less likely than a duel.
None of the affair made any sort of sense that Daisy could see.
They were approaching the Cheringhams'. Cherry's frequent glances over his shoulder and consequent adjustments to his stroke had kept the skiff on a roughly straight course. Given the bend in the river, this brought them close to their destination before further manoeuvres became necessary.
“Right-oh, Fletcher, ship oars and man the boat-hook,” he instructed, and with apparent ease brought the skiff gently alongside the landing-stage.
Manfully, Alec manned the boathook. However, exhausted by his exertions, he sagged as soon as Cherry had stepped ashore and the skiff was safely moored.
“My arms … won't work any more,” he gasped. “I don't dare risk … lifting Bott in case I drop him.”
“You did a good job,” Cherry said kindly. “Rowing uses just about every muscle in your body, including some most people never know they have. I'll buzz on up to the house and get help. One or two of those sluggards must be up by now.”
“Don't … tell …” Alec panted.
Daisy guessed: “Don't mention Lord DeLancey, Cherry. Nor the shots or the gun,” she added, as Alec gestured weakly at his bundled jacket. “The pistol.”
“Right-oh.” Cherry set off up the lawn at an insufferably energetic run. Alec summoned up just enough energy to glare after him.
“He's made a point of developing all the right muscles,” Daisy consoled Alec, tactfully steering clear of the ten years difference in age. “I was fagged out after fifty yards. Alec, do you have any brilliant ideas about what they were doing there? Lord DeLancey and Bott? I can't make head or tail of it.”
“I haven't exactly had much leisure for thought.” He was regaining control of his breathing, at least. “Tell me your conclusions, or what led to a lack of them. But first, how's Bott doing?”
“He hasn't stirred.” Daisy peeked under the pad of handkerchief, then removed and refolded it. “The bleeding seems to have stopped.”
“How's his pulse? He still has one, I take it?”
“He's breathing, wheezing a bit.” She laid the hankie clean side down over the wound and grasped Bott's wrist. “I'm not very good at pulses. It seems to me steady but rather weak.”
“I hope to heaven he recovers, or we may never find out what was going on back there.”
By the time Daisy finished explaining her reasoning and her failure to deduce any answers, help was on the way. Rollo, Leigh, and Meredith came galloping down the garden like the Charge of the Light Brigade, with Tom Tring and Ernie Piper bringing up the rear.
Hastily picking up the jacket-wrapped pistol, Alec stepped up onto the landing-stage and helped Daisy ashore. Fortunately, her light summer clothes had dried off enough not to be utterly indecent.
While Piper helped Rollo, Leigh, and Meredith to lift Bott from the skiff to the landing-stage, Alec surreptitiously passed the Mauser to Tom Tring. The sergeant enveloped it in his own spotted handkerchief and deposited it in the capacious pocket of his startling blue and white check suit jacket.
“Mr. Cheringham sent Mr. Gladstone to rout out Bister to start up Lady Cheringham's motor-car, Chief. He's telephoning the hospital now so's they'll be prepared. He didn't say what happened, just that Mr. Bott's in a bad way.”
“I'll explain in the car, Tom.”
“Right, Chief. What about this here?” He patted his pocket.
“Bring it, and your kit.”
“I'll go get it.”
As Tom set off back to the house, Daisy said, “Has he got Lord DeLancey's dabs to match it with?”
“No. We'll have to get them somehow.”
They turned to the others. Piper was stripping off his jacket, saying, “You can make a stretcher with a couple of coats and two of them … those oars.”
“Good thought,” said Rollo, and took off his blazer while Meredith and Leigh retrieved a pair of sculls.
Bott was gently transferred from the planks to the makeshift stretcher, and once again a stretcher-bearing procession tramped up the path. At least the body on the stretcher was alive this time. So far.
“What are his chances?” she asked Alec as they followed.
“With proper care he may be perfectly all right, but plenty of things can go wrong with near-drowning victims, not only their lungs but hearts and brains, too. I've dealt with a few in
my time. On top of that, there's the loss of blood, and we've had a graphic demonstration of the possible results of head injuries.”
“Yes.” Daisy shivered, though the morning was already warm.
“You go and change at once,” Alec ordered. “I don't want you risking pneumonia, as well as Bott.”
“I'm perfectly all right.” Daisy had no intention of wasting time changing her clothes if it might mean being left behind. “Are you going to the hospital, or straight to see Lord DeLancey?”
“To the hospital. For a start, I must arrange for a guard.”
“He's in no condition to try running away.” She stopped, horrified, at the foot of the steps. “Oh, you think Lord DeLancey may try again?”
“Little likelihood, I'd say, but not to be ignored. Also, I must talk to the doctor, get a prognosis. If I'm extraordinarily lucky, Bott may come round and give me something to go on when I see DeLancey.” Alec was planning as he spoke. “If not, I'll leave Tom. He can take a statement if it becomes possible, and double as a guard.”
“Miss Hopgood will want to be with Bott.”
“Oh, the dickens, I'd forgotten her. A hysterical female is just what I need.”
“Susan Hopgood isn't at all the sort to succumb to hysteria.”
“All the same, don't you think she'd be better off not knowing till he recovers consciousness?”
“Or dies? No,” Daisy said firmly. “Bister can fetch her. There must be family, too, who ought to be informed.”
“Not until I have more idea of what's going on,” Alec said
with equal firmness as they entered the house in the wake of the stretcher party. He raised his voice. “Carry him into the hall, please, Frieth, ready to move on as soon as the car is brought round.”
Wells and Poindexter were in the hall, trying to get more from an uncommunicative Cherry than that Bott was hurt. They turned eagerly to Rollo in hopes of better information. Cherry handed a rolled bandage to Daisy and turned with relief to Alec.
“I've spoken to the Sister on duty at Townlands Hospital. She's getting hold of a doctor and having a bed prepared. Sergeant Tring said Bott should have a private room?”
“Yes, thanks. Lady Cheringham's car … ?”
“Is on the way. Bister was asleep when Gladstone rang through to him. There are other motor-cars available, of course, but I thought Bott would be less shaken about in the Humber, so …”
A sharp cry interrupted him. Along with everyone else, Daisy looked up at the stairs.
Tish and Dottie had stopped on their way down. Tish was looking over the banisters at Bott, lying limp and ashen on the improvised stretcher on the floor. Turning almost as pale, she crumpled in a dead faint.
Somehow Dottie managed to catch Tish before she hit her head on a step and tumbled down the stairs. Rollo and Cherry bounded up to her assistance. At that moment, Gladstone came in through the open front door and announced in a voice which remained deferential while cutting through the hubbub, “Mr. Fletcher, sir, the Humber is at the door.”
Daisy had to choose instantly whether to stay with Tish or go with Bott. It was an easy decision, and curiosity had nothing
to do with it, she assured herself. Her cousin had Dottie and Aunt Cynthia to support her, not to mention Rollo and Cherry, whereas Susan Hopgood had no one.
Slipping out, Daisy was already ensconced in the back seat of the Humber when Bott was borne out by Wells and Poindexter, with Meredith and Leigh in attendance. Alec, following the stretcher with Piper and Tring, glowered at her.
She smiled sweetly back, reasonably confident that, with all the others there, he wouldn't attempt to make her stay behind. Her confidence proved justified, whether because of the audience or because he was beginning to learn the futility of trying to order her about.
Thus Horace Bott's bandaged head was cradled in Daisy's still slightly damp lap as the Humber rolled down the drive. Piper sat in front, beside Bister in the cap and uniform jacket appropriate to his chauffeur's role.
Alec followed in the yellow Austin Seven with Sergeant Tring. Daisy wished she could hear what they were saying. Between them, they might solve the mystery of what brought Bott and Lord DeLancey together on Temple Island at dawn. It was very unfair, she reflected, that Alec expected her to reveal her speculations to him, without any guarantee that he would reciprocate.
She sighed. As a detective's wife she'd have to get used to it, she supposed.
As they entered the town, a board outside a newsagent's caught Daisy's eye: STROKE STRICKEN—
Regatta Death
. Admiring the clever headline, she hoped the Press hadn't yet found out where Basil DeLancey had been staying before his dramatic demise.
Bott turned his head and moaned.
“Piper, he moved!”
The young detective twisted to look back. “Is he coming round, miss?” he asked anxiously. “D'you want me to come back there to give you a hand?”
“No, he's perfectly still again,” Daisy reported with regret. “But it must be a good sign, don't you think?”
“'Spect so, miss. The Chief'll be happy.”
She watched Bott carefully the rest of the way without observing so much as a twitching finger or flickering eyelash. By the time they reached the cottage hospital a couple of minutes later, she wondered if she had imagined Bott's all too brief signs of life. He remained horribly limp when he was lifted from the car.
“I'm almost certain he moved his head,” she told Alec. “I was thinking about something else, but I felt it more than saw it, and heard him moan, too.”
“He didn't open his eyes?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“I'll tell the doctor about the movement. It sounds promising. Thank you for looking after him on the way here.”
That sounded to Daisy like the opening of a dismissal. “I'll go to fetch Miss Hopgood,” she said quickly, not giving him a chance to tell her she wasn't wanted at the hospital. She had already decided not to go in yet. She couldn't very well horn in on getting Bott to bed and the medical examination, even if she wanted to, which she didn't. “However versatile Bister may be,” she explained, “I can't ask him to break the bad news.”
“No, it would be a bit much, and I'm sure she'd rather hear it from you. I agree that she must be informed, but do try to persuade her not to come to the hospital.”
“I'll see how she feels,” Daisy said noncommittally.
“Your aunt wouldn't mind if you took her back to Bulawayo, would she? Then you could keep her company and she'd be near a telephone in case there's any news.”
“Aunt Cynthia wouldn't mind, I'm sure, but I think Miss Hopgood will want to be with Bott. She's very fond of him.”
BOOK: Dead in the Water
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