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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: Dead in the Water
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Alec frowned. “I could—perhaps I should—bar her from his room.”
“You wouldn't be so beastly! He's the victim, not the villain, after all. Besides, he's a different person with her, not pugnacious because he's not constantly on the defensive. She's very sensible. She might be useful in getting him to talk when he comes round.”
“If he's difficult, I can always send for her,” Alec pointed out.
“I'll see how she feels,” Daisy repeated, getting back into the Humber.
She knew she had no chance of being present at the interview with Lord DeLancey. No matter whether Susan Hopgood chose to rush to Bott's bedside or not, Daisy was going to be there.
“Victoria Road, Bister,” she ordered.
Lace curtains twitched all up and down the street as the Humber pulled up before Miss Hopgood's digs. Aware of eyes on her, though Daisy didn't go so far as to send Bister to knock before she descended, she did wait for him to get out and open the car door for her. Let Miss Hopgood's kind landlady milk the arrival of a chauffeur-driven motor-car at her little house for all it was worth.
Before Daisy could knock for herself, the front door
opened and Susan Hopgood appeared on the doorstep, her pretty face alarmed.
“Miss Dalrymple! What's wrong?” She glanced at the open window of the next house and lowered her voice. “Has Horace got himself into trouble? He hasn't gone and done something dreadful, has he? That 'tec who fetched him yesterday wouldn't say what was going on.”
“He hasn't been arrested or anything like that,” Daisy reassured her. “But I'm afraid I do have bad news. May I come in?”
Susan paled. “He's not dead, is he?”
“No, no. But he is in hospital.”
“Did you come to take me to him? Couldn't you tell me about it on the way?” She pulled herself together with a visible effort. “It's awfully kind of you. Just let me get my handbag, I won't be a moment.”
So much for trying to persuade her not to go, Daisy thought, turning back to the car. “Miss Hopgood is coming with me to the hospital,” she told Bister.
He saluted. “Right, miss, only was you wanting me to wait? Acos the taties wants lifting, see, if there's to be any for lunch. Them young gents gets through a powerful lot o' taties.”
“No, you need not wait.” Daisy would be only too pleased to let him go. Alec could not expect her to abandon Susan on the hospital's doorstep. By the time she had gone with the girl to find Bott's room, Bister would be well on his way home without her. Surely Alec wouldn't want to waste time taking her back to Bulawayo before he interviewed Lord DeLancey.
If he did, she would remind him that Horace Bott had
confided in her before, and might be persuaded to do so again, however reluctant to explain himself to Sergeant Tring.
Susan hurried out of the house and Bister handed her into the Humber beside Daisy, before returning to his seat behind the wheel. Though being assisted by a chauffeur into a smart motor-car was surely a new experience, she was far too worried to appreciate it.
“I'm reelly glad it's you who came, Miss Dalrymple, not a p'liceman,” she said as the Humber moved off. “What's happened to poor old Horace? Is he bad?”
“Not good, I'm afraid. He's been hurt—a head wound.” Remembering Alec's caution, Daisy didn't mention the pistol. “I don't know how much blood he lost, but the scalp does tend to bleed a lot. Also, he fell into the river and was half-drowned. He may well be perfectly all right, but all sorts of beastly complications are possible. I didn't wait to hear what the doctor had to say.”
“Poor Horace.” Susan's lips quivered. She looked much younger than her straightforward common sense had made her seem before, and a bit frightened. Daisy took her hand. “He must be feeling ever so poorly.”
“That's one thing you don't have to worry about. He's still unconscious, or was when I left.”
“Oh. That's … that's not very good, is it? But he's reelly, reelly fit. That'll help, won't it?”
“Bound to,” Daisy assured her.
“How did it happen? I mean, did he hurt his head when he fell into the water, or what?”
Daisy hesitated. “I'm sorry, I can't tell you.”
“You mean ‘mustn't,' don't you? Are the coppers still after him? What's he done?”
“Probably nothing. Everything's very confused at the moment. Alec—my fiancé—you remember I told you he's a detective?—he hasn't the foggiest what's been going on,” Daisy said with a mental apology to Alec.
Susan seemed relieved. “Your fella's in charge? He won't try to make out like it was Horace did something when it was one of the toffs, will he?”
“Certainly not!”
“No,
you
wouldn't be in love with him if he wasn't a good bloke. I'm glad it's him. Poor old Horace. I s'pose, seeing he's still unconscious, no one's told his mam and da yet. He's their only one. Auntie Flo'll want to come, and it takes ages by train.”
“Auntie? I didn't realise he's your cousin.”
“Horace? He isn't. Auntie Flo's just my mam's best friend. Lady Cheringham's your real auntie, isn't she?”
“Yes, my mother's sister.” With a flash of guilt, Daisy recalled the state in which she had left her cousin. She hadn't spared Tish a thought since. Seeing Bott's inanimate body lying on the floor had been one shock too many for the poor girl.
Perhaps she should have stayed. But no, her reasons held. Susan Hopgood clung to her hand like a drowning man—Ugh, another morbid cliché! She would telephone to ask about Tish as soon as Susan could spare her.
“Here we are,” she said as the Humber drew up before Townlands Hospital. “Perhaps you'd better tell them you're his cousin, or his fiancée, in case they're fussy about who they let in to see him.”
“You'll come with me, won't you, Miss Dalrymple? It's an awful lot to ask, I know, but
please
.”
“Of course, if you want me,” said Daisy with aplomb, as if the thought had never crossed her mind.
A larger hospital might have questioned the credentials of two young ladies bent upon visiting a patient under police guard. The cottage hospital porter-cum-orderly simply directed them to the poor young man's room, shaking his head as he added gloomily, “Sorry to say, miss, ‘e's in a bad way. Doctor don't 'old out much 'ope.”
A
lec and Tom Tring stood in the passage with a stethoscope-garlanded doctor, the hospital's Matron, and the Sister on duty, with Piper hovering on the edge of the group. They all turned at the sound of Daisy and Susan's footsteps on the tile floor.
Matron, a short, thin, grey-haired woman with rather severe features, stepped forward to meet them. With one glance at Susan's now tear-stained face, she said kindly, “My dear, did my wretched porter tell you to abandon hope? He says the same for everything from a broken leg to a bleeding ulcer.”
“Get rid of that Job's comforter,” grunted the doctor.
“As you know quite well, Doctor,” she said, giving him an exasperated look, “the Chairman of the Board of Trustees … Well, never mind. There's no reason to suppose that your young man won't make a good recovery, child, given the best of care, which he will have, will he not, Sister?”
“Of course, Matron.” Sister was large, plump, and motherly-looking, though Daisy, having worked in a hospital office during the War, was sure she and Matron could both be frightful Tartars to their staff. “It's Miss Hopgood, isn't it,
dear? You'll want to see Mr. Bott, I expect. Is that all right, Chief Inspector?”
“Yes,” Alec said unenthusiastically. “Detective Sergeant Tring will be in charge, Miss Hopgood. If he asks you to leave the room, please do so at once.”
“Oh yes, sir. Please, can Miss Dalrymple stay with me?”
Alec raised his eyes to heaven. “I suppose so,” he said with even less enthusiasm, “but the same goes for her as far as obeying Sergeant Tring is concerned.”
“Naturally, Chief Inspector,” Daisy said demurely, catching Tom's twinkling eye.
Sister ushered them into a small room, spotlessly white from walls to night-stand to bed to the patient in it, and his bandaged head. At least, Horace Bott spent too much time out of doors for his face to be white, strictly speaking, but beneath the suntan his pallor was obvious. Susan gasped in dismay.
Daisy tried to listen to both the nurse's account of Bott's condition and the murmur of voices beyond the door, left ajar.
“—pulse and heartbeat are both strong, and lungs …”
“Good idea, Sergeant. Do that, but don't forget …”
“—always a risk of pneumonia and …”
“Thank you, Doctor. I promise Sergeant Tring will …”
“—head injury appears superficial, but they're always liable to …”
“Don't let her interfere, Tom, for pity's sake. She's …”
Incensed, Daisy transferred her attention to Sister.
“ … haven't got an X-ray machine here in Henley. It would mean moving him to Reading and the doctor says it's more important to keep him still than to take pictures of his skull. It's a bit worrying that he hasn't come round yet. You sit yourself down here beside him, dear. Hold his hand if you
want, but don't sit on the bed or try to fluff up his pillows or anything like that. And you can talk, but keep your voices down, please.”
“Oh yes, Sister. Thanks ever so.”
The nurse glanced around the room. “I'll have Porter bring another chair for Sergeant Tring.”
“A large one,” said Daisy, and Susan managed a smile.
“Large and strong,” Sister agreed. “And don't you go listening to a word Porter says, dear. I'll tell him to hold his tongue.”
She went out. Daisy heard her voice, and Tom Tring's bass in answer, as Susan said in a whisper, “He's so awfully still! Oh, Miss Dalrymple, what'll I do about telling Auntie Flo? They'll be ever so upset. I ought to go and send a telegram, but I don't want to leave Horace.”
“We'll ask Sergeant Tring to arrange something.”
“I wish he wasn't going to stay.”
“Don't worry, Tom Tring's really frightfully nice.”
“What do the police want with Horace, anyway? It's something to do with that man who died, isn't it? The man in his crew.”
Before Daisy was forced to find an answer, Tring came in, carrying his own chair. “Have you had your breakfast, Miss Hopgood?” he asked benevolently. “I haven't, and I know Miss Dalrymple hasn't, so I asked Sister to see what she could send along.”
“Bless you, Mr. Tring!” said Daisy, suddenly aware of ravening hunger.
“I was just starting mine,” Susan said, “when … But I couldn't eat, reelly.”
“Ah well, I dare say a cuppa'd do you good, though. The
missus always says a nice hot cuppa's the best cure there is for the mopes. Gives you a good breakfast, does she, your landlady?”
“Oh yes, bacon and eggs and everything.”
“I bet she put up a nice picnic for you, too. Nothing like fresh air to give you an appetite, is there? Me and the missus take a picnic out to Epping Forest now and then. Ever been there? It's a pretty place, but I 'spect the river-bank's prettier. Have a good time, did you?” He gave Daisy a warning glance.
That was when she realised the soothing rumble had a purpose. No doubt the “good idea” Alec had approved was to seize the chance to interrogate the unsuspecting Miss Hopgood.
“It was lovely,” said Susan. “I told Horace straight out, I didn't want to hear any more grousing about how they all picked on him. Once he stopped talking about it, he stopped thinking about it, and he soon cheered up.”
“Not another word about his troubles, eh?”
“No, he was talking about what he's going to do at Cambridge next year. I didn't understand all the science stuff, but I don't mind just listening to him when he's happy. We had a lovely day.”
“Hot enough for you?” Tring asked, a trifle roguishly.
Susan blushed. “It was hot in the sun. Horace wished he was wearing his shorts, like the day before.”
“Blimey—if you'll pardon the expression, ladies—he went around in rowing shorts all day?”
“No one minds in Henley, do they, Miss Dalrymple?”
“Not in Regatta time, at least.”
“It would have taken hours if he'd walked back to change. He'd've had to go round by the road, seeing he couldn't be
sure there'd be a boat to take him across. I must say, people looked at him kind of funny at the fair.”
“The fair?”
“There's a fun-fair by the river,” Daisy explained. “Coconut shies and merry-go-rounds and a Ferris wheel, that sort of thing.”
“It doesn't start till after the racing's over for the day,” Susan said, “'cause of the noise.”
“You must've had a late night then, eh?”
“Oh no, we went early. We had tea at my digs—high tea, it was extra, like the picnic, but I told Horace it was my treat and no harm in splurging once in a while.”
“None at all,” Tring agreed heartily.
“So we went to the fair after tea, and we didn't stay late, what with Horace having to walk by the road all the way back to the Cheringhams' house.”
“How silly!” said Daisy. “He could have come back with the rest of us. Why didn't he say something when we met at the fair?”
“He didn't want to ask any favours,” Susan said with dignity, “besides wanting to see me home first. He was always very particular about walking me home. Oh Horace!” Tears welled in her eyes as she turned to the still figure on the bed.
“And many a time to come he'll be walking you home, miss,” Tom assured her, with more hope than certainty, Daisy felt.
The arrival of a nurse-probationer with the breakfast-trolley came as a relief to both of them.
 
Meanwhile, Alec drove back towards Crowswood Place. He was beginning to resign himself to the way Daisy managed to
make it impossible for him to object to her doing anything she was really determined to do. It was lucky he had a modern view of marriage as a partnership, he thought a trifle sourly. A Victorian paterfamilias faced with Daisy as a wife might have been driven to choose between lunacy and murder.
The truly maddening thing was that he had to admit she was occasionally helpful in the murder investigations she insisted on meddling in. Had she not kept her wits about her when abandoned by both her escorts in mid-river, he would not have had the first idea of where to look for Bott's assailant.
It was a pity she had not actually recognised Lord DeLancey. Still, the chances of anyone else at Crowswood being interested in Bott seemed minimal.
On the other hand, Daisy's reasoning about the dawn meeting was sound. DeLancey might want revenge, but why should Bott agree to a rendezvous? Bott might want to try to convince DeLancey of his innocence, but why on an island at dawn? Could cross purposes have brought them together?
The first order of business, Alec decided, was to persuade Lord DeLancey to admit to having been on Temple Island.
“Ernie, make sure your notes of this interview are very accurate.”
“They always are, Chief,” said Piper, injured.
“Take extra care. I want my exact words on paper so that no lawyer can accuse me of lying to Lord DeLancey. If he chooses to misinterpret what I say, that's his problem.”
Piper grinned. “Like that, is it, Chief? Don't you worry about my notes. Even if you was to have a slip of the tongue, like, it wouldn't need to go down in my notebook.”
“Don't let's start fudging,” Alec said mildly. “We'll play it
straight and hope for other evidence if I can't get a confession. Here we are.”
The gates of Crowswood Place stood closed this morning. Alec had no difficulty identifying the two sinister characters lurking nearby as members of the Fourth Estate. In fact, he recognised one as a reporter for the
Daily Graphic
. Unfortunately, recognition was mutual.
Before the Austin had quite come to a halt, Dugden was there. “Well, well, Chief Inspector Fletcher of the Yard,” he said cheerfully, snapping a photograph, as the other man hurried over to join him. “Any progress to report, Chief Inspector? Come to tell his lordship who did his brother in, are you?”
“If so, his lordship will be the first to know. Be a good fellow, Dugden, and knock up the gatekeeper for … Ah, here she comes.”
The woman who came out of the lodge examined Alec's warrant card, which he had automatically dropped in his pocket when he hurriedly dressed to go out in the garden at dawn. She went to open the gates.
“Aw, have a heart, Chief Inspector,” Dugden begged. “Give us a statement.”
“The investigation is proceeding according to plan,” Alec said blandly, and inaccurately. “I'll speak to the gentlemen of the Press at Henley Police Station this afternoon, if I can find the time.”
“If you have time? No arrest then,” said the other man, disappointed, as the car began to move again.
Running alongside, Dugden pleaded, “Just tell me where the Ambrose crew is putting up.”
“Not likely. And no trespassing, or I'll have you inside in no time flat.”
“You're a hard man, Chief Inspector.” The reporters fell behind as the Austin picked up speed along the winding drive.
“Regular pests, those newspapermen,” Piper said disapprovingly.
“Just doing their job, Ernie. They can be useful to us sometimes, so the trick is to ward 'em off without offending them.”
“Like butlers,” the young detective observed.
“More or less.” Alec drew up before the imposing portico. “Luckily we're too early in the day for the butler to be answering the door, if I'm not mistaken. On the other hand, I've been swimming in these trousers.”
Whether or not influenced by the wrinkled, still-damp flannels, the liveried footman who admitted them to the mansion ushered them into the same chilly antechamber. With a degree of frost quite equal to the butler's, he enquired, “Is his lordship expecting you?”
Alec responded placidly, “I believe Lord DeLancey will agree to see me.”
“I believe his lordship has not come down yet.”
“Go and find out, there's a good chap. And if not, let him know we've arrived, will you? Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher is the name, if you didn't catch it. From Scotland Yard. We don't mind waiting.”
The footman's outraged face intimated as plainly as words that they had not been invited to wait. However, a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard was a far cry from the easily intimidated local bobby. He was not sure of his ground, and a half-suppressed snicker from Piper decided him. Turning red, he left.
“That was unkind,” said Alec, grinning.
“Jumped-up Jack-in-office,” Piper snorted. “He hasn't even made it out of the uniformed branch.”
BOOK: Dead in the Water
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