Alec spent a frustrating but ultimately successful hour on the telephone in Sir Rupert’s library.
He had permission from the Chief Constables of Bucks and Oxfordshire to operate on their respective manors as necessary. They were both delighted not to have to deal with a murder, especially one involving the aristocracy.
Alec’s Superintendent at the Yard—or rather, run to earth at his country cottage—had impatiently agreed to the three C.C.s’ request for Alec’s services, as relayed by Alec. With luck, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime need never be consulted. He’d receive the final report, but Alec meant to do his damnedest to keep Daisy’s name out of it.
Detective Sergeant Tom Tring and Detective Constable Ernie Piper were on their way to Henley. Alec was sorry to wrest them from a weekend with their respective families, but in a case which promised as many complications as this, he needed men he knew he could rely on.
A Henley constable had been despatched to make enquiries at Bott’s young lady’s lodgings (Daisy knew the name and address; how the dickens did she manage it?).
The Berkshire officer who had helped to carry the stretcher was ensconced in the drawing-room, keeping an eye on the young men. Three constables had already arrived from the Buckinghamshire police, who were minimally involved in the Regatta. One was guarding the boat-house, one the bedroom DeLancey had shared with young Fosdyke—what else ought to be guarded and searched Alec could not guess. The third stood outside the library door, ready to run errands.
The police surgeon had also arrived. The next item on Alec’s agenda was to talk to Dr. Dewhurst and make sure he agreed with Mr. Fosdyke’s diagnosis.
Alec gulped the last bite of the sandwiches Lady Cheringham had kindly sent in to him and washed it down with a swig of lukewarm tea. Daisy had made Alec’s apologies to her aunt when they reached the house, while he headed straight for the telephone. He was very glad her uncle was in London—though the news might well bring him scurrying back.
Leaving the constable to mind the telephone in Sir Rupert’s library, Alec made for the old coach-house and stables, now converted into garages. In one of these reposed the remains of the Honourable Basil DeLancey.
Dr. Dewhurst and Mr. Fosdyke sat on a bench against the sunny brick wall, the former smoking a pipe, the latter a cigar. Crossing towards them, Alec felt in his pocket for his own pipe and the tobacco-pouch Belinda had made him, blue, with a crooked monogram.
The medical men saw him and stood up. Fosdyke introduced Alec to the police surgeon, a short, slight, elderly but sprightly-looking gentleman.
“Miss Dalrymple is your fiancée, Chief Inspector?” asked
Dr. Dewhurst, shaking his hand. “A charming young lady. Judging by her description …”
“You have spoken to her?” Alec demanded.
“Why, yes. In such cases, a first-person report is greatly to be preferred, and I understand the young lady of the house, who was also a witness, is indisposed.”
Mr. Fosdyke shook his head gravely. “I’ve talked to Miss Cheringham, tried to convince her that no possible fault attaches to her for failing to recognise that the young man was not simply inebriated.”
“That was kind of you, sir.”
“She has taken the matter a good deal to heart, I fear. I prescribed a bromide, and her mother, a sensible woman, has put her to bed.”
“I’m sorry to hear she’s so cut up,” said Alec, wondering if Tish might be suffering from knowledge—not mere suspicion—that Cheringham or Frieth was involved.
“Miss Dalrymple is made of stronger stuff,” Dr. Dewhurst said in a congratulatory tone. “I hope you don’t object to my having consulted her.”
Tamping the fragrant tobacco into his pipe with his thumb, Alec bit back a sigh. “No, of course not, sir.” He should have realised Daisy had already inextricably entwined herself in the case. He wasn’t even sure any more whether he’d wanted to keep her out of it to protect her—or himself.
“She gave an admirably clear account of the symptoms of the deceased last night and this morning,” the police surgeon continued. “Taking it together with Mr. Fosdyke’s account of his death and my own preliminary examination, I concur absolutely with his conclusions. I should be exceedingly surprised
if the autopsy doesn’t show the cause of death as subdural haemorrhage and haematoma resulting from a blow to the head and subsequent fall.”
“Would you say DeLancey might have been drunk when she saw him last night? That is, could he have been struck later?”
“Oh yes, quite possibly. But he could equally well have been suffering already from the effects of the brain injury. To the layman, the two may be virtually indistinguishable. Not more than forty-eight hours; at least four. Not much help, but I might be able to narrow it a bit at autopsy.”
“Thank you, sir. I expect I’d better take a look at the injuries for myself, if you wouldn’t mind coming along to help me interpret what I see.”
“I’ll be off,” said Fosdyke, “if you don’t need me any more. Here’s my card, Chief Inspector. I’m staying at the Catherine Wheel in Henley, at least until tomorrow evening. If, that is, as I assume, you want Nicholas—my boy—to remain here.”
“I can’t insist, sir, but it would be more convenient.” Alec applied a third lighted match to his pipe and puffed vigorously.
“He’ll stay. Nick didn’t do it, you know. A fist to the chin, perhaps, but a blunt instrument to the back of the head, never.”
“That’s what it looks like?”
“You’ll see.” Fosdyke shook hands and Alec thanked him for his assistance, hoping the surgeon was right about his son.
Examining the contusions on DeLancey’s head, Alec found himself agreeing with Fosdyke’s analysis, though there was room for disagreement. For a start, neither swelling appeared to be caused by a fist.
“The impact of individual knuckles is observable ninety-nine times out of a hundred,” Dr. Dewhurst said, adding cautiously, “There is always the hundredth time, of course.”
Which lump came first was less certain. They were both on the sides of the head rather than the top, front, or back. The one on the right was towards the upper rear, that on the left much further forward but well behind the hair-line. The latter had a raw, scraped look in spite of the draining of blood to the back of the head after death.
“This must have bled,” said Alec.
“Yes, but not badly. It’s more of an abrasion than a laceration. Blood would ooze, not flow. Enough to leave you a clue, possibly, but not enough to draw attention, matted in his dark hair as it would have been.”
“And those who saw him were half-asleep. This would be the secondary blow, don’t you think?” Alec proposed. “It looks as if he might have fallen and slid across a rough surface.”
Dewhurst agreed. “Also, the swelling is less pronounced, as if caused by a fall from no great height, not a severe blow. What is more, there is some bruising on the left hip and …”
“I don’t need to see it,” Alec said hastily as the doctor started to draw back the sheet. It was difficult enough to keep his professional composure while examining a disembodied head, without the pathetic sight of the naked body. He puffed on his pipe, though this body, unlike many, required no counter-irritant for the nasal membranes. Thank heaven.
The doctor was also puffing away, speaking around his pipe-stem. “There are several tiny splinters of wood in the secondary contusion and in the left hand,” he observed.
“A wooden floor? Rough plank, not parquet.”
“That’s for you to find out, Chief Inspector, but it would
seem a reasonable inference. I find it difficult to picture a weapon which would leave such signs, though that, again, is your business. On the other hand, the right parietal contusion appears to have been produced by some sort of blunt instrument, more flat than rounded, I should say, and smooth rather than rough. No bleeding.”
“Hit from behind, by a right-handed assailant,” Alec concluded.
“From behind and slightly above.”
Alec frowned. “He’s quite tall, isn’t he?”
“Five foot eleven and a quarter.”
“Tall enough. Crouching?” Lurking low in the boat-house?
“Bruised hip,” countered Dr. Dewhurst. “He landed on it from more than crouching height.”
“Hmmm. He’d have been knocked unconscious, I assume.”
“Not necessarily. The immediate effect might have been quite insignificant. It was intra-cranial swelling, bleeding, and possibly a blood clot which killed him.”
“So his assailant may not have realised how badly he was injured.”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t feeling pretty groggy,” the doctor said, “but brain injuries are curious things. It’s possible he simply got up and walked away.”
DeLancey could have made his own way from the boat-house to the house, then. “Anything else I ought to consider?” Alec asked. “Will you do the post-mortem, sir?”
“If you wish. I doubt jurisdiction will be disputed in the circumstances, and I have good facilities in Reading. If you
have the body delivered this afternoon, I’ll get on to it right away.”
“The sooner the better, I’d say. It’s a hot day. If you’re doing the post-mortem, perhaps you wouldn’t mind notifying your local Coroner? Thank you, Doctor.”
Returning towards the house, Alec was met by the constable he had left at the ‘phone. “The station rang up, sir,” he reported. “Henley Police Station, I should say. Miss Hopgood’s landlady says she made ’em a picnic, her and Mr. Bott, and they was talking of taking a walk up the river, t’ards Marsh Lock.”
“That’s away from the Regatta?”
“That’s right, sir. The lock’s a mile or thereabouts up from the bridge. They wants to know, did you want summun to go after Bott?”
Alec pondered as they entered the house by a side-passage. He didn’t see how Bott could possibly have learnt of DeLancey’s death, so there was no reason for him to attempt to flee. It would not hurt to have more information before confronting him. Things looked black for the cox. Alec could imagine Frieth or young Fosdyke or Cheringham letting fly with his fists, but to attack someone from behind with a weapon would go against the instincts of a gentleman.
All the same, he should not have let Cheringham return to the house with the girls. He had had every opportunity to destroy evidence.
“Alec!” Daisy came up to him as he crossed the hall towards the library. “I was coming to find you.”
“Ah, Daisy, Bott is expected back here, isn’t he?”
A lover-like greeting! she thought, practically trotting to
keep up with his stride. “Yes. He was worried that Aunt Cynthia would expect him to leave once the eight was knocked out of the Thames Cup, but of course she didn’t.”
“Good.”
“He wanted to stay on because of Miss Hopgood, of course, and it’s impossible to get a room in town. When she goes back to London tomorrow evening, he’s going off on a walking tour, camping at night, but he left all his stuff here, I know. Leigh rowed him across the river—the towpath’s a shorter walk than by road—and they went off straight from breakfast. Alec, I …”
“Just a minute, darling. Henley Police are expecting me to ring back.”
Daisy glanced at her wrist-watch. She had a few minutes to spare still. Unabashedly she listened as Alec told the officer on duty it was not necessary to track down Horace Bott.
“But have the beat bobby keep an eye on Miss Hopgood’s lodgings, please, and report to me when they come in.” He listened, his face relaxing. “At the railway station? Good. I’ll fetch them myself. Can you give me directions and the telephone number?”
“Tring and Piper?” Daisy mouthed at him and he nodded. She waited as he wrote down the number and cut the connection, then she said, “If you’re going to drive into the town, you could give me a lift.”
“A lift?” he asked, already dialling again.
“I have an appointment …”
“Hullo. This is Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.”
“ … to meet my friend who …”
“That’s right. Please tell them I’ll pick them up in a quarter of an hour.”
“ …is going to present me …”
“Yes, thank you.”
“ … to Prince Henry, Duke of Gloucester.”
“What’s that, Daisy? The Duke of Gloucester?”
“For my article. If I have to walk, I must leave right away or I’ll have to hurry and get all hot and sticky. Rollo said he’d drive me, but I imagine you don’t want him to leave. It’s all right for me to go, isn’t it? I’m not a suspect.”
“No?” Alec asked with a grin.
“No,” Daisy said firmly, leading the way back to the front hall. “DeLancey never insulted me. After all, I’m as Honourable as he was.”
“Rather more so, I hope.”
“Idiot. Will you take me as far as the bridge?”
“Yes, love. Are you ready? Go on out to the car while I make my apologies to the gentlemen for keeping them waiting. Not that I’m particularly sorry. In this case, letting them stew for a while won’t hurt and might help, and I want Tring and Piper here when I start asking questions. Where are they all?”
“In the drawing-room and on the terrace. Trying to pretend nothing’s happened, not easy with a bobby on watch. Dottie’s with them, with Cherry, but Tish is in bed.”
“Yes, Mr. Fosdyke said he had prescribed a bromide. I’m sorry she’s taken it so hard, and glad you have more backbone, my love. Be with you in a minute.”
Glowing from the rare compliment, Daisy went out to the yellow Austin. She didn’t mind any more that he hadn’t noticed how smart she was in the new amber silk-georgette frock. Even Lucy said the narrow pleats all the way from shoulders to hem made her look almost slim. They had also
made it frightfully expensive, but after all, she was going to meet Prince Henry, and spruced up with a scarf it would do as a dinner dress afterwards.
The Chummy was standing in the shade, fortunately, or the seats would have been too hot to sit on. It would be unbearably stuffy with the hood up, but the road into Henley, the main road to Marlow, was metalled so she shouldn’t get too dusty. She checked in her handbag for her comb.
Alec did not keep her waiting. “Actually,” he said as he sat down behind the wheel and pressed the self-starter, “you aren’t a suspect. It looks as if the assailant was at least as tall as DeLancey. The blow was struck from above.”
“It wasn’t Bott, then.”
“He’s short?” Alec did not sound pleased.
“He’s a cox. All coxes are small, because of the extra weight in the boat. You were thinking it must be him?”
“Leaning that way,” he grunted, turning left out of the drive into a road between hedges wreathed with traveller’s joy and fragrant honeysuckle. “It seemed to me improbable that anyone raised as a gentleman would strike someone from behind with a weapon, rather than a fist to the face. Not without a more serious motive than a fit of anger, anyway. I suppose I’m being naïve.”
“Gentlemen born and bred don’t always behave like gentlemen. Just consider DeLancey!” Daisy pointed out. “But the rest of the fellows are the real thing. Couldn’t someone short have hit him with something long?”
“Hm, that’s possible. Which means you are a suspect after all.”
“No, I’m not,” Daisy said indignantly. “If anything, I insulted him, not the other way around.”
“Darling, did you really?”
“I refused—rather curtly—to go dancing with him, and I as good as told him his manners were worse than Bott’s.”
“Great Scott, I’m lucky he didn’t biff you over the head!”
Daisy blew him a kiss. “Aren’t you? Alec, could DeLancey have been biffed with an oar? There’s a rack for oars in the boat-house. As far as I could see they were all in place when I looked, but …”
“When you looked? Daisy, is there something you haven’t told me?”
“Look, that’s Crowswood, where Lord DeLancey is staying.”
Though Alec gave the open gates and the lodge a thoughtful glance, as a diversionary tactic it was a failure. “What were you doing in the boat-house at a time when an oar used as a weapon might have been out of place?” he demanded.
“Looking for Bott, as a matter of fact.”
“Looking for Bott? Don’t tell me you were so concerned about sabotage …”
“Gosh no. I was concerned about Bott. I thought, if DeLancey was on guard and Bott really did go down there, DeLancey might have hit him and left him badly hurt, if not dead. I thought it might explain why DeLancey was in such a state. Shock, you know.”
“So you went down to the boat-house in the middle of the night. Alone, I take it?”
“Everyone was asleep, and I couldn’t let Bott just lie there badly hurt, could I? Especially after I found the French windows open, proving someone—Look, there’s the entrance to Phyllis Court. I told you we’re invited there this evening?”
“You did. I can’t promise …”
“I know. But I expect you’ll have solved it by then.”
“Your faith is flattering, love.” Alec smiled at her, hastily turning back as the Marlow Road met the main street through Henley. “But it’s equally possible I may be stymied by then and needing to get away from the case for a while. Don’t cancel yet, at any rate. You didn’t find Bott in the boat-house. What did you find?”
“Absolutely nothing. It was horridly eerie,” she confessed with a reminiscent shudder, though nothing could have been less eerie than the shops and pubs of Bell Street on a sunny afternoon. “I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t lying drowned at the bottom of the water, but if he was, it was too late to help him. You can’t imagine how glad I was when he came down to breakfast.”
“I can. How did you see? Is electricity laid on?”
“No, I took the electric torch from the landing. I was very careful not to mess up any fingerprints,” Daisy said proudly.
“Tom Tring will be proud of you. Unfortunately, by now anyone could have wiped it, if the housemaid doesn’t polish it daily,” Alec observed with callous masculine logic. “Still, we don’t know that the boat-house was the scene of the crime.”
“Anyone going before me might not have needed a torch, anyway. I didn’t need it outside—the moon was just setting—and earlier … Oh, here, this is Hart Street. Turn left here, then right at the bridge, and drop me there. Then you can go straight on along the river, turn right at the end, and there’s the station.”
“Right-oh. The boat-house has windows?”
“Actually, I didn’t notice,” Daisy admitted sheepishly. “If not, the brightest moon wouldn’t help inside, of course.”
Alec turned right and stopped. He couldn’t pull the
Chummy over to the kerb because of all the motors, some with boat-trailers hitched behind, parked along the street, so Daisy quickly hopped out. She turned to say good-bye as a harassed-looking bobby advanced on them.
“That’s a very fetching frock,” said Alec. “Should I be jealous of Prince Henry?”
“It’s all right, he’s too young for me. See you later, darling.”
The Austin zipped off just ahead of the constable’s reprimand. Daisy turned back towards the bridge.
So Alec had noticed her new dress after all. He had been joking about the Prince, of course, but his words reminded Daisy of Rollo’s possible motive for getting hot under the collar where DeLancey was concerned.
Rollo had jumped to the conclusion that Tish was upset about DeLancey’s death because she was fond of him. Could he be right? Was Tish prostrated because she feared for Rollo and Cherry, or because, though she repulsed DeLancey, she was attracted to him? His obvious lack of serious intent might have led her to reject him with a show of pique, whatever her feelings.
If Rollo had real cause for jealousy, or believed so, he had a much stronger motive for violence than if he was just angry because of DeLancey’s persistent pestering.
Bosh! Daisy told herself, nipping across the road between an ancient governess-cart and a royal blue Napier driven by a chauffeur in matching uniform. Alec was right—even the peaceable Rollo might strike out with his fists but he wouldn’t biff someone over the head from behind with an oar.
Horace Bott was another kettle of fish. Daisy stopped in the middle of the bridge, gazing down at the bustle of the Regatta
on the river and the bank, as she had yesterday with Bott and his girl after his ducking. Bott had far greater cause for resentment than Rollo or Cherry. Grossly outweighed by DeLancey and, as he said himself, without the instincts of a gentleman, he might well have resorted to a weapon if attacked when bent on sabotage.
But if DeLancey was on the attack, how did he manage to get hit from behind?
Shaking her head in puzzlement, Daisy walked on.