On 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.
Susan was on the point of speaking again but Tom held up his hand. “How did you come to fall in, sir?” he asked. “That is, did Lord DeLancey push you, or drop you in when you were unconscious?”
“I don’t think so,” Bott said unwillingly, obviously reluctant to give DeLancey the benefit of the doubt. “As far as I can remember, I was caught off balance, stepping back, when the bullet hit me, and I just staggered backwards into the river. But I couldn’t swear to it. I was seeing stars. I don’t remember hitting the water, so I suppose I was unconscious by then.”
To Daisy, his resisting the temptation to accuse DeLancey of pushing or throwing him into the Thames gave his story the final ring of truth. She was already inclined to believe him. He hadn’t had time to make up a tale, and anyway he was clearly the victim.
What she was dying to know was why Lord DeLancey had wanted to kill Bott. She would have asked long ago, but she thought Tom Tring was quite capable of sending her out if she interrupted, even though he allowed Susan a certain leeway. The sergeant had his own way of doing things.
Susan was about to speak again but Tom held up his hand to stop her. “Right, sir,” he said, “and just what was it took you to Temple Island at that hour of the morning to meet Lord DeLancey?”
“His request, Sergeant. After the Chief Inspector and I had our little chat, Gladstone gave me a note he had found on the hall table, with my name on it. A leaf torn from a pocketbook, it appeared to be. It said, ‘I must talk to you,’ and proposed the time and place. That’s all. None of the social amenities for me.”
“Signed?”
“No, but I guessed who it was from. Anyone in the house who wanted to speak to me had no need to write a note, nor to suggest such an inconvenient meeting place. And I heard Wells mention that DeLancey had turned up that afternoon. Not a difficult deduction.”
“And why would Lord DeLancey want to talk to you, sir?”
Tom’s stolid enquiry was followed by silence. Daisy glanced up. Bott had a distinctly wary look in his eye.
“I don’t know,” he said brusquely. “I suppose because I wasn’t there when he talked to the rest of the crew about his brother.”
“No need to go to Temple Island for that, was there, sir?” Tom’s mild, placid manner remained unchanged. He seemed almost bovine, an impression Daisy knew to be grossly misleading. “I’m sure you must’ve guessed, or deduced, something more, or you wouldn’t’ve turned up.”
“I don’t know, I tell you.” Bott was fretful now. “Must you pester me? I was nearly killed a few hours ago. I’m not up to an interrogation.”
“Leave him alone!” said Susan. “Can’t you see he’s not well? Are you achy, Horace, or feverish?” She laid her hand on his forehead. “Shall I ring for Sister?”
“No! For heaven’s sake, don’t fuss, Susan.”
“Perhaps you’ll feel better for a drink of water, sir. Your mouth’s dry from talking, I expect.”
At Bott’s grudging nod, Tom raised him a little and Susan gave him the glass of water from the night-stand. He drank thirstily, then complained, “It tastes just like the Thames.”
“Comes straight out of the river, I dare say. Now, just one or two more questions, sir, and I’ll leave you in peace. You must see we have to know why you agreed to meet Lord DeLancey. He wasn’t by any chance blackmailing you?”
“Blackmailing me?” Bott snorted with an unamused laugh. “What the deuce do I have that he might want? Besides, you’ve got it the wrong way round, haven’t you? Blackmailers are supposed to be done in by their victims.”
“It’s always possible,” Tom said weightily, “that you attacked him, and he shot you in self-defence.”
“Here now, don’t you try to make me into the villain of the piece!” cried Bott. “If you want to know, he thought I was going to blackmail him. I went to Temple Island for the pleasure of laughing in his face when he tried to bribe me to keep quiet. Only he didn’t try to bribe me, he tried to kill me.”
“And what, sir, do you know about Lord DeLancey that he’d rather you kept quiet about?”
There was a long silence. Daisy discovered she was holding her breath, and she thought Susan was, too. Tom waited with massive patience. The struggle in Horace Bott’s mind was apparent on his face.
“I’ll tell you!” he burst out at last. “Cedric DeLancey killed his brother!”