Chapter 6 #2
Miss Cheringham came to greet him. She was as welcoming as her mother, though she looked rather tired.
The strain of a houseful of hearty oarsmen must be telling on her.
She introduced her friend, Miss Carrick, a plain young lady with a voice like warm honey, and the four undergrads.
The latter were deferential, no doubt because of his age, he thought ruefully.
His rank would not impress them, even if they knew it.
To such privileged scions of the aristocracy and the gentry, no policeman was quite “one of us.”
At least they did not seem to hold his lack of the proper accent against him.
Not for the first time, Alec blessed his mother for not allowing him to pick up the slightest trace of North London speech patterns.
He spoke the King’s English, better in fact than they did, with their university slang and the plummy voices which made them sound like pompous fools.
Eton and Oxford did not automatically make a man a pompous fool, Alec reminded himself charitably.
They all went down to the river-bank together. Two double-scull skiffs were moored there. Each had a forward-facing seat in the stern, a V-shaped seat fitting into the bow, and two benches for oarsmen amidships.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to row you over,” Alec said to Daisy in a low voice, regarding the swarm of small craft heading upstream. “I might manage the current or the traffic, but not both. The Serpentine is the limit of my experience.”
“I’ve rowed on the Severn.”
“Then you can row me over.”
“Not likely! It was years ago, and a much smaller, quieter river. Luckily, we have four stalwart oarsmen to hand.”
In fact, the Ambrose men took it for granted that they would man the sculls. Miss Cheringham and Miss Carrick embarked with Meredith and Leigh, Alec and Daisy with Wells and Poindexter.
“You do know how to steer, don’t you, Mr. Fletcher?” Miss Carrick called as he settled on the well-cushioned rear seat with Daisy.
Daisy put the tiller-lines in his hands.
“I think so,” Alec said cautiously.
Miss Carrick and Miss Cheringham exchanged a glance. “There are an awful lot of boats out,” said Miss Cheringham. “I’ll come with you.”
Though there was plenty of room for all of them, Daisy didn’t want to leave Miss Carrick on her own, so she took her cousin’s place in the other skiff.
“I thought I’d better ask,” Miss Cheringham said apologetically as Alec pushed off with the boat-hook. “Daisy steered us all over the place yesterday. I expect you would have managed perfectly well.”
Alec smiled at her. “Or I might have steered into someone else and upset a couple of boatloads into the river. You were quite right not to trust me, Miss Cheringham.”
“Do call me Tish. After all, we’ll be cousins soon. Unless you prefer Patricia.”
Reciprocating, Alec intimated that Tish would do very well. Her suggestion that he might prefer to use her proper name once again made him feel his age. He was beginning to wonder if his hair had greyed overnight without his noticing.
Daisy was five years older than her cousin, he reminded himself. Not that she looked a day over eighteen in her pretty summer frock and daisy-garlanded hat.
Two whole days with nothing to do but enjoy her company.
They reached the opposite bank and disembarked. As they set off along the towpath, Alec and Daisy lagged behind the others, who were anxious not to miss the start of the Ambrose four’s heat.
“Your cousin is charming,” Alec said. “Do I gather her cousin is rowing? Tell me a bit about this crew I’m to cheer.”
“Yes, Cherry’s one of them.” Daisy tucked her hand under
his arm. “He’s more like a brother, really. His parents pretty much brought her up, my aunt and uncle being abroad so much. He’s engaged to Dottie. They’re both brainy types, heading for academic careers. But nice, not a bit condescending to us mortals with merely average minds.”
“Speak for yourself!”
“I do.” Her eyes danced as she glanced up at him. “I’m quite aware of your brilliance, even though you don’t toss around ancient Greek quotations like Jove tossing thunderbolts.”
“Zeus. Do they?”
“Rarely, but they can. Rollo Frieth, on the other hand, failed his exams, poor chap. He and Cherry are older than most undergrads, having fought in the War. Rollo’s the crew’s captain, Cherry’s friend, and Tish’s young man, in whatever order you prefer.
Thoroughly good-natured, and good at smoothing ruffled feathers, which is an excellent qualification for the captain of this crew. ”
“A quarrelsome lot?” Alec asked. He waved at the men tramping ahead. “These seem pretty placid.”
“Most of them are, especially young Fosdyke, who lives to row, run, eat, and sleep. A nice, obliging boy, though. He’s in the four, too. Then there’s the Hon. Basil.”
From her tone, he guessed, “The fly in the ointment?”
“Mosquito.” She rubbed her arm reminiscently, explaining, “I was bitten the other evening. Don’t look so horrified: by a real mosquito, not Basil DeLancey. I don’t think he actually bites, but I wouldn’t be prepared to swear to it.”
“A Don Juan?”
She frowned. “No, not exactly. At least, Cherry said he got a shop-girl into trouble, and he’s been pestering Tish like
billy-oh, but that’s as much to annoy Cherry and Rollo as …
. No, it’s not even that. He just says exactly what comes into his head, and what comes into his head is rude as often as not, as he seems to despise most people.
He was horribly insulting to poor Dottie.
I honestly don’t believe he realises how obnoxious he is.
No one could want to make enemies right and left as he does, could they? ”
“I’ve known a few who don’t care.”
“That’s it. He doesn’t care. Susan Hopgood told me he was the baby of the family and we decided he grew up under the impression everything he said was clever or funny or both.”
“Susan Hopgood?” Alec queried.
“Horace Bott’s girl. He’s the eight’s cox, and DeLancey’s principal victim.”
“Don’t talk to me of victims! I’m on holiday.”
“All right, I won’t,” Daisy promised with a chuckle. “That’s Temple Island. Gosh, look at all those people waiting to watch the start! I hope we’ll be able to see.”
Concentrating on Daisy, Alec had been only distantly aware of the wooded island in the middle of the river.
Now he saw a knot of people ahead, clustered on the bank.
Nearby, flags marked the start, beyond which the river was divided by floating booms into two lanes.
Officials on board a motor-launch were watching the approach of two fours boats.
The oarsmen in the nearer boat wore maroon shorts.
“This side is the Ambrose boat?” Alec asked.
“Yes, the Berks side. The other lane’s known as the Bucks side, though by the time they get to the finish it’s actually Oxfordshire. Who is it they’re racing, Mr. Meredith?” Daisy enquired as they caught up with the others.
“Medway. The Medway Rowing Club. We thought we’d go on a bit farther, Miss Dalrymple, beyond this crowd.”
Miss Carrick looked back. “We’ll be past the start but we should get a better view,” she explained.
“We’ll come too,” said Daisy.
Poindexter forged ahead, clearing a way along the path with his, “I s-say, excuse us, chaps, do.”
Most of those who had gathered at the start were young fellows, who no doubt had friends rowing in this or later heats.
There were one or two older men, perhaps fathers, and a few young ladies.
A large, middle-aged police constable stood at ease in the meadow a few yards off, keeping a benevolent eye on the crowd.
Though Alec did his best to ignore the officer, to his annoyance he caught the man’s eye.
The constable stepped a couple of paces forward and said in a confidential tone, “The young gents sometimes gets a bit excited, sir, if there’s a false start called, like, or they mebbe thinks there oughta be. ”
Alec smiled and nodded. Moving on, he said to Daisy, “Do I look so like a policeman?”
“You know you don’t. I’m sure he didn’t guess. It’s just that you have a sort of natural air of authority. I expect you looked as if you wondered what he was doing here, so he told you.”
“As long as he doesn’t expect me to wade in on his side if fists start flying,” Alec grumbled, hiding his pleasure. She considered he had a natural air of authority, did she?
Then he grimaced at her oblivious back, reminding himself that she had never yet let his authority stop her doing exactly as she saw fit.
Tish, in the lead, had stopped level with the upper end of
the island, a short distance beyond the start. They all gathered around her. They had an excellent view of the boats manoeuvring into position at the start. This appeared to Alec to be an extraordinarily complicated matter.
Poindexter explained. “You s-see, s-sir, the idea is that the s-stern should be on the s-starting line, but that gives a longer boat an advantage since the first bow to cross the finish line wins. S-so if one boat is shorter, as in this case, the other is pulled back to bring the bows level.”
Alec forbore to ask why they did not just start with the bows at the line. Every sport, profession, and trade had its own arcane rules, incomprehensible to outsiders.
One of the officials on the stewards’ launch raised his arm. In the ensuing hush, Alec heard a cuckoo call. Daisy hung on his arm, endearingly excited.
The starting pistol cracked out. Oars sliced the river’s surface. Men heaved with sudden effort. The boats shot forward. In beautiful unison, with the grace of a heron’s wings, the oars rose, swept back, dipped again.
On the third pull, the boats drew past. “That’s Cherry in the bow,” said Daisy, “then Rollo, then Fosdyke, then DeLancey at stroke. He has to steer with his feet and count as well as … Gosh, he looks ghastly.”
Even as she spoke, it became apparent that DeLancey was not bending forward for the next stroke but doubling up in pain. He let go his oar, clutched his head, then leant over the gunwale and vomited into the river.
“Oh Lord, just like Bott yesterday,” someone groaned.
The boat was veering out of control as the other three rowers tried desperately to correct their course, though the
race was obviously forfeited. Cheringham shouted orders, but it was impossible to allow for the loss of their steersman as well as one of four oars, not to mention DeLancey’s off-centre weight.
The boat wallowed, dead in the water, slipping backwards.
The stroke seemed to make an effort to sit up, but instead he half-rose to his feet with a convulsive jerk, then toppled into the river.
Before the spectators had time to do more than gasp in shock, Cheringham dived in after him. The current swept DeLancey’s unresisting body a few feet downstream, then Cheringham reached him and turned him on his back. Swimming strongly, he kicked out for the bank with his burden.
In the few seconds before they reached the near boom, Alec sprang into action.
“Stand back, please, everyone. Give them room. Officer, over here! Poindexter, Wells, give them a hand. You two, help the constable keep people back.”
One of the older men, a solid, prosperous-looking gentleman, pushed through the gaping crowd. “I’m a doctor,” he announced, waving a shooting-stick.
“Excellent. Thank you, sir.” Turning, Alec saw Poindexter and Wells haul DeLancey from the water.
They laid him on the grass and the doctor knelt beside him, reaching for his wrist.
Cheringham pulled himself onto the bank, water streaming from his hair and clothes. “Turn him on his front,” he panted. “I know artificial respiration.” He dropped to his knees beside DeLancey’s still form.
The doctor shook his head. “No pulse. I’m sorry, young
man, there’s nothing you can do for him. He wasn’t in the water long enough to drown. I’ve an idea … .” He lifted one eyelid and peered at the staring eye.
Cheringham’s shoulders slumped.
Alec gave him a hand to rise. “You did your best. Now stand back, please, the three of you.” As Cheringham and the other two moved back, Daisy appeared, pale-faced. “Daisy, please!”
“Just a minute. I think it could be nicotine poisoning,” she said apprehensively.
The doctor looked up and shook his head again. “No. I’m fairly certain it was a subdural haemorrhage. There are contusions on both sides of the skull. In plain English, he’s been hit on the head.”