Chapter 9
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?”