Chapter 14
“So you’re pretty sure it was Horace Bott,” said Daisy, as Alec squeezed the little Austin in amongst the Rolls-Royces, Napiers, Daimlers, Lanchesters, Hispano-Suizas, and Isotta-Fraschinis.
During the short drive he had, at her insistence, given her a quick report of the results of his investigations.
“I didn’t say so,” he protested.
“No, but you’ve just about ruled out everyone else.” Waiting for him to come around the car and open her door, she wondered whether he had deliberately misled her as to his interest in Cherry and Rollo. He might want to spare her feelings—or to forestall her interference.
“I haven’t crossed anyone off my list,” he said, handing her out. “You look stunning, love. Is that a new dress?”
“No, but Lucy helped me refurbish it. You know how good she is at clothes.” Pleased, but not to be distracted, Daisy went on, “It couldn’t have been Cherry because of being stuck in his camp-bed, and it couldn’t have been Rollo because his fingerprints were only on the blade of the oar.
Fosdyke’s weren’t on it at all, you said. Nor Bott’s.”
“I also said I’m having my doubts of the oar as the weapon,
but never mind that. If it wasn’t Cheringham, Frieth, Fosdyke, or Bott, who was it?”
“One of the other four?” she proposed doubtfully.
“None of them appeared the least alarmed at being interrogated, which argues that they didn’t consider themselves suspects. Not one was smug, either, as if he thought he was getting away with … murder. I have far more reason to believe it was not one of the four than that it was.”
“What about an outsider, looking for a boat to steal perhaps?”
“The skiffs were outside, moored to the landing-stage,” Alec pointed out patiently. “Besides, DeLancey would surely have spoken up, not to say yelled blue murder, if he’d been attacked by a stranger.”
“He’d have yelled blue murder if Bott hit him.”
“I think not. He wouldn’t want to admit to having been bested by Bott, whom he despised.”
“Oh. Perhaps not. I still can’t see that it was necessarily Bott.”
“Are you telling me his threats and DeLancey’s demise aren’t connected?”
“No, of course not. If he hadn’t made those threats, DeLancey wouldn’t have been in the boat-house. Then none of this would have happened, and we’d have had our weekend … .”
“Let’s at least have our evening, Daisy. I don’t want to hear another word about the case until tomorrow. Please?”
“Right-oh, darling, my lips are sealed.” But her mind kept working as they entered the club, an attractive Georgian mansion presently far too full of people to be properly appreciated.
If the oar was not the weapon, then the lack of Bott’s fingerprints meant nothing. The tent-peg was perplexing, but it
pointed to Bott rather than to anyone else. Alec was right, he was the most likely of the suspects, Daisy thought despondently. Little as she liked him, she was sorry. DeLancey had tormented him brutally. Besides, it was going to be hard on Susan Hopgood, whom she did like.
A pre-dinner sherry in the lounge with her friends, and wine with the meal, effectively drove Bott’s fate from her thoughts.
After dinner, their host and hostess, of her father’s generation, chose to sit on the terrace with coffee and liqueurs.
However, they kindly assured Daisy she must not feel herself tied to their apron-strings.
There was dancing, but Daisy, who was convinced she had two left feet, had no difficulty persuading Alec to stroll about the pleasant riverside grounds.
They ended up on the croquet lawn, teaching the game to Mr. Codman from Boston, Mr. Hoover from Duluth, and a Swiss, a Norwegian, and a Canadian who had also rowed in the Diamond Sculls.
They had a hilarious time. Daisy had never seen Alec so carefree. Their weekend was not a total disaster after all.
At last it grew too dark to play. Everyone moved down to the river-bank to watch the firework show. Amidst booms, cracks, and whistles, rockets soared in showers of red and green sparks, golden rain fountained, Catherine wheels whirled, Roman candles glittered—all reflected shimmering in the river.
Alec put his arm around Daisy’s shoulders. She slipped hers around his waist, under his dinner-jacket, and pressed close to his side.
Daisy clung to the last shreds of her dream. Alec was kissing her in the middle of a fountain of sparkling light every colour
of the rainbow, while a heavenly choir sang a song of love.
The song resolved itself into a thrush outside the open window, through which a ray of the rising sun alighted on Daisy’s face.
She blinked and sat up. It was still very early.
Sunday hadn’t really quite begun. Maybe she and Alec could steal a few more moments and memories before the rest of the world awoke.
Tish was fast asleep. With hasty stealth, Daisy flung on her dressing-gown and went to tap on the door of Uncle Rupert’s dressing-room.
She held her breath. Would being woken at daybreak make him furious?
The door opened. “Daisy, what’s wrong?” he mumbled, eyes half-shut.
“Nothing.” She reached out to smooth a tuft of hair sticking up by his ear.
He was wearing blue and pale grey striped cotton pyjamas, his feet bare.
The sight of his bare feet was oddly intimate, disturbing—Daisy suddenly understood why a poet would write an ode to his mistress’s earlobe.
“It’s a simply glorious morning,” she said hurriedly.
“Let’s go out in the garden before anyone else gets up. ”
Already alert, his grey eyes smiled at her. “Good idea.” He felt his dark-bristled chin.
“Don’t bother with shaving, and I shan’t powder my nose. Ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later, they sneaked down through the quiet house. With a deliberate effort, Daisy dismissed from her mind the memory of her previous surreptitious expedition. It returned vividly, however, when they found the drawing-room French windows unlocked.
“Someone’s beaten us to it,” she said, disappointed.
“Never mind. If we see them, we’ll head in the opposite direction.”
The air was fresh, and cool enough for Daisy to be glad of her cardigan. Dewdrops twinkled on the roses and the lawn. Wraiths of mist curled up from the river as they descended the steps and strolled down the path, hand-in-hand.
In the shadow of the boat-house, a figure moved. Daisy gasped.
The sinister shape emerged into sunlight and turned into Cherry, in flannels and his rowing shirt.
He came towards them. “I woke up and thought I’d take a skiff out while it’s cool and peaceful,” he said, “but the sculls are in the boat-house and it’s padlocked. Your doing, I take it, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Sergeant Tring’s.”
“An estimable fellow. Oh, in case you’re wondering, Rollo cursed me, turned over, and went back to sleep.”
“I have the key. Can you get the skiff’s sculls without disturbing anything else? They’re different from your racing oars?”
“As chalk from cheese—to a rowing man. We’ve been putting them on the floor behind the rack while it’s occupied with racing oars. Let me at ’em and I’ll take the two of you out, if you like. I want the exercise as much as the peace.”
Alec consulted Daisy with a glance. It wasn’t quite what she’d planned, but floating on the water as the sun dispersed the golden mists sounded too good to turn down. True, Cherry would be there as well as Alec, but that meant neither he nor she would have to row.
“Let’s.”
“I’ll get the sculls,” Alec said, taking a key-ring from his trouser pocket.
Suspicious, Daisy warned him sternly, “No investigating.”
“Not till we come back,” he promised, laughing.
“Better bring a boat-hook if we’re steering, and get a couple of cushions, darling.”
“There’s a boat-hook in the boat already,” Cherry said.
Daisy turned to the river as Alec unlocked the padlock. “One of the skiffs is missing!” she exclaimed.
“Yes.” Cherry knelt down on the landing-stage to slot the unshipped rudder into place. “Someone else must have had the same idea, but earlier. I suppose a pair of sculls and the boat-hook got left out yesterday, hardly surprising in the circs.”
Daisy shuddered, recalling the return to Bulawayo with DeLancey’s body.
There had been great confusion on the crossing.
Cherry, soaked after his rescue attempt, had already rowed one skiff across with Tish and Dottie, so much ferrying back and forth had taken place.
Small wonder if oars had been forgotten.
Alec handed her two cushions and went back for the sculls, which he passed to Cherry, before replacing the padlock and clicking it shut.
“We’ll go upstream, if that’s all right with you,” said Cherry. “That way I can take it easy coming back. Anyway, you can’t go far downstream before you get to the Hambleden lock and weir.”
They set off, Daisy and Alec together in the stern seat. No other boat was visible on the river, but the water-birds were making the most of the quiet. Swans, removed for the Regatta,
had already returned. A pair sailed by, giving the intruders a haughtily disgruntled glare. Moorhens bobbed about near the reeds, and a grey heron rose from the bank, its huge wings flapping so slowly it seemed impossible it should stay aloft.
In the absence of traffic, Alec was perfectly confident and competent with the tiller-lines. Cherry rowed with long, leisurely strokes. The banks moved steadily past and Temple Island approached ahead.
“We’ll go to the left of the island,” Cherry said. “Incorrect, but we’re unlikely to meet anyone and the current’s not so strong as the other side. I’m going to be good and ready for breakfast.”
“You make it look easy,” said Daisy. “I’d like to take a turn at the oars—sculls—on the way back, when we’re going with the current.”
“Have you ever rowed?”
“Not since before the War. We used to take a dory out at Upton-upon-Severn or Severn Stoke, and Gervaise and his friend Phillip usually made me row because they wanted to fish.”