Chapter 17
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!”