Dead in the Water (6 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Dead in the Water
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The curtains at the French windows were drawn apart, and one door was open.
Fear clutched Daisy's heart. Though she had come so far, she had practically convinced herself she was on a fool's errand. But someone had been out. Why, and who, if not DeLancey to the boat-house? He was muddled enough to have left it open when he came in.
DeLancey or Bott. DeLancey
and
Bott? She had to go and see.
A gibbous moon was setting as she crossed the terrace. Down the steps, across the dewy lawn, silver in moonlight augmented by its reflection off the river. A plank squeaked as she set foot on the landing-stage. A scrabble and a splash—a a water rat, she assured herself, not a house rat. Think of
Wind in the Willows
, and nice, friendly Ratty.
The boat-house door was open. Daisy stood outside, listening. The river gurgled around the landing-stage piles, lapped the bank with a soft and constant plash.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song
. Had Bott's song ended forever?
Old Father Thames keeps rolling along, down to the sunless sea.
No, that was Alph, the sacred river, wasn't it? In Xanadu:
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted …
How sinister everything seemed by moonlight!
Not a sound from the boat-house. Daisy pushed the torch's button with her knuckle. The click made her jump.
A wide, comforting beam sprang out. She moved to the doorway. Something brushed her cheek and she jumped again, then realised it was only a stray tendril of clematis.
“Chump,” she apostrophised herself. If anyone was here, they were certainly no threat to her.
She played the torch's beam around the boat-house. It seemed much larger inside than its foliage-camouflaged outside suggested. The light scarcely plumbed the furthest corners. Her view was obstructed by a rack of oars, too, and by the fours boat, apparently undamaged, upside-down on its chocks. The boat barely fitted in, its sleek hull stretching the entire length of the opposite wall.
No body hidden in that, at least. But she would have to go in to search the building properly.
The large doors onto the river were closed and barred. The torch-beam gleamed on the still, dark water of the channel in the centre, where the boats entered. No floating body.
No moans or groans, no sound of breathing reached her straining ears. On tiptoe, swinging the torch from side to side, she passed the gaily striped pillows from the skiffs, piled on the plank floor just inside the door. Nothing beyond the oar-rack but a coil of rope or two, iron hoops and canvas to turn the skiffs into floating tents, and odds and ends of less identifiable boating clutter. Nothing in the shadow behind the fours boat.
Daisy returned to the black water. The torch-light could not penetrate its surface. If Bott was at the bottom, he was beyond help. She was
not
going to start fishing with a boat-hook!
I
n spite of her disturbed night—or because of it—Daisy was one of the first down to breakfast, joining Cherry and Leigh. Fortunately for her peace of mind, Bott was not much after her.
His face bore no sign of having collided with DeLancey's fist. Though morose, he was no more so than usual. He bade Daisy good morning and told her he was going to walk in to Henley to meet Miss Hopgood.
“There's no public towpath on this side, and it's a long way round by road,” Cherry said good-naturedly. “I'll run you across to the other side in one of the skiffs.”
Bott gave him a somewhat suspicious glance, but thanked him politely enough.
Rollo, Poindexter, and Wells came in.
“Tish not down yet?” said Rollo. He was looking rather careworn. His duties as crew captain had been unexpectedly onerous, Daisy thought, and there was the worry about his future, too.
“She was still asleep when I came down,” Daisy told him. “She was a bit tired last night. Aunt Cynthia has rather left the
hostessing to her, and she's not used to it. Buck up, I'll see she's up in time for your race.”
Surely one of the others could take DeLancey's place if necessary? He was not indispensable, like the cox.
Fosdyke arrived next, returning from his morning run. He carefully avoided meeting Daisy's eyes. While he was serving himself at the sideboard, she said casually, “I think I'll have a sausage after all,” and went to join him.
She raised her eyebrows at him.
“Still asleep when I left,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth. “Half an hour ago. I'll wake him if he doesn't come down soon.”
“You're a trump,” said Daisy, and he blushed.
Bott left, with Leigh, who had volunteered to row him across the river in Cherry's place as he was not racing that morning. Dottie and Meredith came in. Still no sign of Tish or DeLancey. There was plenty of time yet, Daisy told herself, regarding the mountain of food Fosdyke was methodically ploughing his way through.
Then DeLancey arrived. He stood for a moment in the doorway, holding the jamb, gazing around bleary-eyed. Then he advanced unsteadily into the room.
Rollo jumped up, glaring at him. “What's wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” he said, thick-tongued. “Got a bit of a headache, but nothing a cup of coffee and a spot of breakfast won't cure.”
“It'd better not be! If you're not fit to row …”
“Perfectly fit,” said DeLancey irritably. He could hardly say otherwise with everyone staring at him and remembering how he had taunted Bott.
“Sit down,” Rollo ordered. “I'll get your breakfast.”
Rather to Daisy's surprise, DeLancey ate heartily. She had thought nausea was an invariable component of a hangover, and he certainly showed other signs of that disorder, quite apart from his behaviour last night. Presumably his was an idiosyncratic reaction to overindulgence. In that case, he appeared to know his own capabilities, so if he believed he'd be able to row, he was probably right.
His hearty appetite calmed her last remaining fear, that of Bott having poisoned him with nicotine. She could not recall all the details of the symptoms, but she was quite certain nausea was one of them.
Finishing her breakfast, she went up to see how Tish was doing.
Her cousin had just crawled out of bed and was listlessly putting on her dressing-gown. She looked as if she wished she hadn't woken up.
“You'd better stir your stumps,” Daisy advised her, “if you're going to eat before the race.”
“I'm not hungry. Daisy, last night …?”
“I'm afraid it wasn't a dream. But DeLancey came down to breakfast. He neither met nor avoided meeting my eye, and he said nothing—not even dropping nasty hints—about his intrusion, so I suspect he's forgotten it. What's more, he swears he's fit to row.”
“Really?” Tish cheered up no end. “He's really all right?”
Daisy decided not to tell her the Hon. Basil had been less than steady on his pins. “He must have a head of granite. Or, no, not quite that, considering how he behaved last night, but he doesn't seem to be susceptible to morning-after-itis. When I left, he was eating like a … like an oarsman, actually.”
Tish gave her a weak smile. “Thank heaven. Perhaps I am a bit hungry, after all, but I don't want to see him, even if he's forgotten. Could you ask one of the maids …”
“I'll bring you up something. Tea and toast and a rasher?”
“Spiffing. Thanks, Daisy. I'm glad you're my cousin.”
With that unexpected testimonial she departed for the bathroom.
 
Alec arrived dead on time. Daisy wasn't exactly hanging about looking out for him, she told herself. She was in the front garden because that was where she had found her aunt, and in order to say good-morning to that elusive lady one had to track her down wherever she happened to be.
Which clever rationalisation did not prevent a thrill of delight when the little yellow Austin Seven turned into the drive.
“ … too chalky for rhododendrons to flourish in this … . Daisy, you're not listening to a word. You really must stop me when I bore on and on about the garden. Oh, that's your young man's motor, is it?”
“Yes, Aunt Cynthia. You were telling me how your rhododendrons flourish.”
“They don't. Run along with you, dear. Bring him over to say hullo, and I promise I shan't tell
him
about rhododendrons.”
Alec had the hood of the Austin Chummy down. When Daisy waved madly, he turned his dark, hatless head, waved back, and brought the motor-car to a halt. Daisy abandoned the dignity of her twenty-five years and raced across the lawn to jump in beside him.
The grey eyes, capable of transfixing the guilty with a coldly piercing glance, smiled at her warmly. The heavy dark
eyebrows, capable of expressing scepticism or displeasure with equal ease, were at rest. His hair still sprang crisply from his temples in that delicious way that begged her to run her fingers through it.
She did. “You haven't changed.”
Alec laughed. “I seem to remember spending all day last Sunday with you, taking Belinda to the Zoo.”
“But I haven't seen you all week.”
“We have two whole days.” Alec simply could not resist those candid, hopeful blue eyes. He kissed her, becoming aware even as their lips met that the woman she'd been talking to was watching with what he hoped, though he could not be sure at that distance, was amused indulgence.
The kiss became perfunctory. He raised his head with a cough and returned the woman's wave. “Your aunt?” he whispered.
“Yes. Don't look so terrified, you'll find Aunt Cynthia
much
easier than Mother.”
“I'm not looking terrified, wretch. Detective Chief Inspectors don't know how.”
“You gave a jolly good imitation, then. Drive on up to the house, then we'll walk back and I'll introduce you.”
Obeying, Alec parked beside a green Lea-Francis, a cheapish vehicle, but sporty. Already insecure—he could arrest an erring duke with aplomb but quailed at the prospect of meeting Daisy's aristocratic relatives—he felt his other source of doubts bubbling up. Shouldn't Daisy be with a dashing young gentleman in a two-seater instead of a staid, middle-class copper ten years older than herself in a staid, middle-class family car?
She didn't seem to mind, fondly smoothing his hair where she had ruffled it. He straightened his tie—the Royal Flying Corps one he generally wore when consorting with the upper classes—and went round to open the passenger-side door.
Daisy took his hand as they crossed the lawn. Her warm little hand in his both gave him confidence and added to his doubts. When he was her age, before the War, even an engaged couple would never have approached a relative hand-in-hand. Not in his class, at least. Who knew what the nobs did?
Lady Cheringham did not appear to take it amiss, smiling at him and taking off her grubby gardening glove to shake his hand as Daisy presented him: “Aunt Cynthia, this is Alec Fletcher.”
“How do you do, Mr. Fletcher? Or—oh dear!—should I call you Detective Chief Inspector?”
“Great Scott, no, please! I'm here strictly in mufti, Lady Cheringham. What a splendid display of phlox!”
“They are looking good, aren't they?” her ladyship agreed, regarding the colourful herbaceous border with complacency. “But I promised Daisy I wouldn't delay you with garden-talk. You'll want to be off to the river to catch the race.”
As they returned towards the house, Daisy said indignantly, “You dark horse! I didn't know you could tell a phlox from a foxglove.”
“Modesty is my middle name. My father was quite a gardener. I'd do more if I had the time.”
“I would have warned you garden-talk was the way to Aunt Cynthia's heart.”
“My dear, my darling girl, you are engaged to a detective, remember. When I saw Lady Cheringham in rubber boots
and muddy gloves, trowel in hand, grass stains on her skirt about the level of her knees, I said to myself either she's been burying a body or … .”
“Idiot,” said Daisy, laughing. He loved to hear her laugh.
He was besotted, he recognised ruefully, not for the first time. He wouldn't give her up for the world, in spite of the opposition of both their mothers, and the appalling tangles she all too frequently inveigled him into.
They went through the front door, standing hospitably open, into an attractive hall, parquet-floored. Alec, who had specialised in Georgian history at university, approved the pale blue-grey, white-striped Regency wallpaper and the inlaid half-moon table.
“Roses,” he said, pointing at the vase of flowers on the table, reflected in the mirror hanging above.
Daisy laughed again. “Stop showing off and come and meet everyone. Everyone but the crew, that is.”
She led the way through a pleasant, comfortable drawing-room and out through French windows onto a terrace overlooking the river. Four young men in maroon blazers jumped to their feet, as did a pretty blond girl, who turned out to be Daisy's cousin, Patricia Cheringham.
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.”

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