Dead in the Water by Carola Dunn Page B

a policeman?”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œAs 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.
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œStand 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.
    â€œExcellent. 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