Lying there in his sodden crew shorts and shirt, he looked pathetically harmless. His poisonous tongue was stilled, but not, it seemed, by poison. With a shudder, she turned away. Alec’s arm went about her shoulders for a quick squeeze. Releasing her, he glanced around. Daisy followed his gaze. She picked out faces in the crowd: horrified, curious, excited. Cherry was aghast, the other four Ambrose men pale and frozen in place. Further along the bank, she saw Tish sitting hunched on the grass with her head buried in her hands. Daisy wondered if she should go to her cousin, but Dottie had her arms around her and seemed to be coping admirably. The constable stood with his mouth open, looking stunned. Alec sighed. “I’m a police officer,” he announced in a resigned voice. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, Scotland Yard. This isn’t my pigeon, but I’ll take charge till a local man arrives. Constable … ?” “Rogers, sir.” His relief obvious, the man saluted. “Inspector Washburn’s on duty up by the stands.
