They took Henry Bilbo to the local cottage hospital. We visited him there and found him in a more serious state than any of us expected, in a coma, in fact. He would not respond to anything that was said. Some of the crew volunteered to remain at the bedside, but I deemed it wise to escort Echo and her father out of that place as soon as possible. I didn’t care for the look of Bilbo, and I was right. He never recovered consciousness. He died the same night.
It was widely assumed that the wretched fellow had been too overcome with shame over his mistake to free himself from the sinking boat. In college circles, he was being spoken of as a martyr.
This was the point in the story when the detective in me first began to stir. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why Bilbo had behaved so oddly. The more I thought about it, reviewing the events of that afternoon, the more suspicious I became that there was something rum about his death. I recalled watching him drink from that flask of whisky at the start, beginning the race competently in charge, but later dropping the megaphone over the side and, shortly after, losing control of the steering. Had he imbibed too much?
Without reference to anyone except my Equerry, I returned to Henley a day or so later and spoke to the doctor who had conducted the post-mortem examination. He appeared satisfied that drowning had been the cause of death. He insisted that the classical signs (whatever they may be) had been present. I asked if further tests would be carried out and he thought this unlikely.
“What caused him to drown?” I asked.
“The inability to swim, sir.”
“But this was in shallow water.”
“Then perhaps he was trapped in the boat. These matters are for the coroner to investigate.”
“Trapped?”
“Conceivably he was exhausted.”
“He was the cox,” I shrilled in disbelief. “He hadn’t even lifted an oar.”
Far from satisfied, I asked if Bilbo’s clothes had been retained. The doctor said they had been destroyed, as was usual in such cases. The only item not disposed of was a silver hip flask. It would be returned to the family.
I asked to see it.
“Returned to the family, you say?” I queried, turning the flask over in my hand. “To Bilbo’s family?”
“That is my understanding. Is there something amiss, sir?”
“Only that the initials on the outside are not Bilbo’s,” said I.
“ ‘A.C.S.’ doesn’t stand for Henry Bilbo. These are the initials of Dr Arthur Stubbs, of Christ Church College.”
I was in no doubt that I had recovered the lost hip-flask. Better still, it had been well corked and some of the liquor remained inside.
“If this does, indeed, belong to Bilbo, I shall see that his family receives it,” I told the doctor. “If not, I shall return it discreetly to Dr Stubbs. We don’t want poor Bilbo’s reputation being muddied for any reason.” With that, I took possession of the flask.
On the train back to Oxford, I was sorely tempted to take a nip of the contents of that flask. What a good thing I didn’t, because when I turned matters over in my mind, it seemed wise to discover some more about the liquor Bilbo had swigged prior to the race. Without speaking to anyone else, I took it the next morning to be analysed by Sir Giles Peterson, the leading toxicologist of the day, who was resident in Oxford.
Eventually he told me, “Your Royal Highness, I examined the contents of the flask and I found a rather fine malt whisky.”
“Only whisky?”
“No. There was something else. The mixture also contained chloral hydrate.”
“Chloral?” said I. “Isn’t that what people take to send them to sleep?”
“Yes, indeed, sir. Many a nursemaid uses it diluted to subdue a troublesome child. It’s harmless enough in small quantities, but I wouldn’t recommend it like this. The whisky masks the high concentration.”
“Could it be fatal?”
“Quite possibly, if one took about 120 grains. Death would occur six to ten hours later.” He hesitated, frowning. “I hope no one offered this to you, sir.”
I laughed. “Certainly not. Whisky isn’t allowed at my tender age.”
The laughter vanished later, when I considered the implications. Somebody had laced Dr Stubbs’s whisky with a lethal dose of chloral. By some dubious set of circumstances it had come into Henry Bilbo’s possession. He had imbibed and rapidly succumbed during the boat race.
Who would have plotted such a dangerous trick, and why? One’s first thought was that one of the opposing crew had sabotaged our boat, but I could think of no way it could have been done, and even Cambridge men are not so unsporting as that.
After pondering the matter profoundly, I arrived at the only possible explanation. I decided to share my thoughts with Dr Stubbs. I made an appointment and called at his rooms at six in the evening.
But I was in for a surprise. Instead of the manservant, or Stubbs himself, I was admitted by Echo — the first I had seen of her since the fatal afternoon. She looked distrait. Beautiful, but distrait. And dressed in black.
“By George, I didn’t expect to be so fortunate,” I told her.
She pressed a finger to my lips. “Papa is asleep. He hasn’t been feeling well since the regatta. It upset him dreadfully.”
“But I made an appointment.”
She nodded. “And I took the liberty of confirming it. I wanted a few minutes alone with you, Bertie.” She ushered me into their drawing room.
I could scarcely believe my luck.
“What did you want to discuss with Papa?” she asked.
“Oh, it can wait,” I told her, seating myself at one end of a settee.
She remained standing. “Was it about the flask?”
I confirmed that it was. I told her about the lethal mixture.
“Lethal?” said she in horror. “But chloral is a sedative, not a poison.”
From the look in her eyes I knew for certain that she — my innocent-seeming Echo — had spiked her father’s whisky, and I knew exactly why.
“Whoever was responsible simply intended to make your father sleepy,” I suggested.
“Yes!” said Echo.
“You — the person responsible, I mean — that person planned that your father should feel so tired that he would lie somewhere on the river-bank and take a very long nap. You would be free — free to dance the night away at the Regatta Ball.”
She nodded, her brown eyes shining.
“Only the plan misfired,” I pressed on. “Henry Bilbo picked your father’s pocket.”
“Henry?” she piped, shocked to the core. “You’re implying that Henry was a thief? Oh, no, Bertie!”
“Oh, yes,” I disabused her. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bad lot, a burglar, responsible for that spate of thefts we had. He was just a titch, after all. Quite easy for him to get through small windows. I’ve no doubt that he was the one. And when your father came over to speak to him before the race, Bilbo couldn’t resist the temptation. He saw the flask in your Papa’s back pocket and slipped it out.”
She put her hand to her throat. “Not Henry!” She swayed ominously.
I stood up and supported her in case she swooned again. “Come and sit on the settee. Your secret is safe with me, my dear.”
She stared at me, aghast that I had worked it out. “After all, my pretty one, your motives were unimpeachable.”
“Were they?” she whispered, wide-eyed.
I embraced her gently. “All that you wanted was some precious time alone with me whilst your father was out to the world. That was your reason for tampering with the flask, was it not?” I gently probed.