No Mark Upon Her

by a suppressed snigger. Milo ignored both.
    “The rower’s best friend.” Doug managed to suppress a snigger himself. “But no thanks. I had something at the station this morning, and I’m not fit enough to deserve a second breakfast.”
    “You’re a rower,” said Milo, eyeing him speculatively. “The other night—you knew your way around. But not varsity, I think. Not tall enough.”
    “School eight.”
    “Ah. Bow or stroke?”
    “Bowside.”
    “What school?”
    “Eton,” Doug answered with less than his usual reluctance. Here, unlike in the force, he would not be teased for having been a public school boy. He was, however, beginning to feel as if he were the one being interviewed.
    Milo nodded. “Good program. Do you row now?”
    “I’ve just bought a house in Putney. I thought I’d give the LRC a try.” Doug had rowed out of London Rowing Club at regattas when he was at school, but had not been back as an adult. When he’d been debating whether or not to buy the house, he’d walked down Putney Reach and gazed up at the venerable club. Leander had once been housed there, overlooking the tidal Thames, before its move to Henley, and the two clubs were still closely associated.
    Not that the LRC was as exclusive as Leander, but Doug hadn’t quite geared himself up to walking in and applying for a membership. Most of the members would be more experienced rowers, and he had, as always, the hovering fear of appearing a fool.
    “Bought a boat?” asked Milo.
    The coach was stalling, Doug thought, perhaps to give the rowers a chance to make a graceful exit. But if he hadn’t wanted an audience, why had he picked a common room for their conversation? Surely there were other places in the club where they wouldn’t have disturbed the members or the crew.
    “No. I thought I’d get my feet wet, so to speak. A club boat should suit me just fine for the moment.” He took another sip of the tea, tried not to grimace. Determined to get things back on track, he said, “Now, Mr. Jachym, if I could just—”
    “Becca. Yes, of course.” Milo sighed, as if accepting the inevitable. His burly shoulders sagged a little. “Terrible business. Everyone is still in shock. And Freddie isn’t returning my calls.”
    “We’ll be speaking to him later this morning. I’m afraid this is now officially a murder investigation.”
    Milo’s face went still. For an instant, Doug had a glimpse of the man beneath the jovial exterior—the man who drove his rowers beyond their endurance and expected even more of them. You didn’t coach athletes of Leander’s caliber without being tough and cagey—a strategist of the first order. And Doug had the feeling Milo had been expecting the next move in the game.
    The remaining rowers seemed to have read a signal in Milo’s body language, or in the change in his voice. They abandoned the remains of their meals, and one by one trickled out—not, however, without casting more curious glances in Doug’s direction.
    When the room was empty, Milo nodded, his expression once again inscrutable. “So. Where do you go from here, Sergeant?”
    “You’re not surprised by the idea that Becca Meredith was murdered?” asked Doug.
    “I’m shocked, yes,” Milo answered. “But I think I would be even more so if you’d determined that Becca had drowned in a stupid or careless accident.”
    “You trained her,” said Doug, taking his measure. “Stupidity or carelessness would have reflected badly on you.”
    “That’s part of it.” Milo shrugged, giving Doug a challenging glance. “Now you seem shocked, Mr. Cullen. That’s human nature. We always think of ourselves first, and only a liar doesn’t admit to it.
    “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t grieve for Becca,” he went on, his voice suddenly hard. “And for Freddie, and for what Becca might have done or might have become. Or that I wouldn’t murder whoever did this to her.”
    “Perhaps not the best thing to admit to a police officer, Mr. Jachym,” suggested Doug mildly.
    “Then let’s hope you catch your man before I have a chance to lay hands on him.”
    Doug gazed at him consideringly. “Would you still feel that way if it were your friend who was responsible?”
    “My friend?” Milo looked startled, then drew his bushy brows together as realization struck. “If by that, you mean Freddie, you can’t be serious. He would never have harmed Becca. He adored her.”
    It was Doug’s turn to shrug. He