The Murder of Busy Lizzie mb-46 Page 17

  ‘Your mother is expecting us shortly, I telephoned her from the mainland. There will be no teasing on her side. She will be most relieved when we return safe and sound.’

  This proved to be the case. Clothilde welcomed them, as she had promised, and had ordered a most appetising meal which she had planned long since. She listened with suitable horror to the account of the abduction of Ransome and the attack on Marius, and suggested that the latter should ask for police protection until Eliza’s murderer was apprehended.

  ‘I hardly think that will be necessary, my dear,’ said Marius. ‘The danger spot is the island itself, I feel sure. Besides, all the incidents will bear other interpretations if one considers them logically and calmly. Eliza’s death may well have been accidental; Ransome may have been the victim of crude horseplay; I myself may have been mistakenly identified by my attacker. There is really nothing to go on.’

  ‘All the same, you thought it best to leave the island as soon as ever you could.’

  ‘Oh, we were pretty tired of it,’ said Sebastian, ‘and our reason for going there did not, after all, obtain. It was to curry favour with Aunt Eliza that we set forth, and, as circumstances had it, we did not even meet her. What about Greece, Father? Is there any chance that we might finish the holiday there?’

  ‘No, there is not,’ said Clothilde, before her husband could answer the question. ‘Marius, I did not intend to tell you this, but I, too, have been on the island.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. As you will remember, I left to take a holiday of my own choice, leaving you all to see yourselves off to Great Skua.’

  ‘You said you were going to stay with Cousin Marie and Miss Potter. I hoped you were looking forward to it.’

  ‘You should know me better than to have believed that I wanted to go there. I did go, in order to save money, and a thin time I had of it in Marie’s smelly, poky, disease-ridden little hovel!’

  ‘Oh, come, my dear! I have never been to it, but Cousin Marie always refers to it as a picturesque country cottage. But if you intended to go to Great Skua, why on earth did you not wait and go with us? It would have been delightful to have made a complete family holiday of it.’

  ‘I never had the smallest intention of going there with you. I went on my own account to throw myself on Eliza’s mercy.’

  ‘On Lizzie’s mercy? Whatever can you mean?’

  ‘Boobie has boobed again,’ said Sebastian in an undertone to his sister which was also intended for his mother’s ears.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clothilde, defiantly, ‘I have boobed, if you call it that! Marius, you should never have involved me in a joint bank account.’

  ‘You mean you have overdrawn it again, my dear?’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean. I have converted to my own use money which was intended for both of us. Oh, and the children, of course.’

  ‘Does it mean Maggie can’t go back to school or I to college?’ asked Sebastian. ‘Not to worry, darling. We can go into industry or down the mines and earn fabulous sums and have trade union cards and go on strike and help run the country by force majeure.’

  Clothilde burst into tears. Sebastian put his arm round her. Marius distressfully pulled his lip and Margaret said anxiously,

  ‘Oh, Father, can’t you do something? Haven’t you got some shares to sell or can’t you get a bank loan? Or perhaps we could sell this house and get something smaller. You mustn’t let poor Boobs upset herself over something as silly as money.’

  ‘There is no problem. Your mother has never understood money, my dear. The joint account was never more than a goodwill gesture on my part. Of course I have resources elsewhere, and of course there is no need for my dear wife to upset herself.’

  ‘There you are, Boobie,’ said her son, squeezing her up against him. ‘We’re not on the breadline yet.’ He looked perplexedly at his father. ‘You’re not holding her acknowledged dottiness against her, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Dear me, no,’ said Marius. ‘It is not the first time she has overdrawn that account. It is not that which is worrying me.’

  Sebastian searched his father’s face and enlightenment came.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he said, as his mother broke away from his encircling arm and rushed upstairs. ‘Boobie has quite monumentally boobed this time. You mean she might have been on the island when Aunt Eliza died…’

  ‘And at whose death I come in for all the money my parents left in trust for Eliza,’ said Marius.

  ‘That was a queer sort of affair,’ said Laura to her employer. ‘Why should anybody want to strangle a harmless little Ph.D. like Mr Lovelaine? And what are we going to do about it, if anything? I don’t care to think of our guests being set upon on our very doorstep.’

  ‘We are going to talk to Miss Crimp.’

  ‘That little creep? What can she tell us?’

  ‘That we shall have to find out, but first let us review the situation, as you would say, and plot the lie of the land.’

  ‘Assemble the known facts and see what we can deduce from them?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Right. You shout, and I will make interpolations if necessary.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Not losing track of the great thought that the death of Mrs Chayleigh may tie up in some way with our own little job here.’

  ‘Quite. Well, now, to begin with we have Mr Lovelaine arriving, with his children, to pay a visit to a sister whom he had not seen for very many years.’

  ‘Yes. Why, I wonder, did he come?’

  ‘It seems that she invited him. However, when he introduced himself at the hotel, he found that no booking had been made in his name, that his sister was absent and that Miss Crimp, in charge of reception, knew nothing whatever about him.’

  ‘All the same, she took him in, and also the two youngsters.’

  ‘That, to my mind, was somewhat surprising, considering that she was expecting an overflow of guests a week later.’

  ‘These bird-fanciers? Yes, and a mixed bag they are! I’ve met some of them, and if they’re genuine ornithologists I’m the king of Siam.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘But, for the moment, we are concerning ourselves with the Lovelaine family, I thought.’

  ‘Sorry! Over to you, then, although I’m bound to insist that, if they’re watching birds, it’s time some reputable citizens were watching them. Some of them — the majority, I expect — may be genuine enough, but they’re being used as cover, I suspect, for a minority of evil persons who may be just the people we’ve been sent here to look out for.’

  ‘I do not doubt it. Well, all in good time we will inform upon them in the proper quarters.’

  ‘When we’ve got proof, you mean. Ah, well, back to the Lovelaines then, and let’s get their affairs cleared out of the way. You were remarking that it was strange that Miss Crimp—’

  ‘Took them in, although, according to the hotel system of bookings, there is no record of any correspondence between Marius Lovelaine and Mrs Chayleigh and I find that strange. I would think nothing of it in the ordinary course of events, for I understand that the hotel is rarely full…’

  ‘But with these bird-watchers looming, and needing all the available accommodation—yes, quite so, indeed. You know what it looks like to me?’

  ‘I can imagine what it looks like to you. You think that Miss Crimp knew perfectly well that the Lovelaines were expected and that she deliberately mislaid the correspondence.’

  ‘Why should she do such a thing?’

  ‘I do not think she did. I think it far more likely that if there was such a correspondence — and we have only Marius Lovelaine’s word for that — it was Eliza Chayleigh who suppressed it.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The absence of any entries in the hotel books. It is easy enough to throw away letters, but to remove an entry from a ledger or a day-book is a vastly different matter. The chances are that anybody doing such a t
hing would not only dispose of the one entry which it was requisite and necessary to conceal, but other entries which had been entered on the same page. I suggest, therefore, that the Lovelaines’ booking was not entered, and that Miss Crimp knew nothing about it for the simple reason that Eliza Chayleigh had never shown her any of the letters to and from Marius Lovelaine.’

  ‘But why hadn’t she? What could be the reason? She couldn’t have foreseen that she’d be dead before the Lovelaines turned up at the hotel, and that they’d have to explain themselves to the reception clerk.’

  ‘Quite. Therefore I say that our next intrusion into the affair must take the form of a conversation with Miss Crimp.’

  ‘She’ll probably lie.’

  ‘That remains to be seen. If she does, and we become aware of the fact, it will mean that she has something to conceal.’

  ‘Such as destroying letters and removing entries from ledgers,’ said Laura, grinning challengingly at her employer. Dame Beatrice leered fiendishly at her and led the way to the front door.

  They had taken one or two meals at the hotel to give Henri, the cook whom Dame Beatrice had brought with her, a break from his duties, so, when they entered the vestibule, Miss Crimp regarded them, as they approached the desk, with a smile which, she hoped, combined both welcome and regret. Laura interpreted the smile.

  ‘It’s all right. I know how full you are. We don’t need a table for lunch,’ she said reassuringly. ‘We only need a drink.’

  ‘I’ll send Richard to you in the lounge,’ said Miss Crimp. ‘Will Dame Beatrice take sherry, as usual?’

  ‘Of course, but we want to talk to you,’ said Laura. ‘Dark doings are afoot and you are part of them.’

  Miss Crimp regarded her with horror.

  ‘You want to talk to me?’ she said.

  ‘About the late Eliza Chayleigh. Dame Beatrice, as I expect you know, was the first doctor to see the body.’

  ‘She was not called at the inquest.’

  ‘Her evidence was not needed. The cause of death was perfectly plain. Deceased died of injuries. How she came by those injuries is another matter. What chiefly interests Dame Beatrice, who is, as you may or may not know, a criminologist of repute, is that the last time Mrs Chayleigh was seen alive was when she was on her way to the house Dame Beatrice has rented. There is reason to wonder, therefore, whether Mrs Chayleigh met her death at Puffins and whether her body was put into the sea later.’

  ‘All this has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You mean you decline to discuss it with Dame Beatrice?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind discussing it,’ said Miss Crimp hastily, recognising a threat in Laura’s tones. ‘All I mean is that there is nothing I can say which is not already common knowledge.’

  ‘Did you know that Mr Lovelaine was attacked the other evening as he was leaving after paying a visit to Dame Beatrice?’

  ‘Attacked? Good gracious me! He said nothing about it to me, although, now you mention it, he did appear to be limping a little when he left the hotel to catch the boat.’

  ‘Yes, his assailant kicked him when he was on the ground.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘He doesn’t know. Well, what about the sherry?’

  ‘I will bring it myself. My assistant can take over the desk. My sitting-room is the one marked private. It is on the first floor.’

  ‘Right. Thanks. Whisky for me, as usual.’

  Miss Crimp’s sitting-room was incongruously furnished with modern chairs and Victorian ornaments. It also contained a studio couch which, at night, became a bed. Antimacassars decorated the chair-backs and a glass case which housed two stuffed seagulls and a sandpiper argued for pride of place with an enormous china swan which acted as a fern-pot and supported, if not the largest aspidistra in the world, that atrocious plant’s second cousin. There was even a fringed and tasselled covering to the mantelpiece and a profusion of framed photographs on every available ledge.

  ‘Doesn’t look like a murderer’s room,’ said Laura, when they had let themselves in with the key supplied by Miss Crimp.

  ‘George Joseph Smith played hymn-tunes on an American organ when he had drowned each of his wives in the bath,’ observed Dame Beatrice. ‘What did you find to say at the desk that we are accorded the pleasure of this secret interview?’

  Laura had just finished telling her when Miss Crimp herself appeared, followed by the barman with his tray.

  ‘Just put it down, Thomas,’ she said. ‘We will help ourselves. Thomas is going,’ she added, when the barman had closed the door behind himself. ‘He is an expensive luxury in a place like this. The amount of alcohol our guests consume does not even pay his wages, let alone show us a profit. Eliza employed him because she held that, if there is a bar, there must be a barman, but, as I often pointed out, we had only to make an opening between the back of the office and the bar, and either she or I or the assistant receptionist could serve the very few guests who ordered drinks. There was no need whatever to have somebody perpetually on duty in the bar.’ Miss Crimp appeared to be talking to gain time.

  ‘In these days it behoves everyone to make what economies he can,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I suppose the hotel trade is not what it used to be in the days when a family seaside holiday was the accepted thing and none but the very rich thought of going abroad.’

  ‘You would never have got family holidays in a place like this at any time,’ said Miss Crimp. ‘There is nothing here for children—no sands to play on, no beach stalls, no entertainment of any kind. The hotel does not pay its way and never has, and there are still some large accounts outstanding which must be settled when Eliza’s will is proved.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Laura, ‘to leave you saddled with debts.’

  ‘It’s all these extras, Mrs Gavin. The hard tennis court, the games room, the chalets themselves, and the place never more than half-full.’

  ‘What about this influx of ornithologists?’

  ‘At cut rates, of course, but, yes, such a gathering does help. Now that Eliza is no longer with us, I propose to advertise the hotel for conferences. If I could entice the delegates of political parties, or organisations such as the T.U.C. or even the school-teachers’ unions to hold their annual gatherings here, the place would soon look up and one of Eliza’s major extravagances might appear at last to be worthwhile. I refer to our magnificent lounge. It would make an excellent conference-hall.’

  ‘The hotel now belongs entirely to you, then?’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘You may do with it what you please?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. I was Eliza’s partner, as you know, and you may be sure that I shall do my best to maintain my rights. I may have to buy out Ransome Lovelaine, who inherits some of Eliza’s property, I believe, and Eliza once told me that her brother was also to benefit to some extent. However, Ransome is an easy-going man and I am hoping that he will be content to leave me to manage the hotel in my own way and relieve him of all responsibility for it. In return I shall offer him a small share of the profits and I have every hope that he will be well-satisfied with that arrangement. As to the brother—but I am running on. What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘I wondered whether you could think of any reason why a murderous attack should be made on Ransome Lovelaine, a desperate attack made on Marius Lovelaine and an attempt made to enter the chalet which you allocated to his children,’ replied Dame Beatrice.

  ‘Think of any reason?’ said Miss Crimp. ‘I can think of one, certainly, but whether it is the right one I have no means of telling. The Lovelaines (of whom, of course, Ransome is one, although illegitimately born, a matter of which Eliza made no secret) must hold some clue to the cause of her death, and the rest must follow. They form a threat to the murderer, I suppose.’

  ‘So you think she was murdered, do you?’

  ‘What else is there to think? Eliza was not one to put an end to her own life, and a theory that she was blown off the cliff-top by accident is ridiculou
s. Eliza, who has lived on the island for years, would never place herself in a position of such known danger.’

  ‘I agree with you. But if Ransome or Marius had been in possession of the kind of evidence you indicate, would they not have approached the authorities with it?’

  ‘One must suppose so. The murderer must be mistaken, or else the intended victims are not conscious of what they know.’

  ‘I wonder whether I might digress a little? I understand that the hotel and the farm were left to Mrs Chayleigh by the elderly Miss Chayleigh, now deceased.’

  ‘That is so, but how do you come by the information?’

  ‘My secretary gave it to me. Laura is of a gregarious nature and has roved the island, picking up gossip of all kinds while ostensibly engaged in helping my researches into the history of the island.’

  ‘Oh, you are writing a history of the island? How very interesting. I understood that you were writing your memoirs.’

  ‘Oh, one likes variety,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘The spice of life, as someone has called it.’

  ‘A description with which I cannot agree,’ said Miss Crimp. ‘I prefer to pursue an even course.’

  ‘Pursue my course with even joy

  And closely walk with thee to heaven,’ quoted Dame Beatrice solemnly.

  ‘If you care to put it like that,’ said Miss Crimp, staring at her. ‘Not I, but Charles Wesley. Tell me, if your knowledge extends so far, what impelled Miss Chayleigh to leave her money and property to the then Eliza Lovelaine? Was Eliza in her employment at the time when she made her will?’

  ‘I believe not. The truth is that Miss Chayleigh was aunt to the farmer Allen Cranby. When she found out that he had been unfaithful to his wife and had given Eliza a child, she disinherited him and made Eliza her heir.’

  ‘Were there no other relatives besides Mr Cranby?’

  ‘Well, I believe there is a second cousin, a woman.’

  ‘And she received nothing from her relative?’