The Murder of Busy Lizzie

chapter fourteen

Pursuit of a Vendetta?

‘What’s that to me? I waft not fish nor fowls,

Nor beasts (fond thing) but only human souls.’

Robert Herrick

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Margaret, to her brother’s surprise, had brow-beaten Miss Crimp into giving Marius a room in the house.

‘I did think, Seb,’ she said, ‘that it would be the last thing to have him sharing the chalet, even for a night or two. He was most intrigued about the pig, wasn’t he? As for me, the more I think about things, the creepier they seem to get. Murders and witches and gangsters are all very well in books and on television, but I find I do rather bar them in real life. Anyway, I’m tired of the island. There’s nothing more to do here—’

‘Except find out who killed Aunt Eliza.’

‘I don’t want any part of that. It isn’t as though we knew her, and now there’s been a murderous attempt on Ransome as well, I think we’re better away from it all. What occurs to me is that we’re members of the same family, and people know it.’

‘Oh, nonsense, Maggie! Nobody on the island connects us with Ransome and Aunt Eliza!’

‘Miss Crimp does.’

‘Miss Crimp?’

‘She’s got this partnership in the hotel. She knows The Tutor is Aunt Eliza’s brother. That means she knows we’re related to Ransome. Well, she’s got rid of Aunt Eliza—or somebody has — and my bet is that she’s at the bottom of this business of trying to drown Ransome. She may even think it has succeeded. If it had done, that would have left our family as Aunt Eliza’s only relatives. Of course I know it all depends on Aunt’s will, but apart from any question of money or property, who else would have any reason to murder Aunt Eliza? The Crimp probably hated her. I’m sure she hates us.’

‘Well, there’s something in your argument, perhaps. Let’s wait until The Tutor has spoken to Dame Beatrice. That will probably decide matters, apart from any action the police may take.’

‘Shall we go with him to Puffins?’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll want us tagging along.’

It transpired, during conversation over the dinner table, that Marius had decided to ask his son, but not his daughter, to accompany him, but at this Margaret protested with so much vehemence that her father felt obliged to reconsider his offer.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I do not feel that I ought to inflict three of us on Dame Beatrice, so, my dear, if you feel put out at being left here alone, I will go by myself to Puffins and Sebastian shall stay here with you. Will that be satisfactory?’

‘Yes, thank you, Father.’

‘And, in any case, on second thoughts, Sebastian,’ said Marius, ‘perhaps it will be easier for both parties if I interview Dame Beatrice alone.’

‘Very well, Father,’ said Sebastian; but when their father had left the hotel for the short, downhill walk to Puffins, he turned on his sister reproachfully. ‘You little chump,’ he said. ‘Now bang goes our chance of getting in on the ground floor of this frightful but exciting business.’

‘The Tutor will tell us all about it, and report what Dame Beatrice has to say.’

‘Like hell he will! When did he ever take us completely into his confidence? He still thinks we’re a couple of kids and he’s as secretive as a clam, anyway. He’ll tell us just as much as he thinks it’s good for us to know, and that will be damn all, I can assure you. No, you young fathead, you’ve sold the pass. What on earth was there to be scared of, anyway, so long as you stayed in the hotel? You didn’t need to spend the evening alone in the chalet.’

‘I didn’t say I was scared. I didn’t see why I should be left out of the fun, that’s all.’

‘Oh, well, it’s all done with and settled now, so that’s that, I suppose.’

‘Well, stop complaining, then. I don’t often interfere with your plans. The fact is, Seb, that I don’t like and I don’t trust Miss Crimp, and the thought of being left alone here does scare me. She gives me goose flesh.’

‘Yet you bearded her in her den and made her give The Tutor a room. Oh, well, girls will be girls, I suppose. Perhaps we can pump Laura Gavin when we go for our morning bathe.’

‘Oh, Seb, I’m sorry I interfered.’

‘Say no more about it. What shall we do to pass the rest of the evening?’

‘Are we waiting up for The Tutor, then? There really doesn’t seem much point.’

‘Oh, well, you go to bed, then, but I expect he’ll like to find one of us awake when he gets back.’

‘I say, Seb, you do think Aunt Eliza was murdered for her money, don’t you?’

‘I don’t see what else there is to think. That’s if she was murdered, you know. It seems an open question.’

‘But if it was for what she had to leave, isn’t Ransome in rather a peculiar position?’

‘Well, I suppose he’d be one of the claimants, but, then, so are we, as you rather boldly pointed out to The Tutor.’

‘That’s true, so far as it goes. Why, though, did Ransome tell us Aunt Eliza was in debt? If that’s true, it lets him out.’

‘And us, too, no doubt—not that anybody could suspect The Tutor of murdering anybody. It isn’t his scene.’

‘To go back to Ransome…’

‘Well?’

‘Perhaps it’s only since Aunt’s death that he found out she had nothing to leave but debts.’

‘If we’re going in for wild speculations, the same could apply to Miss Crimp.’

‘But she denied that there were any debts, didn’t she?’

‘Could be camouflage. Anyway, it can be proved that, if Aunt Eliza was murdered, none of our family could have done it. She was dead before we set foot on the island.’

‘That’s a comfort, anyhow. Do you know, I think I will go to bed, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’

‘All right, unless you’d like a knock-up at table tennis first. Among the other (possibly unpaid-for) improvements listed on the brochure, I seem to remember a notice that one of the chalets is listed as a games room. Shall we toddle across and take a butcher’s?’

‘Oh, very well, then. We’d better change our shoes, though. I must, anyway. I can’t play table tennis in my evening shoes. Are you coming?’ (They were in the lounge of the hotel.)

‘No, I shan’t bother. If I can dance in these pumps, I can play table tennis in them.’

‘And your dinner jacket?’

‘Oh, well, look, then, we’ll stroll over to the chalets and out there I can shed my jacket and you can take it with you and bring me back my thin sweater while I repair to the games room and bag a table for our game.’

The large chalet which was called the games room was situated at the far end of the sunken garden so that any sounds which emanated from it should not penetrate to the other chalets and disturb the rest of their inhabitants.

Margaret and Sebastian, therefore, went their separate ways, he across the sunken garden and up the steps on the far side of it, she in almost the opposite direction. She had slung her brother’s dinner-jacket round her shoulders and was hitching it into position when she became aware that someone was standing at one of the windows of the chalet which she and Sebastian occupied. The sun was beginning to set and was going down in a blaze of splendour to the sea, but the sky was clear and the day was not yet done. It was an hour, however, when Margaret and her brother had usually retired to their chalet, not to sleep, but to read the books which Sebastian, who had guessed correctly the contents of Laura’s rectangular parcel when first she had come to the island, was in the habit of borrowing from time to time.

The golden glow of the declining sun seemed to be setting the windows of the chalet on fire, and Margaret, in any case, could not see the visitor’s face. His back was towards her, and his figure, against the almost blinding light, was nothing more than a silhouette. As the girl walked towards him she saw something more. He was busy at the window with the obvious intention of attempting to force it open. As soon as she realised this, Margaret ran forward, shouting:

‘Hi, there! What are you up to?’

At this the man turned and ran. He ran clumsily, for he was heavily built and did not appear to be in his first youth. Margaret made no attempt to pursue him, neither did she continue in her course towards the chalet. She stopped dead, her heart pounding. Then she turned and made off in the direction of the games room and flung herself at her astonished brother.

‘Where’s my sweater?’ he demanded.

‘A man!’ gulped Margaret. ‘A man trying to get into our chalet!’

Except for themselves the games room was empty. Sebastian took her by the shoulders and put her on to a bench which was against the wall.

‘Here, steady on,’ he said, ‘What’s all the panic about?’

‘A man! Trying to force a window. I’m sure he thought we were in there. Since Father went to the inquest we’ve always gone back there after dinner. We were sitting in the lounge a bit longer than usual tonight. Oh, Seb, I’m scared! First Aunt Eliza, then Ransome, now us. Oh, I’ll be so thankful when we go home! I hate this beastly place!’

‘Now, then, take it steady,’ said Sebastian. ‘I bet all you saw was somebody who’d mistaken our chalet for his own. Probably put away a couple too many in the bar. Come on, I’ll walk back over there with you. Why, it’s still daylight! Nobody tries to burgle a place—’

‘It wasn’t a burglar!’

‘Well, I never said it was. I’m sure it was only some pickled customer mistaking his home from home. It does happen, even in the best-regulated hotels, you know, and the chalets are all alike.’

‘But I tell you he was trying to force a window! I’m sure he was!’

‘What of it? Found his key wouldn’t fit and was too sozzled to realise he was trying to open the wrong box, so he had a go at a window, that’s all. For goodness’ sake forget it.’

‘But he ran away as soon as I shouted.’

‘Probably brought him to his senses. A sudden jolt does do that sometimes. Come on, now, not to worry. Shall we have a knock-up or shan’t we?’

‘I shouldn’t be able to hit a ball, and I’ve still got these silly shoes on.’

‘All right, give me back my jacket. We’ll go over to the hotel and I’ll buy you a stiffener in the bar. You’re just about old enough, aren’t you?’

They stayed in the hotel bar for three-quarters of an hour. Under the mingled influence of the cheerful chatter round about her, the comfort of her brother’s presence and the effect of two fairly potent drinks, Margaret relaxed and calmed down, and when Sebastian, with a glance at the clock, suggested that it was time to think about going to the chalet before it got quite dark, she was ready enough to accompany him.

When they reached their chalet, however, she hesitated.

‘You don’t think he managed to get in while we were in the bar, do you?’ she asked. Sebastian laughed.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ he said, producing his key. ‘We’ll go in by my door, shall we? You stay out here, if you like, while I have a butcher’s.’

‘No. If it’s anybody nasty, two of us will be better than one.’

There was nobody in the chalet and no signs anywhere that anyone had attempted to force an entrance. Sebastian drew the curtains in both bedrooms and in the tiny sitting-room and Margaret switched on the light. They opened a small flask of brandy which Sebastian had talked the barman into letting him have, and he had just poured out a small tot for each of them when there came a sharp tapping on the window. Sebastian was so startled that he almost dropped the flask. Margaret was petrified.

‘It’s him!’ she said, her voice rising to a terrified squeak. ‘No! Don’t go near the window! Don’t!’

‘Oh, rot!’ said Sebastian, in an unconvincing tone; but he did not go to the window. He called out, ‘Push off, whoever you are! Get lost! Drop dead!’

There was silence. They waited, but nothing else happened, neither did they hear the sound of retreating footsteps for, although there were paved paths up to the doors of the chalets, there was grass under the windows.

‘I wish to God people wouldn’t think it funny to play the fool at night,’ said Sebastian. Scarcely had he spoken when there came a thunder of knocks on his bedroom outside door. It sounded as though somebody was hammering on it with a heavily-knobbed stick.

‘It’s the murderer!’ whispered Margaret. ‘Don’t open the door, whatever you do! First Aunt Eliza, then Ransome and now us! I said it before, and—’

‘Oh, rot!’ said Sebastian. He raised his voice and, in a shriller tone than he intended, he called out,

‘Is that you, Father?’ The banging had ceased and, more to reassure his sister than himself, he called out again, ‘Is it you, Father?’ There was no reply. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded; but again there was no answer except a deep-throated, bloodcurdling laugh. Sebastian snorted in annoyance. He felt sure of his ground now. ‘It’s one of the bird-boys acting the fool. I’m sure of it. I’m going to catch him out,’ he said.

‘No,’ whispered Margaret, ‘don’t go! Please don’t go! Don’t open any doors. It’s almost dark outside and—well, there was that man—’

‘All right, then,’ Sebastian whispered in return. ‘But I still think it’s somebody acting the goat. You go to bed and I’ll come in and sit with you if you want me to, but don’t get all in a tizzy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s only some lunatic trying to be funny, you know, or else another tight chap—or even the first one back again.’

‘I can’t go to bed while somebody is trying to get into the chalet.’ Margaret was frightened and betrayed the fact.

‘Good gracious, nobody is really trying to get in,’ said Sebastian. ‘It’s only a drunk, I tell you, or some boorish foolery. They’re probably doing it at all the chalet doors. Buck up, old thing! Don’t let your nerves get you down.’ He spoke unusually roughly, since his own nerves had received an unwelcome jolt.

‘Oh, I’ll be so glad to be leaving!’ said his sister.

‘Yes, well, all right, but not to worry. Look, we haven’t touched our brandy. Let’s have a sip or two, shall we? We only had a couple of drinks at the hotel just now.’

Marius reached Puffins at just after ten o’clock. He had been for a walk first to collect his thoughts, but it was still light enough to allow him to find his way down the surprisingly steep path which led from the sea-road to Dame Beatrice’s front door.

‘I must apologise for calling on you without warning,’ he said, when he was shown in to a sparsely-furnished sitting-room, ‘but I shall be leaving Great Skua again by the first outgoing boat and I have problems which I cannot solve.’

‘Psychological problems?’ asked Laura, the only occupant of the room. ‘We’re busy, you know, on Dame Beatrice’s memoirs. Besides, a course of treatment is apt to be a long job and, if you are leaving the island so soon, you’d be better advised to consult somebody in London.’

‘I don’t know whether one would call mine a psychological problem, and, in any case, even if I were in need of a psychiatrist—and (like most people) I may be, for all I know—I have not come to consult Dame Beatrice on my own behalf in the sense which I think you mean.’

‘I suppose you’ve come about the death of Mrs Chayleigh,’ said Laura.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Marius gratefully. ‘The open verdict at Friday’s inquest was most unsatisfactory. I am convinced that my sister was murdered.’

‘All right, I’ll get Dame Beatrice. She was the first doctor to see the body. Sit down, won’t you?’

Dame Beatrice, summoned from the room she used as a study, treated the visitor to an alligator smile and said that she was delighted to see him.

‘Of course we are interested in your charming children,’ she added. ‘I wonder whether it is owing to their representations that you have come to see me?’

‘As a family we throw ourselves upon your mercy, I fear, Dame Beatrice. You will know, of course, that I crossed to the mainland to attend the inquest and my unfortunate sister’s obsequies, but I wonder whether you have heard what the coroner’s jury had to say? They brought in an open verdict, and I have no doubt that the police will be questioning us very soon. Dame Beatrice, I am certain that my poor sister was murdered. I believe you have been concerned with investigations into sudden deaths—homicide and kindred matters. I realise that you are extremely busy and that, so far, I can produce no concrete evidence that my sister’s death was the product of malice aforethought, but…’

‘Ah,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘so you have heard about the pig.’

‘The pig? What pig? The children mentioned a pig?’

Dame Beatrice told him. Then she added,

‘I will look into the matter, of course. In fact, I had intended to do so on my own account and as a matter of interest, but it is a pleasure to be assured that I shall not be meddling in something which is hardly my concern, except…’ she looked significantly at him ‘… except that a rumour seems to be floating around among the hotel servants that your sister was last seen making her way towards this house. I was not in residence at the time, of course, nevertheless, as the present occupier, I shall be glad to do what I can to establish the reason for Mrs Chayleigh’s disappearance and the manner of her death, if only for my own satisfaction. Had she, to your knowledge, any enemies?’

‘None, so far as I know, but I have been out of touch with her for many years.’

‘Does anybody obtain any monetary advantage by her death?’

‘Well, that’s the difficulty. I saw her lawyer after the funeral and it seems that she left all of which she died possessed to be divided equally among her natural son Ransome Lovelaine — my sister, as you may have been informed, changed her name to Chayleigh when she inherited the Chayleigh house and estate on this island and adopted the status of a married woman for what, no doubt, she thought good and sufficient reasons — myself and Miss Crimp.’

‘I see.’

‘Suppose that I should die first—I do not know how many years Miss Crimp has to her credit, and age is nothing really to go by — but supposing that I have the shortest life-span — then my share is to be divided between the other two. In other words, except for the last of the three of us, we have no more than a life-interest in our share of the property. The survivor, however, takes all and can dispose of it at will. That is the thing in a nutshell.’

‘And supposing you are right, and that your sister was murdered,’ said Dame Beatrice, giving him another sharp glance, ‘would a third share in her property have tempted one of you to kill her, I wonder?’

‘I can only speak for myself,’ said Marius, ‘and I can assure you that I did not kill my sister for that or for any other reason.’

‘Besides, you were not on the island at the time of her death and no doubt you can prove that. What about Ransome? Would he think that, as her nearest relative, he should have been left everything instead of only one-third?’

‘That would mean he murdered for revenge as well as for gain, would it not?’

‘Very likely. What about Miss Crimp? She also might feel that she had a major claim as she helps to run the hotel and, I imagine, has shares in it.’

‘Yes, I believe she has. My son and daughter tell me, however, that the hotel is doing very badly and that my sister (and, I suppose, Miss Crimp) are in debt. Sebastian says that they have no proof of this, but they learned it, I believe, from Ransome.’

‘If there are debts, these, presumably, would need to be discharged before any benefits could accrue to the three claimants.’

‘I shall make it my business to find out exactly how matters stand, but, judging by the fact that my sister had made no record of my booking at the hotel, I fear she may have been very slap-dash and careless and her affairs may need a good deal of disentangling. Of course, I suppose she was a very busy woman, but even the busiest person should be businesslike.’

‘Very busy?’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Would you think so? From various bits of gossip which Laura has picked up since we have been here, it seems that the hotel is rarely more than a quarter full, even in the height of the summer, and that the ornithologists’ numbers are a phenomenon.’

‘Yes, but I don’t think they’re paying full rates,’ said Marius. ‘Well, I must not take up more of your time, Dame Beatrice. I am most obliged to you for being willing to look into my family affairs, and I will be guided by you in every particular.’

He rose to leave. Laura appeared and escorted him to the door.

‘It’s very dark tonight. Can I lend you a torch?’ she asked.

‘Oh, it is only a step and, once I am up out of this dip, the hotel lights will guide me,’ Marius replied. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Gavin. I am greatly obliged to you for your help.’

‘I’ve done nothing yet,’ said Laura, who had been present at the interview. She kept the door open to light him through the small front garden and then called goodnight as he disappeared among the shrubs. She returned to Dame Beatrice and said,

‘What’s his real problem, I wonder. He’s scared about something. Are you going to do anything about it?’

‘Well,’ Dame Beatrice replied, ‘it might fit in very well with our other task, the one laid upon us by our dear Robert.’

‘Which, so far, we have not begun.’

‘You are always so impatient. We have to begin by establishing in the minds of the inhabitants that we are friendly, innocent and completely occupied with our own concerns. Only then can we operate with any assurance of succeeding in our enterprise. Nobody will be in the least surprised by our open interest in Mrs Chayleigh’s death. It is the talk of the island. Everyone, whether he knows anything about us or not, will fully expect that we shall be sufficiently interested to make enquiries and listen to gossip.’

‘You seem pretty cold-blooded about the wretched woman’s death.’

‘I did not know her, and that absolves me from prejudice. It is as well to approach the death of strangers with an open mind, although one is precluded from doing so in the case of relatives, friends and acquaintances.’

‘Granted that Mrs Chayleigh was murdered, do you think it was for what she had to leave?’

‘It is possible, of course.’

‘Even if she left debts?’

‘The murderer (if there is one) may not know about the debts and, moreover, it is not yet established that she left any. The story appears to rest on the so-far unsupported word of the illegitimate son, who may have the best of reasons for minimising the supposed value of his inheritance.’

‘So where do we go from here?’

‘I have not made up my mind about that. It may be useful for me to have a talk with Mr Ransome Lovelaine.’

‘Be sticking your neck out if he happens to be the murderer, won’t you?’

‘My neck is not very long, dear child.’

‘Wonder what Père Lovelaine thinks you can do?’

Marius, taking the steep upward path towards the road which led back to the hotel, was pondering on this problem with such absorption that, until a flying figure dived at him out of the darkness and astonished and infuriated him by bringing him to the ground, he had no idea that his departure from Puffins had been witnessed by anybody except Laura, and therefore he was totally unprepared for this unmannerly encounter.

It was fortunate for him that the path, although rather rough, was on a sharp slope, for, instead of his opponent being able to get his hands on his victim’s throat, as appeared to be his intention, the pair of them rolled over and over towards the front door of the house. Marius was small and spare and made no claim to athletic prowess, but he had never been self-indulgent and was in good condition. Moreover, he did not lose his head. Realising at once that he was no match for a much heavier adversary and one who had taken him by surprise, he adopted his only real means of defence, and shouted loudly for help so long as he could keep the other man from throttling him. He had good lungs and a rather high tenor voice which carried well. The front door of Puffins was flung open and a flood of light fell upon the struggling pair.

‘What the hell?’ enquired the voice of Dame Beatrice’s sturdy manservant George. He was immediately joined by Laura, who said, ‘What is it, George?’ At this the aggressor scrambled up with some celerity, kicked out at the prostrate Marius and made off at a scrambling gallop which almost at once took him out of the orbit of the light which shone from the house. Marius picked himself up, limping from the kick which, intended for his groin, had taken him harmlessly but painfully on the top of the left thigh, and apologised for creating a disturbance.

‘He must have mistaken me for somebody else. Perhaps he thought I was an escaping burglar,’ he said when, having been taken into the house and given brandy, he had recounted his experience.

‘Well, be that as it may,’ said Laura firmly, ‘I’m going the rounds of the house before you leave, to make sure the doors and windows are shut, then I shall arm Henri, our cook, with our heaviest poker and his special kitchen knife, and George and I will escort you back to the hotel.’

‘What is Henri’s function to be, then?’ Dame Beatrice meekly enquired.

‘Guard duty, until George and I get back.’

‘You really mustn’t trouble to come with me,’ said Marius, proving that, in spite of his children’s opinion of him, he possessed heroic qualities.

‘Nonsense!’ said Laura. ‘I only hope the dotty blighter tries again, that’s all.’

Marius did not bolster up this hope, but made no further protest about being escorted back to the hotel.