The Murder of Busy Lizzie

Well,’ said Marius Lovelaine, taking back the letter he had given his wife to read, ‘there are few things in life more welcome than a well-earned, well-planned holiday.’

‘Well-earned maybe,’ responded his wife, ‘but I don’t see where well-planned fits in. It seems to me that Eliza is doing the planning, and from what little I remember of her…’

‘Oh, well, this is Easter. We have plenty of time. All the same, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, my dear, and, from the warm tone of this letter, I fancy that Lizzie’s pudding will be worth the sampling.’

‘Maybe. For my own part, I would sooner go to Southend or Margate or even to one of those holiday camps which Sebastian tried last year and did not like, than stay in your sister’s loathsome little boarding-house, on an almost uninhabited island.’

‘Private hotel, Clothilde. In fact, I believe she likes it to be known as a country club.’

‘What a lot of high-falutin’ nonsense! It’s nothing more than a very inferior guest-house. I don’t suppose it’s got so much as a table licence! As for her scale of charges, we could at least have had a package holiday abroad for that amount of money. Trust Eliza not to give something for nothing, even to her closest relative, and, as matters stand, you are scarcely that!’

‘She has merely sent me her printed brochure, my dear, with the letter of invitation, and even if she does expect to charge us something for board and lodging, we have to remember that the hotel is her only means of livelihood.’

‘Then what has happened to all the money which that eccentric old lady bequeathed her when she left her the house and grounds on that barren little island?’

‘I don’t think there can be much of that money left, dear. Lizzie must have spent the earth on converting the house into an hotel and putting in all those improvements.’

‘What improvements?’

‘Well, according to the brochure, she has built a considerable extension to the place—’

‘In the form of draughty little chalets—’

‘And then she mentions extra bathrooms in the house itself, a sunken garden, a hard tennis court, miniature golf, billiards, table tennis—’

‘Oh, in an outlandish place like that I expect she got all the work done on the cheap, unless her fancy man paid for some of it.’

‘She would hardly have a lover at her age, my dear. Besides, that old business was finished with when the baby was adopted. Look, Clothilde, I was sorry and ashamed when my parents quarrelled with her all those years ago, and I was most disappointed when you met her at our wedding and disliked her, so I regard this letter as a genuine olive-branch which we would be well-advised to accept.’

‘Olive-branch do you call it? She only wants us there so that we can be made to pay through the nose for poor food and a couple of attics.’

‘I hardly think she will expect us to roost in the rafters, my dear. However, that we shall see. But please allow me to finish. I am particularly anxious to accept the olive-branch I feel she is holding out, because I hope it may very well lead to our ultimate advantage, especially if we can prevail upon Sebastian and Margaret to go with us.’

‘Which they will refuse to do. I can tell you that before you ask them.’

‘Even if I point out that they may stand to gain by accompanying us to the island?’

‘I should have thought Eliza was the person who would stand to gain if we go. Three bedrooms and full board for a whole month! I can tell you what has happened. She has rooms going begging now that everybody either goes abroad or takes a touring holiday by car with nothing but over-night stops. She probably thinks it better to have our money than none at all. Besides, who wants to stay on a two-by-four island where the steamer calls only three times a week in mid-season, once a week at other times, and not at all if the weather is bad?’

‘You still don’t allow me to finish. The point is this: Lizzie, after all these years, has written to me in a friendly, sisterly way—’

‘In a grasping, sisterly way, I suppose you mean!’

‘Please, my dear! Compelled thereto by you and my parents, I may have cut myself off from her, but the fact remains that I am her next of kin. When she passes on—and perhaps I may remind you that she is seven years my senior and that my health has always been good—I stand the best chance of anybody of inheriting whatever she leaves.’

‘Oh, nonsense, Marius! Even if what she has to leave is worth anything, have you forgotten the boy Ransome?’

‘My dear, you know as well as I do that Ransome is a fly-by-night, born on the wrong side of the blanket when Lizzie was a headstrong girl of twenty. Long before he was born my parents had made all arrangements to have him adopted. I don’t suppose Lizzie has seen him since he was about six weeks old, if that. She couldn’t possibly have any feeling for him now.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Blood is thicker than water—or so they say.’

‘They also say that it’s a good deal nastier, and that’s true, anyhow. No, no, my dear, Lizzie blotted her copybook and was only too thankful, I’m sure, to tear out the untidy page.’

‘That is not the story I heard. I was told—and on good authority, too—that the father would willingly have married Eliza if his wife could have been persuaded to divorce him. Ransome was a love-child, in every sense of the word, and we cannot lose sight of the fact that he may very well have remained so.’

‘After thirty years? Really, my dear, I can hardly believe that!’

‘Ransome is near enough thirty years old, then,’ said Clothilde in a reminiscent tone.

‘Oh, yes, he will be thirty on his next birthday, I suppose.’

‘Then, surely, Marius, he is old enough to know his rights and to insist on them. He will see that he is on the spot as soon as Eliza goes, and will help himself to the pickings, if there are any. You may depend on that.’

‘But if he was formally adopted he has no claim on Lizzie any more.’

‘Be that as it may, how do you know that she has not married and had legitimate children?’

‘Oh, we should have heard.’

‘I’d like to be certain of that. Besides, Ransome may not have been legally adopted. He may have been fostered.’

‘Clothilde, my dear, let me play this hand my own way. What happens to Lizzie’s property depends, after all, on Lizzie’s will.’

‘And you really think that your spending a month with her after all these years of estrangement will cause her to make a will in your favour?’

‘Or in favour of our children, if they play their cards sensibly.’

‘Really, Marius, you are singularly naïf. Besides, we don’t know that the children will wish to fall in with your plans. They cut loose from us last summer and the summer before, even when I thought the holidays we had planned would be interesting and even exciting for them, so I cannot imagine that a boring sojourn on Eliza’s tight little island will appeal to them. Have you sounded them in any way?’

‘You know I have not. There has been no time. Since this Easter vacation began they never seem to be in the house, or, if one of them is here, the other is not.’

‘Well, if you expect them to put themselves out in order to make a good impression on their aunt, I’m afraid you’re in for a grave disappointment.’

‘Not if I point out that there may be something substantial in it for them. They are quite old enough to understand and appreciate that kind of argument.’ Marius raised his voice and called his children’s names. They took their time about answering him, but came into the room at last, a handsome pair separated in age by only two years.

The son, a tall youth of twenty, favoured his mother in looks although not in disposition. He was casual where she was intense; clever, whereas she was inclined to be stupid; but he had her large hazel eyes, her straight nose and her sensuous, curved mouth and expressive, strong hands. His sister was not very much like either of her parents. She was small and fair, with greenish eyes and an appearance of fragility which was entirely misleading. Both children preferred one another’s society to that of anybody else, although Sebastian had made tentative unsuccessful sexual experiments during his first year at college and Margaret had several young men who partnered her as opportunity offered, but to none of whom she was in any way committed.

‘Did you want us, Father?’ she asked.

‘Otherwise I should not have called you, my dear girl,’ Marius replied. ‘Sit down. I have something I wish to discuss with both of you.’

‘It’s not a rise in our allowance, by any chance?’

‘Well, it might run to that, if all goes well.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘Give him a chance! ’ muttered Sebastian. ‘It’s no good trying to rush him.’

‘Well, it’s about the summer holiday,’ said Marius, eyeing his boy with the faint dislike which some fathers feel for their adolescent sons. ‘It is a long way off, so I doubt very much whether you have made any plans yet.’

‘I’ve had a chance to go with a reading-party to Sweden,’ said Sebastian, ‘but I don’t know that I’m all that keen.’

‘We wondered whether you’d sub up for both of us to go to Greece,’ said Margaret.

‘Greece?’ repeated Marius, as though he were giving thought to the proposition, an attitude which deceived neither of his children.

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Sebastian resignedly.

‘Now, now, just wait a moment, my boy. I think Greece might be a very good idea—later on.’

‘Never jam today!’ muttered Margaret.

‘By “later on” I meant towards the end of your Long Vacation, of course. We will go into ways and means. There is just one important point, though. I don’t think that either your mother or I would consider allowing the pair of you to go to Greece alone. What about one of these Hellenic cruises? I believe they are very well thought of.’

‘Lecture tours and the culture spread out like bird-lime? Hardly a holiday,’ said Sebastian.

‘You think not? Well, we’ll see, then. But first you may care to hear what else I have to propose. Read this letter and look at the brochure.’

‘Heavens!’ said Sebastian, when he had carried out these instructions. ‘Park ourselves on a chunk of granite in the rain and the south-west winds? What on earth should we find to do there?’

‘It’s an island. I like islands,’ said his sister.

‘Yes, for a couple of days, perhaps, but this letter suggests the whole of July. Who is this woman, anyway? Lizzie? We don’t know anybody called Lizzie, do we?’

‘She is my only sister,’ said Marius.

‘Why haven’t we heard of her before?’

‘There were reasons.’

‘A family row, I suppose. The letter reads like that.’

‘Yes, there were family differences, but now that your aunt has extended the olive-branch—’

‘If I hear that word one more time I shall scream and beat my breast,’ said Clothilde.

‘Oho!’ exclaimed her son. ‘A difference of opinion, is there? You’re not in the market for olive-branches, Boob darling?’

‘Don’t call me that! And don’t be so aggravating, Sebastian. A difference of opinion between your father and myself is unthinkable and is no concern of yours, anyway. As for that horrible nickname, I detest it!’

‘But you do boob, darling. Look at you at the Singletons’ sherry party last November! I nearly died of shame.’

‘If you hadn’t broken your glass and so attracted everybody’s attention, nobody would have noticed what I said.’

‘Darling, I sacrificed my social competence just to cover up for you. Actually—’

‘I think that will do,’ said his father. ‘I do not care for the nickname you have for your mother. It is neither kind nor respectful. Let us return to the subject under discussion and express our views in a courteous and reasonable way.’

‘So we’re to be the reply to the olive-branch, are we?’ said Sebastian, making an impudent face at his mother.

‘If you will allow me to continue: your aunt was left an estate on the island of Great Skua, together with an appreciable amount of money, on condition that she lived on the property and developed it. This she appears to have done to the best of her ability and with considerable success. She has made alterations and additions to the house and has turned it into a prosperous hotel. She has added amenities of all kinds and these, as you have seen, she proposes that we shall enjoy for a month of our summer vacation.’

‘At a price,’ put in Clothilde resentfully.

‘Naturally we shall not expect her to accommodate us free of charge, since we can well afford to pay,’ explained Marius to his children.

‘We could afford to pay for other sorts of holiday, too,’ said Sebastian. ‘Why should we bury ourselves alive in order to patch up a family squabble?’

‘There is no question of patching anything up. As I see it, your aunt has extended this…’ Marius caught his wife’s eye ‘… this kind invitation to us to go and visit her, and I have an excellent reason for accepting it.’

‘Is she—I mean, has she a family?’ asked Margaret.

‘Well, there, my dear, you go to the root of the matter. She is unmarried and has no dependents…’

‘Except an illegitimate son,’ said Clothilde.

‘Oh, dear!’ said Sebastian. ‘Ought Margaret to be allowed to hear the rest of this conversation?’

‘You mean she was silly enough to let somebody give her a baby?’ asked Margaret. ‘I shouldn’t think anybody as idiotic as that would be able to run a hotel.’

‘A cheap and nasty boarding-house,’ said Clothilde.

‘You surely don’t mean a brothel, Boob darling? Is Papa really suggesting that we take a holiday in a house of ill-repute?’ asked Sebastian, who was often inclined to amuse himself by being as irritating to his parents as he could manage.

‘Oh, shut up, Seb!’ said his sister, giggling.

‘But Mamma has just said—’

‘Be quiet! Be quiet!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘For heaven’s sake allow your father to finish what he has to say!’

‘It was what you had to say which intrigued me, darling. How do you mean—cheap and nasty? Nasty it may be, and probably is, but…’ Sebastian squinted at the list of tariffs which was printed on the end page of the brochure… ‘I wouldn’t call it cheap. Maggie and I could hitch-hike all over Europe for about a tenth of what’s put down here.’

‘Well, you are not going to,’ snapped Marius. ‘You are coming to the island of Great Skua.’

‘But why? I mean, why are you so keen we should stay with this aunt? With her reputation she can hardly be a fit hostess for my little sister.’

‘If you will abandon this flippant and tasteless line of talk and stop showing off in front of your mother, I will endeavour to explain,’ said Marius. ‘I referred a minute ago to the fact that your aunt is the owner of what must be a valuable and desirable property—’

‘No hawkers, no circulars, no touts,’ muttered Sebastian in his sister’s ear.

‘And this property must inevitably fall to another owner some day.’

‘Yes, to the fly-by-night,’ said Clothilde.

‘The illegitimate son has been adopted’, went on Marius, disregarding her, ‘and can have no claim on the estate. I regard it as my bounden duty, therefore, to allow nothing to stand in the way of a reconciliation with your aunt.’

‘Great expectations!’ muttered Sebastian. ‘Very well, Father,’ he said aloud, ‘I love to think that birds in their little nests agree. By all means let us suck up to Aunt Eliza if you think the pickings will be worth it. All those in favour?’

‘When did she have the baby?’ asked Margaret. ‘Was it a long time ago?’

‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Marius, ignoring his son. ‘It was quite a romantic story, I believe. It happened nearly thirty years ago.’

‘Long enough ago to be respectable, and therefore long enough ago to be uninteresting,’ said Sebastian. ‘That means the little intruder will be a man of early middle age by now.’

‘I am a man of early middle age,’ said Marius, who was forty-four. ‘Ransome would be something under thirty. In any case, whatever his age, he can be disregarded as a possible heir to his natural mother’s estate.’

‘I wish I were as sure of that as you seem to be,’ said Clothilde.

‘But what actually happened?’ asked Margaret. ‘I mean, how did she meet the father and why didn’t your family make him marry her, and all that sort of thing? I thought that, in their station of life, pressure was always brought to bear.’

‘In this case that was impossible,’ said Marius stiffly. ‘I regret to say that the father of the child was already married.’

‘Well, couldn’t they find some other poor daffy-down-dilly to take the rap?’

‘Now really, Margaret!’ protested Marius.

‘See what dreadful ideas this sordid story has already put into my small sister’s hitherto innocent head,’ said Sebastian. ‘So they had the baby adopted, did they?’ he went on hastily, catching his father’s eye. ‘So that puts him out of the line of direct succession, does it?’

‘If he was legally adopted, and if Eliza does not remember him in her will,’ said Clothilde.

‘Well, as I said before, I’m willing to take a chance,’ said Sebastian. ‘ “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold”—although it seems as though Ransome’s father was the wolf, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, and you and your father are only the silly sheep who are going bleating to Great Skua to see what you can get, and that will be exactly nothing,’ said Clothilde contemptuously. She turned her back on them, picked up a book and began to turn over the pages.

‘I wouldn’t mind spending a month at Aunt Eliza’s hotel,’ said Margaret, ‘especially as it’s on an island. It would make a change, if nothing else.’

‘Well, my dear,’ said Marius to his wife’s back, ‘it appears to be a majority decision, doesn’t it? I will answer Eliza’s letter as soon as we have dined and tell her that we accept with pleasure and are delighted with her suggestion that we should spend a holiday month with her at her hotel on Great Skua.’

‘You three must please yourselves,’ said Clothilde, ‘or, rather, you must please yourself, Marius, and leave the children to please you. However, I consider that I am entitled to my own point of view on the matter of Eliza and her desert island.’

‘Surely, surely, my dear,’ agreed Marius soothingly. “This family is not a dictatorship. I should never dream of attempting to persuade you to alter your opinions just to please me.’

‘That is just as well, for I have not the smallest intention of altering them. I neither like nor approve of Eliza, nor can I imagine anything more boring than spending a month on her sea-girt little piece of rock and mud.’

‘We shall all be there together, my love, and, as intelligent people, we can surely manage to entertain ourselves without ennui for a matter of four short weeks. Besides, if we pride ourselves on a democratic approach to family matters, it seems to me that you have been out-voted and must perforce fall in with the wishes of the majority.’

‘I do not feel myself bound in any such way, Marius,’ said Clothilde, slamming her book down and turning to face him. ‘I shall not go with you to Great Skua. The best I can do is to promise you a warm welcome and a substantial meal when you return from this unnecessary and ill-advised expedition. The good meal you will certainly need, I imagine, even if the welcome is supererogatory.’

‘What have you got against Aunt Eliza, Boobie?’ asked Sebastian, putting his long thin arm round her shoulders. ‘Tell your devoted and most inquisitive son. Is there some ghoulish secret hidden in your heart concerning her? You can’t dislike a woman simply because she has begotten a child without benefit of clergy, can you?—or can you?’

‘You none of you know what I can do,’ said Clothilde. ‘I hope you will all enjoy your stay on Great Skua. That is all I can say.’

‘Oh, now, really, my dear!’ protested Marius.

‘No,’ said his wife. ‘You go and toady to Eliza if you think fit, but I have not the smallest intention of going with you.’