The Murder of Busy Lizzie

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Two weeks later a long train journey, a rough crossing and a small open boat which smelt strongly of stale fish, brought Marius and his children, on a Wednesday afternoon, to a long wooden jetty which projected beyond the discoloured sands of the beach. Behind the beach rose bare and formidable cliffs up which, as Marius noted without enthusiasm, there climbed in steepish gradients an unmade track-like road. There was only one consolation. He had been informed by his sister, when she answered his letter of acceptance, that there would be porterage for suitcases if those were left on a wooden platform at the foot of the cliffs.

The island was called Great Skua because of a theory, not particularly borne out by fact, that from the mainland it resembled in shape and general colouring that predatory piratical sea-bird. As Sebastian had surmised, it was nothing more than a vast piece of granite rock, although a faulting of slate had made the landing-place possible, but the island, to the tired and sea-tossed visitors, looked about as welcoming as a prison.

The steamer from which the passengers, with some difficulty, had been transferred to the odoriferous landing craft, was to proceed further up the mainland coast, but, with Marius, Sebastian and Margaret, five other passengers had been disembarked on to the end of Great Skua’s primitive jetty. One of these was in uniform and was the relief keeper of the island’s north-west lighthouse; two (an older and a younger man whose ages appeared to be in the region of sixty and thirty respectively) appeared to be indigenous to the place; and of the remaining couple one was a very thin, small, elderly woman with sharp black eyes, yellow claw-like hands and a beaky little mouth. This she pursed up in silent condemnation of the scenery before turning to speak to her companion.

This companion was a far more striking figure, a Valkyrie of heroic proportions, tall, ruddy of countenance, handsome, vigorous, and apparently more favourably impressed by her surroundings than were the rest of the visitors. When the passengers were landed, she carried, with jaunty ease, two heavy suitcases to which were strapped waterproofs, a shooting stick and two hook-handled ashplants. She had a camera slung over one shoulder and a leather-strapped handbag on the other, and she tramped triumphantly across the heavy, dingy sand of the beach like William the Conqueror invading England. She dumped the suitcases on to a wooden platform similar to that provided in country districts for the reception of milk-churns and, with her small, elderly but energetic companion, began to climb the steep cliff-path.

Marius, carrying his own two suitcases, and Sebastian carrying his own and his sister’s and with a rucksack on his back, followed more slowly across the sands and, having dumped everything except Margaret’s camera and handbag (the only impediments her solicitous brother had allowed her to carry) the Lovelaines began to toil up the cliff-road in the wake of the two women. These had detached the two ashplants from their baggage and were making good use of them as aids to the ascent of the hill.

‘Wish we’d thought of walking-sticks,’ said Sebastian. ‘Do you know that old lady, Father? I had an impression, when we were on the steamer, that you thought you did.’

‘I know her by sight and reputation,’ Marius replied. ‘I have attended some of her lectures. She is Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, consultant psychiatrist to the Home Office and a criminologist of note.’

‘Who’s the Amazon with her? Not her daughter, surely?’

‘She has no daughter, so far as I am aware. Her son is Sir Ferdinand Lestrange, the well-known Queen’s Counsel. The younger woman is probably either a travelling companion or her secretary.’

‘She’d make a pretty efficient body-guard, too,’ said Sebastian. ‘Gosh! What a pace they’re setting up this confounded hill! It’s enough to kill the old lady.’

‘It’s the old lady who seems to be setting the pace,’ said Margaret. ‘I suppose, like us, they are bound for Aunt Eliza’s.’

‘As it is the only hotel on the island, I think there is no doubt of that,’ said Marius. ‘I look forward to some interesting conversations with Dame Beatrice.’

That this aspiration was not to be realised was soon made clear. The cliff road ended in a flight of roughly-hewn steps and, at the top of these, two paths diverged from one another. The small map which formed the two centre pages of Eliza’s brochure indicated that the right-hand path was the one to follow in order to reach the hotel. The left-hand fork dipped to a deep hollow in which a solid, square house faced the sea which could be seen from its upstair windows. Towards this building the two women were directing their vigorous way. Marius and his children took the right-hand path at the end of which they could see a jumble of buildings, one very much higher and larger than the rest, which they rightly took to be Eliza’s hotel and its satellite bungalows.

‘Well, Aunt Eliza’s brochure is right about one thing,’ said Sebastian. ‘There will certainly be a view of the sea from most, if not all, of the windows.’

They mounted three wide steps and turned to look at the view. The mainland, shadowed by a sea-haze, was remote and dreamlike. Between it and the island the sea was broken by small white-capped waves and the travellers had been more than aware of the wind as they climbed the hill. From where they were standing there was no hint of the beach, neither could they see the wide, shallow arc of the bay. Even the square mansion towards which their fellow-travellers had turned was almost out of sight, half-hidden away in its dip.

Without a word Marius turned and pushed open the revolving door of the hotel. Already he felt that it had been a mistake to come. He marched up to the reception desk and gave his name. It was met with a cool stare.

‘Mr. Lovelaine, did you say?’

‘Yes. I’ve booked for a four-week stay. My sister is expecting me. Miss-er-Mrs Chayleigh is my sister.’

The reception clerk turned up a ledger, grudgingly, it seemed, then turned the hotel register round towards Marius.

‘You had better sign the book, then,’ she said. ‘Numbers seven, eleven and twelve seem to be vacant. Did you need the porter? He’s off duty.’

‘No,’ replied Marius. ‘We left our luggage down below.’

The receptionist hooked down three keys and pushed them over the counter.

‘Afternoon tea, if you require it,’ she said, ‘is served at four and is paid for on the spot.’

‘I see.’ Marius turned to his son and daughter who were now inside the vestibule. ‘We had better inspect the three rooms,’ he said, ‘and then we can apportion them. I suppose you’d both like tea?’

‘No. You have some,’ said Sebastian, ‘and suit yourself about the rooms. Maggie and I are going to have a look at the island.’

‘Oh, very well,’ agreed Marius, whom this arrangement suited. He turned to the receptionist. ‘Perhaps you will let my sister know that I am here,’ he said. He picked up the keys. ‘Is there a lift?’

‘No. Room seven is on the first floor. Rooms eleven and twelve are in one of the chalets.’

‘But that is most inconvenient. I expected that we should all have rooms in the house.’

‘Not possible. The chalet is very comfortable.’

Marius went up the stairs to inspect room number seven and found it greatly to his liking. He supposed he had better offer it to his daughter in the hope that she would refuse it, but he abandoned this thought when he had crossed the short space between the house and the chalets and had looked at the one to which he held the keys. It was of wood and consisted of two very small bedrooms, each of which opened on to the outside air and had an inside door which connected it with a small sitting-room. There was no water laid on, but a notice boldly displayed in each bedroom announced that the bathhouse and toilets were housed in a separate building labelled All Yours which was readily accessible to chalet-based visitors.

Apart from all other considerations, this, and a fire-extinguisher which occupied a prominent place on the wall of the tiny sitting-room, decided Marius. It was not for him to put up with such inconvenient arrangements. He was prepared to make a fuss with the reception clerk if his children repudiated the chalet, but first of all he would point out to them the advantages of the situation, stressing the privacy the chalet afforded and the delightful privilege of having their own sitting-room, besides the freedom to come and go exactly as they pleased.

He returned to the hotel, mounted to number seven, washed his hands (thus, apart from anything else, establishing his right to the room) and went downstairs to greet his sister and have some tea. He expected her to offer it in her sitting-room. This would naturally result in his taking a welcome cup of tea without being charged for it. He resented being charged separately for this extraneous little meal when he was paying full board at what (he now agreed with his wife) were unreasonably high prices for what was offered.

Meanwhile Sebastian and Margaret were carrying out their tour of reconnaissance, but were confining it to the immediate environs of the hotel. These, they soon decided, offered little prospect of entertainment ‘unless’, said Margaret, ‘there’s anybody interesting living in that house down there in the dip, apart from the old witch and the Amazon. I don’t think they’re our cup of tea, do you?’

They stood on the cliff-top and studied the house. Except for a vast, ancient wistaria which climbed all over the front of the south wing, it was without adornment. One window in the centre block had been bricked up, otherwise the fenestration was plain, Georgian and practical. All the upstair windows were open at top and bottom, indicating that the inhabitants had a liking for fresh air, but, apart from this, the house had the unlived-in appearance of a place which was rented for the summer.

It was sheltered by a hill of bracken and heather which rose behind it like a wall, but up which a winding path led to the plateau which formed the main floor of the island. In front of the house there were bushes, but, except for a small rose-garden, no attempt at cultivation of any kind had been made. A low stone wall separated the rose-garden from some rough grass and the shrubbery, and to the east of the main building were outhouses and stables. Behind these were the quarries, now overgrown and unused.

As the brother and sister were taking in these details, the Amazonian woman, whom they had followed with her older companion up the steep track from the landing-stage, came out of the front door of the house and saw them. She waved to them and then disappeared round the side of the building and the next they saw of her was on the winding path at the back which led either to the quarries or the plateau on which the hotel was situated.

‘Wonder what she’s like?’ said Margaret.

‘A bit above my weight, anyhow,’ said Sebastian, watching the tall woman striding onwards up the slope.

‘And a bit above both our ages. Do you think she lives there?’

‘No. They had luggage with them.’

‘They might be coming home from holiday. I wonder when our luggage will come up? I could bear to get out of these clothes and into something a bit more in keeping with the scenery. I wonder whether The Tutor has contacted Aunt Eliza yet?’

‘Perhaps we had better go back and find out. Besides, I’d like to see our rooms.’

They returned to the hotel to find that their father was just beginning his tea, which he had had to pay for.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it hasn’t taken you long to make your tour of inspection. What do you think of it all?’

‘We don’t know yet. We haven’t been far,’ replied his son. ‘Has the luggage come up? I can’t walk about this sort of countryside in these sort of clothes and shoes. How many people are staying here? What are the rooms like?’

‘There seems to be nobody about. As for the rooms, only one of us is to be in the house, it seems. The other two are to occupy one of the chalets. I will just finish this cup of tea and then I will show you the chalet which has been allotted to us.’

‘If there’s nobody much staying here, why can’t we all have bedrooms in the house? A fine thing if it rains and we have to tramp across here for breakfast,’ said Sebastian.

‘I know. Well, come along and see how you feel about things. If we think the chalet is quite unsuitable, I shall make a complaint to Eliza.’

‘Have you had a talk with her?’

‘No,’ said Marius, frowning with annoyance, ‘I have not. I know she is a very busy person, but I would have thought she would have been on the spot to greet us. She must know when the boat gets in. I consider it most remiss of her. What is more, I shall complain about the reception I got at the desk. Most off-hand, I thought.’

‘By the way,’ said Sebastian, ‘did Aunt Eliza ever acknowledge your letter in which you told her we were coming?’

‘Oh, yes. She said she was very pleased and looked forward to our stay.’

‘Then perhaps she isn’t in. I shouldn’t think she can be, if you still haven’t seen her,’ said Margaret.

‘The receptionist could have told me that, one would think. I will enquire.’ He marched off to the desk.

‘It’s a bit off of Aunt Eliza, isn’t it?’ said Margaret. ‘I mean, it was at her suggestion that we came here. I know there was a family row—’

‘That was years ago. Besides, you gathered that the row was between her and Boobie. That’s why Boobie wouldn’t come with us, I expect, and wouldn’t even wait to see us off.’

Marius returned to them with a happier expression on his lantern-jawed, scholarly face.

‘The mystery begins to resolve itself,’ he said, ‘so shall we go and take a look at the chalet?’

‘I didn’t know there was a mystery,’ said Sebastian.

‘Oh, I meant that there has been no sign of Lizzie and that we have been given only one room in the house itself. It appears that Lizzie is away from the island on business, and Miss Crimp is finalising the arrangements for accommodating a conference of naturalists. She expects forty of them and, as many are elderly, she wants to put those in the house and allocate the chalets to the younger guests. It seems reasonable enough to me.’

‘How long is she expected to be away?’

‘The staff do not know, but I have found out that the receptionist is a person of importance. It seems that she is your aunt’s partner.’

‘Her partner?’ said Sebastian. He caught his sister’s eye, and both began to laugh.

‘I see no particular occasion for mirth,’ said Marius. ‘Has the sea-air gone to your heads? The woman’s name is Crimp and she is in sole and complete charge of the establishment until your aunt returns.’

‘We’re laughing because, from something Cousin Marie said at the Singletons’ when she and Miss Potter were staying with us in November, father, we sort of gathered that Aunt Eliza had appointed a second-in-command, but Cousin Marie seemed to think it was a major-domo, a man,’ said Margaret, controlling her mirth. Marius frowned.

‘I don’t see that Marie could know anything about it,’ he said.

‘Oh, but she and Miss Potter stayed here for a week or so last summer, father.’

‘I didn’t know that!’

‘Oh, dear! I supposed she would have told you and mother, or I would have mentioned it, but, of course, it didn’t interest me much because I had no idea at the time that we ourselves would be coming.’

‘No, no, of course you hadn’t, my dear. Extraordinary that Marie didn’t mention it to your mother or me, though.’

‘I expect she didn’t like to, knowing what mother thought about Aunt Eliza.’

‘That might be it, I suppose, but Marie has always been rather secretive. What did she think of the hotel?’

‘Not much, I believe. She said the meals were monotonous.’

‘Well, they should not be that, considering the price one is paying. Was Miss Crimp in partnership with Lizzie last summer, then?’

‘We have no idea, Father,’ said Sebastian, before his sister could answer the question.

‘I do not remember seeing her name on the brochure,’ said Marius, ‘but perhaps she and Lizzie have some agreement about that. A partner? I am not at all sure that I would have come had I known. I cannot think why you did not mention it, Margaret, before I made my booking.’

‘I’m very sorry, Father. I couldn’t see that it mattered. It doesn’t really make much difference, does it?’

‘Of course it makes a difference! Sebastian can see that, even if a schoolgirl cannot.’

‘Can you, Seb?’ asked Margaret, with an air of innocence. She resented being called a schoolgirl.

‘Yes. Bang goes our reason for coming here,’ said Sebastian, ‘and, for once in her innocent life, Boobie hasn’t boobed. She said it was N.B.G. and that seems to be just about right.’

‘Well,’ said Marius, ‘that is putting it too strongly, but the partnership does, indeed, complicate matters. I shall make it my business to find out exactly how it stands. It is more than likely that Miss Crimp has exaggerated the importance of her position here. Underlings are often inclined to puff themselves up when their masters are absent. From what I know of Lizzie, I should think it most unlikely that she has parted with more than a very small share of her holdings. It would be quite out of character if she has given much away.’

The family of three walked over to the chalet and Marius produced the keys.

‘Hm!’ said Sebastian. ‘Not bad. The front faces the sea and we are on the leeward side of the island. There’s a fairly firm table in the sitting-room where I can get on with my work if I feel so inclined or the weather turns wet, and the beds appear to be reasonably well sprung. I think I could settle in here quite well for a month. I suppose you’d prefer to stay up at the house, Father?’

‘I must leave that to Margaret,’ said Marius, ‘but I must confess that I’ve already used one of the towels in the bedroom there.’

‘Oh, I’ll share with Seb,’ said Margaret, ‘but I’m not having any truck with public bath-houses and the rest of it. I shall take my bath up at the house, Father, and you’ll have to get out of your bedroom while I change in it.’

Marius thought this reasonable, and said so. They returned to the house just as the suitcases were brought to the hotel by horse and cart. As the luggage was unloaded they claimed their own, and the two pieces which were left were trundled off to a destination which was indicated on the labels as Puffins. As the name which Sebastian read on one of the suitcases was Bradley, he assumed, rightly, that Puffins was the house which he and his sister had recently noted. The other suitcase was labelled Gavin, and with it on the cart and similarly labelled was a small packing-case which, to his knowledgeable eye, seemed likely to contain books. He eyed it speculatively and wondered whether a little borrowing might prove possible if the books were interesting. Even if they proved to be what, in his youthful arrogance and intellectual snobbishness, he wrote off as trash, they might come in useful on a wet day when he did not feel like getting on with his work or when he felt disposed to idle away a sunny afternoon on the cliff-top or among the heather.

There seemed to be nobody to deal with the luggage, so he picked up his own and his sister’s suitcase, dumped them on the verandah of the chalet and went back to accompany the others to the bedroom which was now definitely assigned to Marius.

‘So this is your room, Father,’ said Margaret, glancing around it. ‘It’s quite a good one, but I’d rather stick to the chalet, and I’m not at all sorry Aunt Eliza is not here to greet us. We shall be thoroughly acclimatised by the time she comes back. There’s nothing like being the man on the spot. What time do you want us to come along for dinner, Father?’

‘There will be nothing much to do after dinner,’ said Marius, ‘so we may as well have it later rather than sooner. I think perhaps eight o’clock will be a suitable hour. I shall turn in early. It has been a fatiguing day.’

‘Disappointing, too, for the poor old buster,’ said Sebastian. ‘This partnership business has hit him where it hurts. He can say what he likes about underlings, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that rather poisonous little female at the desk holds pretty good cards and knows most of the answers.’

‘I do wish now that I’d told him about the partnership,’ said Margaret.

‘Well, we know why you didn’t, and I still think you were right. Having known about it since November, you couldn’t suddenly spring it on him at the end of April. If he wants to scheme for Aunt Eliza’s money, that’s his affair and it isn’t your fault. He’s been hoist with his own petard, so let’s leave it at that.’