‘Mr Lovelaine, I am deeply concerned that Eliza should absent herself like this if she was really expecting you.’
‘What do you mean—really expecting us? She invited us, as I told you, and asked us to put in a month here.’
‘Yes. Have you her letter with you?’
‘Of course I have not. I merely accepted her offer of accommodation (and at the price she suggested) and threw her letter into the waste-paper basket, so far as I remember. I saw no occasion to keep it, once the arrangements were made.’
‘You say you accepted her offer? By letter, do you mean?’
‘Certainly by letter. How else? She wrote again and confirmed my booking.’
‘I suppose you have not brought that letter with you, either?’
‘Miss Crimp, I do not understand you. Your tone is, to say the least of it, strange.’
‘Well, Mr Lovelaine, I have to tell you that I searched our files after your unexpected arrival, and I can find no trace of this correspondence.’
‘No trace of it? But why should there be any trace of it? Lizzie probably threw away my letter just as I threw away hers. The only letters one keeps, surely, are receipted bills and other such business correspondence.’
‘But this was business correspondence, Mr Lovelaine. I say nothing about Eliza’s first letter to you. That would probably have had no carbon copy attached, as it would have been a private matter, no doubt. But the acceptance you say you wrote should have been filed, since it contained evidence of a definite booking of rooms for a definite date and period, and there should also be a record of Eliza’s second letter in which you say she confirmed the date of your booking. Eliza is not only a busy woman, as anybody who owns a hotel must necessarily be, but she is also a businesslike one, and she would certainly have filed such a letter.’
‘Are you suggesting that the correspondence exists only in my imagination, Miss Crimp?’
‘Oh, certainly not, Mr Lovelaine. Of course I meant nothing of that kind!’
‘Then what, exactly, is the purport of your remarks?’
‘May I be quite frank?’
‘That question usually emanates from someone who intends to be rather rude,’ said Marius, with an uneasy smile.
‘Oh, no, not at all. At least, I hope you won’t think me rude, Mr Lovelaine. I am wondering, quite simply, what made you decide to come here at all. I must believe, since you say it is so, that Eliza invited you, but why did you accept the invitation?’
‘That is hardly your business, Miss Crimp. However, as you ask the question, you shall have an answer. I was pleased and relieved to hear from Lizzie again after all these years. I was not much more than a child when she left home as a result of a quarrel with our parents and became companion to this eccentric Miss Chayleigh, and the next I heard was that Miss Chayleigh had died and had left her this house and a good deal of money. My parents were dead by that time and it fell to me to examine my father’s effects. Among them I found a triumphant, spiteful letter from Lizzie (and I do not blame her for writing as she did, because I think my parents had really treated her very badly in causing her to have to turn out and fend for herself) in which she informed him of her good fortune, said that she was going into the hotel business and listed the improvements she was going to make. I wrote to inform her that our parents were dead, congratulated her on her inheritance and, of course, headed the letter with my own address. This was ten years ago.’
‘And she did not write back to you?’
‘Oh, yes, she acknowledged the letter, but in no very friendly spirit, and I heard nothing more until, round about Easter of this year, I received the letter and brochure which seem to be the main subject of this conversation.’
‘And she actually suggested that you should come here?’
‘She did, and in quite warm terms.’
‘Then what has happened to the correspondence? I was told nothing about your booking, neither (as I told you) has Eliza entered it up. All I can think is that she never received your letter of acceptance.’
‘But she must have done! She confirmed it, I tell you,’ said Marius, pardonably exasperated. ‘She wrote back at once and said that she would be delighted to see me and the children, and that she was sorry my wife could not come with us.’
‘Oh, well, that’s it, then. But what on earth is keeping her on the mainland? She knew all these naturalists had booked in. She must realise that I cannot be expected to cope alone with such an influx.’
‘One would think so. Oh, well, I suppose she will have to leave it now until Wednesday.’
‘Not necessarily. It would not be a difficult passage for a local boatman to make, and we have a working arrangement with Dimbleton.’
‘I see. Well, Miss Crimp, I cannot feel that this has been a very satisfactory conversation. My children and I will be prepared to stay until Wednesday morning, but, if Lizzie has not returned by then, I feel we have no reason to prolong our stay.’
‘Oh, but, Mr Lovelaine, you have made a firm booking for four weeks!’
‘The evidence for which, on your own showing, does not exist.’
‘But I have allocated rooms to you! I have had to refuse other applications!’
‘You cannot have it both ways, Miss Crimp,’ said Marius, returning with her to the outer office. ‘We must both hope that Lizzie will be here by Wednesday, if not before. My only reason for coming here was to see her. If she is not to be seen, well, I shall have carried out my part of the bargain. The rest is up to her.’
‘Tell me, Mr Sebastian,’ said Miss Crimp, when Sebastian claimed the key of his chalet, ‘does your father really intend to cancel his booking if your aunt does not arrive here by the Wednesday boat?’
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ said Sebastian.
‘Well, I have had a conversation with him this morning, and such appears to be his intention. I must point out to you that I need definite assurance as to whether he is or is not staying on. I have already refused applications for accommodation and if his room and your chalet are to be vacated I need to be informed.’
‘Yes, of course, but it’s no business of mine. You don’t expect me to open the subject with him, do you?’ Sebastian stared aggressively at a woman whom, from the outset, he had decided he did not like.
‘I thought, perhaps, over luncheon,’ said Miss Crimp uncertainly, somewhat taken aback by this unexpected attitude in so young a man, ‘you could possibly—’
‘Then you must think again, mustn’t you?’ said Sebastian, smiling unpleasantly at her. At lunch, however, he took it upon himself to broach the subject.
‘What’s this bee in the bonnet Connie Crimp seems to have got hold of, Father?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, of course, her name is Constance,’ said his father, ‘but is it quite the thing—?’
‘For me to call her by it? Well, of course, I don’t, to her face. But what is all this about our leaving on Wednesday if Aunt Eliza doesn’t show up?’
‘Well, I should have thought the situation was obvious. We came here to see your aunt. If she does not choose to make herself available to us, I see no point in extending an expensive holiday.’
‘Oh, dear! Just as Maggie and I were beginning to enjoy ourselves so much!’
‘You really like it here?’
‘Oh, yes, Father,’ said Margaret eagerly. ‘We do like it here. We like it very much indeed, and we haven’t explored a quarter of the island yet.’
‘Oh, well, if you like it so much…’
‘Even supposing you decided to leave, father,’ said Sebastian, striking while the iron was hot, ‘couldn’t Maggie and I stay? It will give us the peace and quiet we need to do some holiday reading, and the fact that we’ve got a chalet will give us the privacy we must have.’