‘Oh, well,’ said Marius, ‘you must please yourselves. There is a good deal of truth in what you say. Nevertheless, if Lizzie has not returned to the island by Wednesday, I shall be forced to the conclusion that she is deliberately staying away because she has changed her mind and does not want to meet me after all. In that case I adhere to my decision. We return on the Wednesday or the Thursday steamer. I shall have no second thoughts about that.’
‘Poor old buster,’ said Sebastian, as he and his sister left the hotel to go for a walk. ‘He’s an awful ass, but I do feel sorry for him. Underneath all that pompous blah, he’s cut to the heart that Aunt Eliza is dodging meeting him again. His ideas are not entirely mercenary, you know. He genuinely wants a reconciliation. I believe, in fact, that that has been the truth all along. The inheritance thing was only a sop to Boobie.’
‘And didn’t work,’ said Margaret. ‘Do you really think he’ll have the cheek to call at Puffins?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care. I wish I knew whether there was any part of the island where these blasted bird-watchers won’t be swarming. If I’d known the place was going to be turned into a sort of pop festival without even the advantage of the pop, I would never have come.’
‘Don’t you mind if we have to go home on Wednesday?’
‘Oh, well, we may have exhausted all the local resources long before that.’
‘I don’t want to leave. I like it here,’ said Margaret.
‘Hey! You haven’t gone all girlish about Ransome, I hope!’ said her brother.
chapter seven
The Body in the Sea
‘Adieu! farewell earth’s bliss,
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life’s lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.’
Thomas Nashe
« ^ »
Wednesday was an anxious day for Marius. The boat was not due until the middle of the afternoon if the previous Wednesday, the day of his arrival on the island, was anything to go by, and the time of waiting was tedious. He breakfasted late, and intended to lunch early and then sit out on the cliff top with his binoculars.
Sebastian and Margaret had departed immediately after breakfast, but upon what errand he did not enquire. His mind was occupied elsewhere. Indignation with Eliza was giving place to anxiety and he found it impossible to banish the thought that she might not even be on Wednesday’s boat and that he might have to face the alternatives of quitting the island and washing his hands of her or of setting on foot all sorts of enquiries which might involve seeking assistance from the police. Neither course recommended itself to him and more and more he wished he had never resumed contact with his sister or come to spend a holiday on her island.
The returning steamers carried mail to the mainland and he had written to Clothilde on Thursday announcing safe arrival and giving an impression of the hotel, but he had not mentioned anything about Eliza’s absence from it. He did not know how the mainland postal service operated, but he had hopes that, whatever the delay in the delivery of his letter, his wife’s reply would come on the boat which, with any luck, would also bring back his sister. If it did not, he tried to persuade himself that he was determined to return home on the following day.
Meanwhile his children were setting out on an expedition proposed, organised and provisionally financed by Margaret. There was only one shop on the island. As she and her brother had already noted, it formed the other half of the public house.
‘But they won’t sell turpentine,’ Sebastian had objected when she disclosed her plan for their morning. ‘Besides, why should we clean up the local yobs’ horrid insignia?’
‘I aim to keep Britain tidy. I shouldn’t think it’s the islanders, anyway. They’ve probably had a boatload of skinheads or some such types come over from the mainland all ripe for mischief. It looks like that to me.’
‘Would they bring red paint with them?’
‘Of course, if they came prepared to paint their filthy slogans over everything.’
‘Those aren’t skinhead slogans.’
‘Why aren’t they? You didn’t mean it when you talked about satanists, did you?’
‘They’re all satanist symbols.’
‘The swastika?’
‘If you noticed, it’s not a true swastika; it’s a crooked cross.’
‘There’s the Star of David.’
‘Nonsense. That was a black magic pentagram.’
‘How do you know so much about it?’
‘I don’t, but a fellow on my staircase was talking about it, an American. Interesting chap. Got on to Voodoo and what-have-you.’
‘Some little lunatics in the third form at school started a witches’ coven, but they soon got into trouble about it.’
‘Why? The last of the witchcraft acts was repealed in England in 1951.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t the witchcraft the Head objected to. It was because they broke out at night to dance in their nudery on All Hallows Eve and caught the most dreadful colds. Anyway, they were kept in bed all over the half-term holiday. That put paid to the coven, I expect’
They made their way to the shop, but no turpentine was procurable and it was not even possible to get a drink, for the pub, although it did not recognise the statutory licensing hours, was closed.
‘So that’s that,’ said Sebastian.
‘No, it isn’t. We’ll call at Ransome’s cottage and ask for a drop of turps there.’
‘You can. I’m not going to. I’ve something better to do on holiday than clean up other people’s tombstones. It’s the business of the parish, anyway. Look, there’s the monthly service in the church next Sunday. Somebody will see the muck then and arrange for action to be taken. You’ve no need to concern yourself. Besides, if you’re spotted cleaning up, somebody may think you did the job yourself in the first place.’
‘Oh, nonsense! I’m going to talk to Ransome about it, anyway.’
‘He won’t thank you. He’s bound to be busy. A smallholding doesn’t run itself, you know. Let’s do as we said we would—trace the river to its mouth and then go back along the west cliffs.’
‘They’re bound to be crawling with bird-watchers. I was out of our chalet at six this morning and they were setting off in their hundreds, all armed with ropes and rock-climbing things and telescopes and binoculars and cameras.’
‘Hang it, there are only forty of them all told. They can’t be everywhere.’
‘I bet they are,’ said Margaret. ‘Anyway, that’s what it will seem like. Well, let’s just go and look at the churchyard again. It’s more or less on our way.’
Arrived at the church, Margaret, followed slowly by her brother, sought out the desecrated tomb-stones. The staring red paint was still in evidence, but was smeared and smudged as though somebody had made an attempt to clean it off. She approached the graves more closely. It was now possible to make out the inscriptions. In each case the head-stone bore the name of Chayleigh. No other graves had been touched. There was something else which the Lovelaines had not noticed on their previous visit. Somebody had attempted to deface one woman’s name and substitute another. The work had been done very roughly, but there was no doubt about the result. On the stone which had borne (and still faintly bore) the capital s and the word murder, the name of Gwendolyne Chayleigh had been chipped out and the name Eliza Lovelaine crudely substituted.
‘Well!’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘Somebody doesn’t like Aunt Eliza!’