‘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?’