‘Attacked? Good gracious me! He said nothing about it to me, although, now you mention it, he did appear to be limping a little when he left the hotel to catch the boat.’
‘Yes, his assailant kicked him when he was on the ground.’
‘Who was it?’
‘He doesn’t know. Well, what about the sherry?’
‘I will bring it myself. My assistant can take over the desk. My sitting-room is the one marked private. It is on the first floor.’
‘Right. Thanks. Whisky for me, as usual.’
Miss Crimp’s sitting-room was incongruously furnished with modern chairs and Victorian ornaments. It also contained a studio couch which, at night, became a bed. Antimacassars decorated the chair-backs and a glass case which housed two stuffed seagulls and a sandpiper argued for pride of place with an enormous china swan which acted as a fern-pot and supported, if not the largest aspidistra in the world, that atrocious plant’s second cousin. There was even a fringed and tasselled covering to the mantelpiece and a profusion of framed photographs on every available ledge.
‘Doesn’t look like a murderer’s room,’ said Laura, when they had let themselves in with the key supplied by Miss Crimp.
‘George Joseph Smith played hymn-tunes on an American organ when he had drowned each of his wives in the bath,’ observed Dame Beatrice. ‘What did you find to say at the desk that we are accorded the pleasure of this secret interview?’
Laura had just finished telling her when Miss Crimp herself appeared, followed by the barman with his tray.
‘Just put it down, Thomas,’ she said. ‘We will help ourselves. Thomas is going,’ she added, when the barman had closed the door behind himself. ‘He is an expensive luxury in a place like this. The amount of alcohol our guests consume does not even pay his wages, let alone show us a profit. Eliza employed him because she held that, if there is a bar, there must be a barman, but, as I often pointed out, we had only to make an opening between the back of the office and the bar, and either she or I or the assistant receptionist could serve the very few guests who ordered drinks. There was no need whatever to have somebody perpetually on duty in the bar.’ Miss Crimp appeared to be talking to gain time.
‘In these days it behoves everyone to make what economies he can,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I suppose the hotel trade is not what it used to be in the days when a family seaside holiday was the accepted thing and none but the very rich thought of going abroad.’
‘You would never have got family holidays in a place like this at any time,’ said Miss Crimp. ‘There is nothing here for children—no sands to play on, no beach stalls, no entertainment of any kind. The hotel does not pay its way and never has, and there are still some large accounts outstanding which must be settled when Eliza’s will is proved.’
‘Too bad,’ said Laura, ‘to leave you saddled with debts.’
‘It’s all these extras, Mrs Gavin. The hard tennis court, the games room, the chalets themselves, and the place never more than half-full.’
‘What about this influx of ornithologists?’
‘At cut rates, of course, but, yes, such a gathering does help. Now that Eliza is no longer with us, I propose to advertise the hotel for conferences. If I could entice the delegates of political parties, or organisations such as the T.U.C. or even the school-teachers’ unions to hold their annual gatherings here, the place would soon look up and one of Eliza’s major extravagances might appear at last to be worthwhile. I refer to our magnificent lounge. It would make an excellent conference-hall.’
‘The hotel now belongs entirely to you, then?’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘You may do with it what you please?’
‘That remains to be seen. I was Eliza’s partner, as you know, and you may be sure that I shall do my best to maintain my rights. I may have to buy out Ransome Lovelaine, who inherits some of Eliza’s property, I believe, and Eliza once told me that her brother was also to benefit to some extent. However, Ransome is an easy-going man and I am hoping that he will be content to leave me to manage the hotel in my own way and relieve him of all responsibility for it. In return I shall offer him a small share of the profits and I have every hope that he will be well-satisfied with that arrangement. As to the brother—but I am running on. What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘I wondered whether you could think of any reason why a murderous attack should be made on Ransome Lovelaine, a desperate attack made on Marius Lovelaine and an attempt made to enter the chalet which you allocated to his children,’ replied Dame Beatrice.
‘Think of any reason?’ said Miss Crimp. ‘I can think of one, certainly, but whether it is the right one I have no means of telling. The Lovelaines (of whom, of course, Ransome is one, although illegitimately born, a matter of which Eliza made no secret) must hold some clue to the cause of her death, and the rest must follow. They form a threat to the murderer, I suppose.’
‘So you think she was murdered, do you?’
‘What else is there to think? Eliza was not one to put an end to her own life, and a theory that she was blown off the cliff-top by accident is ridiculous. Eliza, who has lived on the island for years, would never place herself in a position of such known danger.’
‘I agree with you. But if Ransome or Marius had been in possession of the kind of evidence you indicate, would they not have approached the authorities with it?’
‘One must suppose so. The murderer must be mistaken, or else the intended victims are not conscious of what they know.’
‘I wonder whether I might digress a little? I understand that the hotel and the farm were left to Mrs Chayleigh by the elderly Miss Chayleigh, now deceased.’
‘That is so, but how do you come by the information?’
‘My secretary gave it to me. Laura is of a gregarious nature and has roved the island, picking up gossip of all kinds while ostensibly engaged in helping my researches into the history of the island.’
‘Oh, you are writing a history of the island? How very interesting. I understood that you were writing your memoirs.’
‘Oh, one likes variety,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘The spice of life, as someone has called it.’
‘A description with which I cannot agree,’ said Miss Crimp. ‘I prefer to pursue an even course.’
‘Pursue my course with even joy
And closely walk with thee to heaven,’ quoted Dame Beatrice solemnly.
‘If you care to put it like that,’ said Miss Crimp, staring at her. ‘Not I, but Charles Wesley. Tell me, if your knowledge extends so far, what impelled Miss Chayleigh to leave her money and property to the then Eliza Lovelaine? Was Eliza in her employment at the time when she made her will?’
‘I believe not. The truth is that Miss Chayleigh was aunt to the farmer Allen Cranby. When she found out that he had been unfaithful to his wife and had given Eliza a child, she disinherited him and made Eliza her heir.’
‘Were there no other relatives besides Mr Cranby?’
‘Well, I believe there is a second cousin, a woman.’
‘And she received nothing from her relative?’
‘I believe Eliza did something for her, and it was Eliza, of course, who gave Allen Cranby the farm. Conscience money she called it.’
‘She seems to have been a generous woman.’
‘Not generous enough to have renounced her rights and returned her gains to those who were of Chayleigh blood,’ said Miss Crimp acrimoniously.
‘That would have been expecting rather much of her, would it not?’
‘That depends upon the way you look at it.’
‘Do you mind a direct question, Miss Crimp?’ A spasm of alarm appeared for an instant on the receptionist’s pinched little face, but she said that she did not mind. ‘Do you suspect Allen Cranby of having murdered Eliza Chayleigh?’