‘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?’
‘That is indeed a direct question, Dame Beatrice. I have no idea, but I should think it most unlikely. In any case, it is not a fair question.’
‘True enough. I beg your pardon and I withdraw my query.’
‘In any case, what is your interest in the matter?’
‘The interest of all good citizens when they suspect that a crime has been committed. Who desecrated the Chayleigh headstones in the churchyard?’
‘I have no idea. I do not go to church.’
‘Who wrote the legend which adorns the long front of the public house-cum-village shop?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because Laura thinks that the same hand desecrated the Chayleigh graves.’
‘I should not have thought there was sufficient evidence for thinking that.’
‘Laura is highly imaginative, of course,’ said Dame Beatrice indifferently. ‘Would the local witches do such a thing?’
‘I really have no idea. At any rate they did not write the public house sign. That was done a year ago by one of the hotel visitors who thought she had a turn for such matters.’
‘There is just one more small point,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I understand that, on the day she disappeared, Mrs Chayleigh carried some provisions over to the house I have leased. Is that so?’
‘Yes, indeed, although why she could not have sent one of the servants I cannot think. She must have had some reason.’
‘Did you see her go?’
‘Yes, I did. I asked her why and she made some excuse about wanting to make sure that everything was in readiness for your tenancy.’
‘You did not suggest that she should go, of course?’ Miss Crimp shook her head. ‘So she had an interest in the letting, had she?’ Dame Beatrice continued.
‘Not to my knowledge. I cannot think why she went, except that it must have been to meet the person who turned out to be her murderer.’
‘Had anybody else on the island a key to the house?’
‘I believe Farmer Cranby was given one by the agents so that he could show intending tenants or purchasers over it.’
‘You said you did not suspect him of…’
‘Neither do I. I cannot explain my conviction, but he simply is not that sort of man.’
‘Have you seen a copy of Mrs Chayleigh’s will?’
‘No. She told me of its provisions, though.’
‘I suppose there is no chance that she might have changed its provisions without your knowledge?’
Miss Crimp changed colour.
‘Oh, but surely…!’ she said. ‘After all, I was her partner.’
‘Yes, quite. By the way, do you know who, on the island, killed a pig shortly before Mrs Chayleigh’s death?’
‘Killed a pig? I have no idea. What has that to do with either you or me?’
‘Time will show, I hope. Well, it is very kind of you to have granted me this interview, Miss Crimp. May I venture to ask a last and a personal question?’
‘You may
‘Thank you. It is merely this: how did you come to be Mrs Chayleigh’s partner in the hotel business?’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Crimp, looking relieved, ‘Eliza advertised and, as I had the necessary capital, she took me on. I have been here just under a year, and have not, on the whole, regretted it.’
‘So what do you make of it?’ asked Laura.
‘I shall know better how to answer that question when I have talked to Farmer Cranby and his son Ransome Lovelaine.’
‘Is there any tie-up with our
‘None that I can see, but Time, as usual, will show.’
‘I wonder whether you’d mind if I did a follow-up with J. Dimbleton, boatman? I feel I’ve rather left him and his pirate-pal in mid-air.’
‘Oh, Miss Crimp and her fish? It’s possible that that is all it was, you know — fish for the hotel meals.’
‘Why should she go in person to see the men, though?’
‘There may have been complaints.’
‘Well, actually, I believe there were. In casual chat on the bathing-beach I gathered as much from the Lovelaine youth. All the same, I’d like to find out a bit more from Dimbleton. We became reasonably friendly on that boat-trip I made round the island.’
‘Do not commit yourself as to the real reason for our presence here.’
‘A warning I don’t need. After lunch, then? We can stroll together as far as the farm and I can leave you there to do your stuff while I beard Dimbleton in his cottage.’
This programme was carried out. Laura escorted Dame Beatrice up to the farmhouse door, waited while her employer was admitted, and then sought Lighthouse Cottage and her own quarry. Dimbleton, however, was not at home, but, unless he had gone out in his boat, she thought she knew who could help her to find him. She and Dame Beatrice had lunched early, and it was barely a quarter past one when they had arrived at the farm. Laura therefore, made her way to the public house, where the landlord told her that Dimbleton had been in, but was now on his way to the landing-beach, ‘where,’ said the landlord, with a secretive smile, ‘maybe he won’t want company.’
‘Not even if I want to hire his boat?’ asked Laura.
‘Doubt it,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Other fish to fry.’
‘How long has he been gone?’
‘Matter of twenty minutes, maybe.’
‘Thanks.’ Laura left the pub, turned in her previous tracks and walked along the rough road towards the hotel. She took the steep cliff-path and descended to the beach. She was in luck. Dimbleton was on board his cruiser. She hailed him. He climbed into his tiny dinghy, which he was about to winch up to the davits at the stern of his powered craft, and rowed himself ashore.
