Mystery at Lynden Sands
By J. J. Connington.
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I
The Death at Foxhills
Paul Fordingbridge, with a faintly reproachful glance at his sister, interrupted his study of the financial page of The Times and put the paper down on his knee. Deliberately he removed his reading-glasses; replaced them by his ordinary spectacles; and then turned to the restless figure at the window of the private sitting-room.
“Well, Jay, you seem to have something on your mind. Would it be too much to ask you to say it—whatever it is—and then let me read my paper comfortably? One can’t give one’s mind to a thing when there’s a person at one’s elbow obviously ready to break out into conversation at any moment.”
Miss Fordingbridge had spent the best part of half a century in regretting her father’s admiration for Herrick. “I can’t see myself as Julia of the ‘Night Piece,’ ” she complained with a faint parade of modesty; and it was at her own wish that the hated name had been abbreviated to an initial in family talk.
At the sound of her brother’s voice she turned away from the sea-view.
“I can’t imagine why you insisted on coming to this hotel,” she said, rather fretfully. “I can’t stand the place. Of course, as it’s just been opened, it’s useless to expect everything to go like clockwork; but there seems a lot of mismanagement about it. I almost burned my hand with the hot water in my bedroom this morning—ridiculous, having tap-water as hot as that! And my letters got into the wrong pigeonhole or something; I had to wait ever so long for them. Of course the clerk said he was sorry—but what good does that do? I don’t want his sorrow. I want my letters when I ask for them.”
“No doubt.”
“And there was a wasp in my room when I went up there a few minutes ago. If I’d wanted a double-bedded room with a wasp as a roommate, I would have asked for it when we booked, wouldn’t I? And when I rang the bell and told them to put the thing out, the chambermaid—so it seems—was afraid of wasps. So she had to go and get hold of someone else to tackle it. And meanwhile, of course, I had to wait about until my room was made habitable. That’s a nice kind of hotel!”
“Oh, it has its points,” Paul Fordingbridge advanced soothingly. “One can get quite decent wine; and this chair’s not uncomfortable.”
“I don’t sit in a chair and drink wine all day,” his sister retorted, querulously. “And that jazz band downstairs is simply appalling—I can feel my eardrums quiver whenever it starts playing.”
“It amuses the children, at least. I haven’t heard Stanley or Cressida complaining about it yet; and they seem to dance most of the time in the evenings.”
“So like the younger generation! They get married—and they dance. And that’s almost all you can say about them.”
“Oh, no. Let’s be fair,” her brother corrected her mildly. “They both play bridge a good deal; and Cressida’s not bad at golf. I can’t say, taking her over all, that I’m ashamed of her as a niece. And Stanley’s a great improvement on her first husband—that fellow Staveley.”
Miss Fordingbridge made a gesture of irritation.
“Oh, of course, everything’s simply splendid, by your way of it. A fascinating niece, a nice-looking nephew-in-law, and a wonderful hotel to live in for a month or so; what more could one want? The only thing I can’t understand is what this family party is doing in an hotel just now, when we’ve got Foxhills standing empty almost within a stone’s-throw. You know how I hate hotels; and yet you won’t reopen Foxhills and let us live there. What’s the use in coming to Lynden Sands at all, if we don’t stay at our own house and get privacy at least?”
Her brother’s brows contracted slightly.
“Foxhills isn’t going to be reopened. You know quite well the size of staff you’d need to run it properly; and I don’t propose to pay on that
