of. The birth rate down and the death rate up and the mean age of the population rising every year. It might solve some problems…
“This war” – Hailstone was vague again – “very disturbing – you must tell me about it sometime… Ah, Mrs Heaven, how do you do?”
Mrs Heaven was not in beach clothes; she was the bearded lady in skirts. And her stride had the same embarrassing masculinism as her features; she was ahead of the uncertainly moving Miss Busst and Mr Rumsby and with a jerked-out nod to Hailstone addressed Appleby direct. “The ladies,” she said; “did they save their jewels?”
“I fear not many. We were torpedoed during the day and while they were on deck.”
“Oh.” Mrs Heaven looked glum. “How sad for them. Welcome to the Hermitage. What’s your name? Appleby? North Country, I suppose. My husband is from Shropshire; I’m from nowhere worth speaking of. This is Miss Busst. This is Mr Rumsby. George is still far too fat, Mr Hailstone. Don’t bother about the people still in the boat. You’ll meet them presently. You’ll have a good time. We all have a good time.”
“A good time,” said Miss Busst with excessive decision. “That’s it.”
“Marvellous cooking,” said Mr Rumsby. “Mostly by Heaven himself. Marvellous swimming. Marvellous time.” Mr Rumsby’s mouth dropped open and he stared at nothing in particular.
George sniffed.
“A good time in every way ,” said Miss Busst, a shade defensively. “There are a great many books. We hold a religious service on the first Sunday of every month. Sir Mervyn gives an address. A most devout man; he assures me that at home he never missed a religious service in years.”
“Ah,” said Appleby. “But that was in gaol.”
Mr Rumsby’s mouth opened a shade wider; Mrs Heaven gave a cheerless smile. “Of course we all know about the man’s misfortune. And we don’t bring it up.”
“You see, I am a police officer and my mind rather runs on such things. At present I am interested in a murder which took place on this beach only yesterday.” Appleby, thus triumphantly overgoing the forthright manner of Mrs Heaven, looked easily from one to another. “Perhaps good times are confined to your strip of the island. Here are my friends coming down the beach. Two women and two men. You have room in your hotel?”
“We’ll make it.” Mrs Heaven nodded briskly – she might well, Appleby thought, be the only brisk thing on the island. “And if you don’t want a good time – well, it’s not compulsory.” She was looking from Miss Busst to Mr Rumsby with a sudden sharp malice. “A good murder is no doubt more appealing to your type. I’m glad you’ve found one. It’s not part of the room-service of our hotel.” And abruptly Mrs Heaven got into her stride again and moved to meet Appleby’s companions.
It was all exceedingly odd; there was a protracted fuss of explanation and surprise during which Hailstone and George faded from the scene and Appleby withdrew a little to take a compendious view of it… Yes, it was odd; yesterday a desert island and today a good time at perhaps ten guineas a week. Yesterday murder and a deplorably empty sea; today any amount of queer fish for the net. Yesterday a threatening perpetuity of tête-à-tête; today a launch-load of over-age toast-golden Dianas and the prospect of Sir Mervyn Poulish engaged in sabbatical offices of pastoral care. But no doubt Hoppo would take over that… Appleby turned and walked further from the group; walked until it was a splash of colour and jerky movements against an emptiness of tropical beach and sky and sea. The right proportions were before him now. He shifted his ground until, close beside him, Unumunu’s grave served as a repoussoir to the scene. And there, then, was the problem, with only the elusive savages as a missing piece. The beach-suited embassy from Heaven’s Hermitage Hotel; the veterans of the sun-deck café; the tracks of a
“This war” – Hailstone was vague again – “very disturbing – you must tell me about it sometime… Ah, Mrs Heaven, how do you do?”
Mrs Heaven was not in beach clothes; she was the bearded lady in skirts. And her stride had the same embarrassing masculinism as her features; she was ahead of the uncertainly moving Miss Busst and Mr Rumsby and with a jerked-out nod to Hailstone addressed Appleby direct. “The ladies,” she said; “did they save their jewels?”
“I fear not many. We were torpedoed during the day and while they were on deck.”
“Oh.” Mrs Heaven looked glum. “How sad for them. Welcome to the Hermitage. What’s your name? Appleby? North Country, I suppose. My husband is from Shropshire; I’m from nowhere worth speaking of. This is Miss Busst. This is Mr Rumsby. George is still far too fat, Mr Hailstone. Don’t bother about the people still in the boat. You’ll meet them presently. You’ll have a good time. We all have a good time.”
“A good time,” said Miss Busst with excessive decision. “That’s it.”
“Marvellous cooking,” said Mr Rumsby. “Mostly by Heaven himself. Marvellous swimming. Marvellous time.” Mr Rumsby’s mouth dropped open and he stared at nothing in particular.
George sniffed.
“A good time in every way ,” said Miss Busst, a shade defensively. “There are a great many books. We hold a religious service on the first Sunday of every month. Sir Mervyn gives an address. A most devout man; he assures me that at home he never missed a religious service in years.”
“Ah,” said Appleby. “But that was in gaol.”
Mr Rumsby’s mouth opened a shade wider; Mrs Heaven gave a cheerless smile. “Of course we all know about the man’s misfortune. And we don’t bring it up.”
“You see, I am a police officer and my mind rather runs on such things. At present I am interested in a murder which took place on this beach only yesterday.” Appleby, thus triumphantly overgoing the forthright manner of Mrs Heaven, looked easily from one to another. “Perhaps good times are confined to your strip of the island. Here are my friends coming down the beach. Two women and two men. You have room in your hotel?”
“We’ll make it.” Mrs Heaven nodded briskly – she might well, Appleby thought, be the only brisk thing on the island. “And if you don’t want a good time – well, it’s not compulsory.” She was looking from Miss Busst to Mr Rumsby with a sudden sharp malice. “A good murder is no doubt more appealing to your type. I’m glad you’ve found one. It’s not part of the room-service of our hotel.” And abruptly Mrs Heaven got into her stride again and moved to meet Appleby’s companions.
It was all exceedingly odd; there was a protracted fuss of explanation and surprise during which Hailstone and George faded from the scene and Appleby withdrew a little to take a compendious view of it… Yes, it was odd; yesterday a desert island and today a good time at perhaps ten guineas a week. Yesterday murder and a deplorably empty sea; today any amount of queer fish for the net. Yesterday a threatening perpetuity of tête-à-tête; today a launch-load of over-age toast-golden Dianas and the prospect of Sir Mervyn Poulish engaged in sabbatical offices of pastoral care. But no doubt Hoppo would take over that… Appleby turned and walked further from the group; walked until it was a splash of colour and jerky movements against an emptiness of tropical beach and sky and sea. The right proportions were before him now. He shifted his ground until, close beside him, Unumunu’s grave served as a repoussoir to the scene. And there, then, was the problem, with only the elusive savages as a missing piece. The beach-suited embassy from Heaven’s Hermitage Hotel; the veterans of the sun-deck café; the tracks of a
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