Death and the Maiden by Gladys Mitchell Page B

hall.
    â€˜Good heavens!’ Miss Carmody exclaimed. ‘Have you got a black eye, too?’
    Mr Tidson warily touched the bruise at the edge of his cheek-bone.
    â€˜Crete gave me this,’ he said, with some natural annoyance. ‘I asked her to pass some cold-cream from her room to mine. Instead of handing it to me, she flung it – positively hurled it – in the direction in which I was standing, supposing, she said, that I should catch it.’
    â€˜I hope she apologized,’ said Mrs Bradley solemnly. She went close up to Mr Tidson and examined his wound minutely.
    â€˜Well?’ he said, resentfully backing away. Mrs Bradley cackled. Mr Tidson was about to add to this one tart observation when it dawned on him that Miss Carmody and his wife were both adorned with facial bruises not remarkably different from his own. The expression on his face as he made this discovery gave Mrs Bradley great pleasure. She watched the Tidsons go into breakfast, followed by Miss Carmody and Connie, and then glanced at the letters on the hall table, for the Domus had no letter-rack.
    â€˜Naething for ye,’ said Thomas, coming to rest beside her.
    â€˜I am not sorry,’ she said. ‘Tell me, have you had any complaints about people slipping and hurting themselves in this hotel?’
    Thomas took time to consider this question.
    â€˜Weel,’ he said cautiously, ‘there was Sir William, whaslippit on the soap in 1925, and there was a wee shrappit body by the name of Wemyss, I mind, in 1932, who was knockit over on the staircase by a professor from Harvard Univairsity. I dinna recollect ony mair.’
    â€˜Strange! Miss Carmody and Mr and Mrs Tidson have all been injured either last night or this morning. Have you not noticed their bruises?’
    Thomas clicked his tongue, but more in wordless condemnation of their carelessness than for regret at the accidents, Mrs Bradley decided. She went out to find George, her chauffeur, and, upon re-entering the hotel, she came face to face with Connie Carmody, who was just descending the stairs. Connie had her hand to her eye. She took it away to disclose an already purple swelling. Mrs Bradley could have cried ‘Eureka,’ but restrained herself.
    By ten Miss Carmody and Connie were ready, and at lunchtime the party found themselves at a hotel on the front at Bournemouth and in full enjoyment of the yellow sand, the sparkling sea, the combes, the cliffs, the balmy air and all else that the queen of watering places has to offer.
    When lunch was over, Connie took herself off to Christ-church Priory with the remark that she would be back in Bournemouth in time for a bathe before tea, and the two elderly ladies, left alone, sat in deck-chairs on the sand. They indulged in some lazy conversation and some even lazier knitting, and thoroughly enjoyed their time beside the sea. It was an ideal afternoon. The front was crowded, the air was warm, a band was playing, and there were plenty of people to look at; there was even time, if they cared for it, to sleep.
    Mrs Bradley, who cared nothing for an afternoon nap, and minded the immoderate heat not a bit more than a lizard does, gazed out to sea and thought deeply and constructively on the subject of the ghost and the bruises. Miss Carmody, giving up both knitting and conversation, soon dozed off, and was no liability to anyone.
    Connie came back at a quarter to four and woke MissCarmody up by searching for her bathing things in Miss Carmody’s bag. When she had entered the water and could not be distinguished, except by the eye of love and faith, from the dozens of other swimmers, Mrs Bradley said to Miss Carmody:
    â€˜Does Connie inherit anything under your will?’
    â€˜Oh, yes, of course, dear girl!’ said Miss Carmody, opening her eyes.
    â€˜And what about Mr Tidson?’
    â€˜Edris?’
    â€˜Yes. I have reasons for asking.’
    â€˜Oh, Edris gets nothing from