Murder on the Cliffs (26 page)

“Jenny knew. Lianne had seen David do it. She had followed her brother out to the cliffs that night. Jenny protected them both by hiding the shoes in her room.”

“A fitting end,” Ewe declared. “I always knew one of ’em Hartleys did it. Just didn’t know which one.”

“We have Miss du Maurier to thank for Jenny and the clue of the shoes,” the major said, tipping his hat to me. “Nobody would think twice about it, but our Miss Sleuth remembered the shoes . . . and that conversation on the cliff whilst picnicking with Jenny and Lianne.”

“She’s a bright lass.” Ewe smiled at me fondly. “Even if she does scuttle off when she’s supposed to stay with me!”

“And the other clues,” I prompted the major. “Admit it, you and Sir Edward were lost. You needed me.”

“We did.”

It was a simple and genuine praise, without mocking, and I confess I felt rather proud, too.

LONDON HOUSE,
SOME MONTHS LATER

The gloomy pathway beckoned. She paid no attention

to its dilapidated state, neither seeing nor hearing the

windstorm brewing around her. Such was her state

of mind as she progressed toward her destination,

knowing this was the last time—

“Daphne!”

Jostled out of my chair, I typed the last sentence. My finger still poised on the full stop, I ripped out the page and gleefully reviewed those last beaming words.

“Daphne! Are you ready? We’re late.”

Jeanne and Angela were groaning in the hallway. Unconcerned with their panicky prompting, I dressed, taking one last look at the bleakness of the day outside. Hamstead in London failed to compare with my beloved Cornwall. I missed seeing the water, feeling the fresh sea air on my face. I missed the boats gracing the harbor and most of all, I missed those frightful days at Padthaway.

“You
cannot
wear that to a luncheon with Winston Churchill.”

I smiled at Angela’s deadpan face. “I certainly can and I will. In any case, nobody shall notice me.”

“Doing the usual, are we? Sitting in a dark corner, taking notes about everybody.”

“At least she does it
mentally
these days,” Jeanne cried behind her, ever cheerful. “Here’s your hat, Daph.”

Our parents waited for us outside. Father, presenting his usual dashing image, and Mother, graceful, conscious of the time, and frowning over my hasty appearance.

“Daphne, dearest, you ought to take more care. I know there are no obscure Lord Davids to tempt you at political luncheons.”

“You never know,” Angela grinned, delighted at the thought of making new influential connections. “Perhaps your Major Browning will show up. He seems to have friends in high places.”

“Oh, I believe he’s away at sea,” my mother echoed, lowering her voice to a modest whisper, “and after that one call in Fowey, we never heard from him, did we, Daphne dearest?”

I wished she would stop preempting the major’s lack of interest. That one call, a mere friendly follow- up one, obligatory after those horror-filled days at Padthaway, had spurred her to think of him as a possible future husband for me.

“Better watch out,” Angela warned. “I might take an interest in the dashing major if you don’t.”

“The major’s promised to take me sailing when he comes back,” Jeanne piped in, full of faith.

“When he comes back?” my mother lamented. “When
ever
will that be?”

My father rolled his eyes. “You women, always ready to spear a man. Paint on a smile now because we’re here.”

The luncheon party commenced.

Spotting a willowy tree outside Sir Winston’s mansion, I slipped the notebook out of my reticule. I had two letters to write. One to Ewe, and one to Lianne. I’d not forget Lianne needed a friend now, especially as it appeared likely her brother would hang for murdering Victoria Bastion.

“Hello, old girl.”

I smiled up to see J. M. Barrie usurp a seat beside me. “Are we in camouflage? I hope so. I simply can’t abide political mumbo jumbo, can you?”

I watched him try to hide, albeit unsuccessfully, behind a palm leaf, and laughed. I loved Uncle Jack for his eccentricity and penchant for Brussels sprouts. I said I didn’t spy any of his favorite vegetables on the table fare this day and he gave me a woebegone look. “Woebegone, dismal . . . I found a new word the other day, Uncle Jack. Lugubrious . . . for a gloomy, cheerless character, and I know exactly the person who fits it. Mrs. Trehearn, except I’ll have to call her something else, won’t I?”

“How about Danvers?” he reflected behind his palm branch, his fingers splaying across in horror. “Oh, hide me, there’s the chancellor and he’s after a signing. Trouble is, I can never get away. . . .”

So we camped out, the two of us, for a good hour or so until Father found us and roused us back to normal land. Mother was most put out, but, of course, she sent Uncle Jack a charming smile.

I was grateful to go home to Cornwall.

To the house at Ferryside, to my room overlooking the river, my writing desk, the boats in the harbor . . .

Putting aside Ewe’s letter, where she recounted all of the local Windemere news, including Lianne doing well and taking up Jenny’s love of monograms, I gazed out the window.

I thought of Padthaway. I thought of all the people, the faces, the long, winding drive up to the gracious mansion, a white- faced Mrs. Trehearn waiting at the door, the corridors leading to the west wing and that magnificent room, crazy old Ben snipping at his hedges in the garden . . . and an idea for a novel burned within me, deep and irrepressible.

I sat down to write.

A boat in the harbor drifted toward me, its name elusive but for the first letter.

A monogram . . . large, scrawling, distinctive.

A monogram . . . beginning with
R.