Murder on the Cliffs (3 page)

“And?” prompted Ewe.

“Well, great prospects. Imagine being mistress of such an estate. She had at her fingertips what most girls only dream of; it doesn’t make sense.”

“How did they react at the house? Glean anything there?”

I shook my head with a faint laugh. “We are not detectives, but shock, I suppose.”

“Genuine or nongenuine?”

“Genuine,” I surmised, thinking of David’s collapse onto the steps and his wretched emotions raw along with his mother and sister.

“Lady Hartley? Don’t trust her.
She’d
be happy the gel’s dead. She won’t have to give up her place now, will she?”

That was true. But it didn’t prove her ladyship’s guilt.

Somewhere in the house a cuckoo clock chimed. Listening to its chirp in the aftermath of this news felt morbid.

“Well, you’re invited back there, aren’t you? You’re a witness; they’ll have to question you. You ought to call there in the morning. Sir Edward, hmmm, yes, he’ll be summoned there, he’s our inspector, half retired . . . oooh! A
real
murder mystery! Who’d have thought it’d ever happen here in quiet little old Windemere Lane.”

Led to a wrought- iron chaise lounge, propped up with faded green tasseled cushions, a middle- aged woman cloaked in the deepest and severest navy commanded, “Wait here, Miss du Maurier. I will inform her ladyship.”

My entry into the great house of Padthaway this time exuded all the polite correctness one associated with the aristocracy. Last time, Lianne and I had stumbled in, our shoes still bearing sand from the beach, our hair unkempt and our mouths unsure of what to speak. The ill news thus having been dispensed and absorbed over the course of a night, I had felt a little more comfortable following the stern, slim figure in navy to the open- aired courtyard down and off to the right of the main hall parlor.

The grim- faced house keeper left, and I sat back to appreciate the beauty of the courtyard. It was quite a large area, and I rested upon the recliner beneath one of the many arched trellises bursting with jasmine and wisteria. All around, water trickled from a series of white Greek mythological fountains, the dark stone cobbled flooring winding itself through a maze of massive potted plants placed at strategic points for circular harmony. The effect created its own internal garden circuit, charmingly Roman and unlike anything I’d seen before.

The rattle of a tray heralded the return of the house keeper.

“They will not be long, madam.”

Madam! Did I look so old? Helping myself to the tea tray, I had just finished pouring when the rustle of a blue dress appeared from behind an anguished statue of Apollo.

“Sir Edward, Trehearn?” Her ladyship addressed the house keeper, her quick eye detecting me.

Mrs. Trehearn inclined her head. “He has arrived.”

“And my son?”

“Has been called, my lady. Miss Lianne, as well.”

“Very well, Trehearn. Thank you. That will be all.”

Though I’d witnessed this mistress- housekeeper relationship countless times, here it differed. I couldn’t isolate the reason for the impression, but I wondered if Mrs. Trehearn regarded the house as her territory beyond the standard occupation.

“Thank you for calling,” her ladyship addressed me, choosing the head armchair facing me. “It must have been quite a shock. My daughter is not coping with the horror of it all. You see, we saw her alive last night and now she is . . .”

“Dead.” Making her appearance from behind another statue, Miss Lianne Hartley chose to sit by me, snuggling a little into my shoulder and pleading with her huge eyes. “Oh, Daphne. I couldn’t sleep! Did you? How can anyone sleep after seeing something so dreadful.”

I held her tighter, wanting to protect her from the memory of our traumatic discovery. “We must do our best. Is Sir Edward . . . ?”

“He’s the local magistrate, if you will.” Sighing, Lady Hartley waved her hand to my offer to pour tea. “He should have joined us by now. . . . ”

Restless, she began pulling at a lone thread on her expertly cut blue silk dress. Upon closer inspection, it seemed more of a peignoir. Fitting, perhaps, considering it was the morning after— how did anyone recover and resume normal events when tragedy struck? I remembered the ones we lost to the war and how we’d moped through the house in mourning clothes. “It’s a difficult time; I don’t know what to say.”

And I didn’t. What did one say?
Was it suicide or murder, do you think?

“Sir Edward will need his questions answered, if you are well enough to oblige him. I did send him a note for Lianne—”

“Oh, I’m fine if Daphne’s here.”

Drawing her blue eyes up to search mine, I interpreted her silent plea. She’d found the body first but she didn’t want to speak, perhaps for fear of being blamed. Talking about it terrified her. Not surprising for a young girl of fifteen.

“I don’t think the questions will be extensive today,” Lady Hartley served to reassure us both.

Lianne looked at me again and I realized I had a decision to make. For some reason, she didn’t want them to know she had found the body first. Should I tell the truth or should I protect Lianne from censure? Sir Edward, a short, rotund man with wiry gray sideburns, arrived and claimed the chair nearest Lady Hartley. I settled on a compromise when he began his questioning, saying I’d met Lianne on my search for the abbey, and we’d discovered the body at the cove. I described the event in detail, and as I rambled on, I sensed another was hearing my story, told under Sir Edward’s intense gaze.

I was right. David Hartley loomed in the shadows.

I swallowed my tea, uneasy. There was something hanging in David’s demeanor, like an unfinished thought. Did he believe me? Or did a shade of doubt exist behind those cynical gray eyes?

“Du Maurier,” Sir Edward mused, flicking out his little notebook and pen. “I’ve heard of the name. You’re not related to Sir Gerald, are you?”

“Yes, Sir Edward.”

“And he coproduced
Peter Pan
?”

“Yes.”

“How extraordinary.” Lady Hartley beamed. “We’ve a little celebrity in our midst.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” I colored.

“But you are, my dear. Sir
Gerald
du Maurier of
Peter Pan
! We’ve all heard of him. Oh, my dear, you simply
must
call me Lady Flo—”

“Mother!” David marched across the courtyard. “It hardly matters. Victoria is dead!”

The lukewarm tea stuck in my throat. He had seemed so cool and composed only a moment ago. We sat stiff in our seats, glancing surreptitiously at one another.

“I’m going down there,” David announced, snatching his coat. “Down to where they found her. Miss du Maurier, will you show me where?”

Sir Edward’s brows shot up. “We’ll all go. I’ve got my car in the drive.”

David’s jaw clenched. “No, I’d prefer to walk.”

Half- standing to my feet, I glanced at Lady Hartley before hastening toward the front door.

The door stood open and Mrs. Trehearn’s hand rested on the latch, as though she’d been listening to the courtyard conversation and had rushed ahead to open the door for Lord David.

“It’s absurd.” Lady Hartley’s cry echoed outside. “The rain’s coming . . . and there’s nothing left to see.”

Lianne joined my stride behind David, her mother’s attempts to call her back unheeded.

I thought David might have sent her back but he didn’t, striding ahead, the man who suffered the most. He’d just lost his fi -ancé, the woman he planned to marry, to terrible circumstances. No reasoning or logic worked in such times.

As the rain began to pelt upon my face, I lowered my head, struggling to keep up with his long, determined strides. Fortunately the wind remained at bay as we continued across the headland. Another secret path, I thought. Imagining Victoria standing at the edge of the headland.

Lianne gripped my hand. “Thank you,” she whispered.

She reminded me of a frightened kitten. What was she afraid of? Did she know something about Victoria’s death? Perhaps she’d witnessed the crime . . . is that why she wished to hide behind my façade?

Wait, I was getting ahead of myself.

It would likely turn out to be an accidental drowning. Such things often occurred in the summertime. The bride may have decided to go for an evening swim or stroll upon the beach.

Yet for some reason I didn’t think so.

Sea spray foamed at the mouth of the restless sea.

“Where?” David croaked. “Where? Where did you find her?”

Catching my breath, I pointed to the curve beneath the cliffs. The water had covered the area. Seeing the pain reflected in the taut lines of his face, I walked toward the very spot, through the dashing icy waters that saturated my skirt until it clung wet and heavy to my legs.

The rain pelted down and I shivered in the cold.

“Sorry,” David mumbled. “But I must see.”

I nodded, finding the place where we’d found her, gesturing as to how she had lain and wishing myself far away. I had no business being there, sharing his grief in companionable silence.

He turned and his eyes hardened at the sight of Sir Edward and Lady Florence standing under an umbrella at the cliff top. “Blast! You’d think they’d leave me alone. Can’t a man have a moment of peace?”

“Well, they’re not likely to come down here,” I said, and then, to fill the seemingly interminable silence between us, I asked, “Did she often go swimming?”

“She did not drown.”

He had just confirmed what I suspected: that this girl had been strong and healthy, a beauty, and if she’d gone for a foolish late-night swim, she had enough wits to see herself out of danger.

“Then she err . . .”

“She’s dead,” he croaked again, looking like a lost little boy. “There’ll be no wedding . . . no—”

Burying his face in his hands, he sank to his knees and sobbed, the waters rushing around him, carving a tragic picture.

I sank to my knees beside him.

So did Lianne, who’d crept up behind us.

“Oh, Davie,” she whispered. “It’s so awful. I’m so sorry . . .”

She flung her arms around his neck but he brushed them off.

What comfort dare one attempt to give? There was none. Death was death. One had to live it.

I got up and started back up the path to Sir Edward and Lady Hartley. Lianne followed and we huddled into each other to avoid the lashing rain, a futile endeavor for we’d no umbrella and our drenched clothes provided no protection.

Staggering up the sandy trek, I glanced back to see David still sitting in the tide, hugging his knees. The vision so inspired me, I felt guilty. The urge to write, to capture what I’d seen, was overwhelming.

Sir Edward’s conscientious observation barely flickered as we reached the top of the cliff. His stern gaze remained fixed on the beach . . . on the lone figure in the sand.

“Ah, Sir Edward.” Lady Hartley shook her head. “I
warned
her not to go swimming down at the cove, but did she listen to me? No. These young ones think they are invincible, but who can tame the tide?”

The tide reveled in its intensity. Forced to move, David roused himself, dragging his limbs mechanically up another route.

“I suppose questions are going to be pointless today?” Sir Edward’s murmur hung ominously in the air.

Adjusting her umbrella, Lady Hartley turned on her heel. “Who knows where he’ll go now. If he doesn’t ride back with us, he may go off to the pub. It’s a great shock. A
great
shock to us . . . all.”

She headed to the motorcar and Lianne and I, shivering and hovering under Sir Edward’s massive black umbrella, joined her. Inside the safety of the spacious car, the rain raked hard welts across the windows.

Sir Edward shook his head. “He’ll catch cold. It’ll be the death of him. I can barely see the road!”

“We should try to find him.” Tapping anxious fingers on the door handle, Lianne peered through the glass. “There he is! Over there!”

“What? Go cross- country? In
this
?”

“I don’t think Lord David will appreciate being hunted like an animal,” Sir Edward seconded Lady Hartley’s protest. “He’s a man in mourning. He needs to grieve.”

Navigating slowly through the rain, we soon reached the grand house. Helping myself out of the car, I pinched myself. Had I truly stumbled upon this adventure?

“Miss du Maurier,” Sir Edward summoned. “I shall drive you home. I have questions to ask.”

Lianne pulled me up the stairs to the house.

“Stay with me,” she urged.

Having entered the house without a backward glance, Lady Hartley had assumed I’d follow, but Sir Edward had a different plan.

“This is a murder inquiry, Miss du Maurier,” Sir Edward pressed. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Lianne’s mouth opened wide. “A
murder
?”

Sir Edward ignored her.

“But she drowned! She often went swimming at night!”

“Victoria Bastion did not drown, Miss Hartley. Ask your brother if you do not believe me.”

“I will.”

Lianne thundered into the house and I hurried around to the passenger seat beside Sir Edward. I’d never driven a mile with a policeman before, and the prospect quite excited me. This was not a drama of the stage, but a
real
life drama. What had my father joked?
You never know. Might even find something to use in a play.

I kept a lookout for David Hartley, not wanting to leave him, or the silent mansion alone in the rain. “Is this the largest house in the area, Sir Edward?”

“Yes. Grand old place, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful. How long have the family lived there?”

My teeth chattered and Sir Edward despaired he did not have a shawl to offer me. “For generations the Hartleys have ruled Padthaway. Hartley’s not a Cornish name, note.”

Yes, I had noted.

“They inherited the estate in the sixteenth century through their Tremayne cousins, and have lived here ever since.” He turned into the village, his windshield wipers slashing through the rain. “I can drive you as far as the end of the lane and then perhaps we can seek shelter in the cottage. I am very keen to ask you questions as you are the one who discovered the body.”

A tremulous sensation tickled the back of my neck. “Yes, I understand. If you want to wait while I change, I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have.”

My voice sounded so calm, it even fooled me. I did not feel calm. In fact, I felt entirely the opposite. I shouldn’t have agreed so hastily to support Lianne Hartley. Why should she fear finding the body first unless she knew something about the murder case?

A murder case.

As Sir Edward and I clambered down the muddy lane, dodging minute rivers and into Ewe Sinclaire’s warm and dry cottage, my heart began to palpitate. I hadn’t come here to involve myself in a murder. Ewe’s inherent sense of duty, despite her love for gossip, would compel her to inform my mother posthaste. What would my parents think? They’d demand I return at once.

Leaving Sir Edward to manage his wet umbrella and coat alone, I presented a dripping image to Ewe. She twirled around in the kitchen, her fry pan flying out of one hand to the other.

“Mercy me! Don’t frighten me like that!”

Settling the fry pan to the safety of the stove, her hands hugged her hips. “A drowned cat is what you look like. Didn’t they even offer to drive you home? Those snub- nosed no- good Hart—”

“Sir Edward’s here,” I blurted, quickly summarizing the rest. “I’ve got to change and I’m sure he’d like a cup of tea.”

“Sir Edward!
Here?
”

I thought she’d have a heart attack.

“Yes,” I whispered. “And I must beg of you to speak of this case to no one.
Not
even Mother.”

I ran off before she had a chance to reply or recover from the shock of having the local magistrate, the grandee, descend upon her humble parlor without due warning.

My years of rapidly changing school costumes into day wear bore fruit. I had on dry, fresh clothes within an instant and returned to the parlor to save Ewe Sinclaire from smothering Sir Edward with vociferous attention.

Thankfully, the kettle called her back to the kitchen as I seated myself across from Sir Edward.

He’d already taken out his notebook in preparation, his sternness apparent while rereading over prerecorded notations. “Miss du Maurier . . . you’re in the area to conduct research or on holiday?”

“Both, Sir Edward.”

“How long do you intend to stay?”

“That depends on what interests me here.”

A grave brow crossed the center of his face. “As witness to this case, I’d ask you not to leave the village without advising me. Will you promise to do so?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, if you will relay, in your own words again, exactly how you happened upon the body.”

Uttering the near- truth under Ewe’s watchful and sympathetic gaze combined with Sir Edward’s methodical recording proved a challenge of the highest degree. Guilt consumed me. Lianne may have been there a long time before I arrived; she may have even pushed Victoria to her death.

“Did you examine or touch the body, Miss du Maurier?”

I cringed at the reminder of those icy cold veins. “I checked her throat and wrist . . . for a pulse. She was so cold . . . so cold . . .”

“Did you see any bruises on her? Anything unusual or suspicious?”

Ewe’s rounded eyes remained intent upon me, encouraging and supportive. “Go on, dearie. You just say all you saw. Don’t be afraid, now.”

“Afraid,” I echoed.

Sir Edward’s mouth drooped to show his compassion. “Seeing dead bodies is not an easy thing, whether family or strangers.”

“I’ve seen both during the war,” I said, ending the upsetting discussion.

“So you’re not afraid of bodies and death, Miss du Maurier?”

Lowering my eyes, I seethed beneath my skin. I didn’t like the inference of Sir Edward’s tone, and there was something about the man himself I didn’t like either. Some unexplained instinct warned me of a coldness in his character, perhaps a natural condition for one in his occupation. “I saw no bruises on her neck . . . she may have had bruises around the back of her neck but I only felt for a pulse. I moved her only to protect her body from the incoming tide. She just looked so peaceful . . . so beautiful. It saddened me. So young, with such promise in life! Why . . .
why?
”

“The why is the answer to any mystery,” Sir Edward replied. “I’m treating this as a suspicious death. As you say, the girl had everything to live for. She was about to marry Lord David—the wedding invitations had all gone out and my wife and I were among the guests.”

I recalled the ring on her stiff finger— the diamond glistening, sparkling in the daylight.

“Where’ve you put the poor girl?” Ewe dared to ask. “In the church like Ralph Fullerton?”

Sir Edward flicked his notebook cover down. “There’s no mortuary here so the church has to suffice. Vicar Nortby is in charge and I’m keeping the Bastion family away until we’ve had time to fully examine the body. I’d appreciate, ladies, if you kept what you know private for the moment. It’s a small town and there’s bound to be talk.”

“Oh, ye can’t keep this one under your hat, Sir E,” Ewe piped. “It’s the
Hartleys.
Those papermen will come down from London like hornets.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Standing, Sir Edward shook out his coat while consulting the time on Ewe’s cuckoo clock. “Blast! I should have been at the church an hour ago.”

Ewe and I saw him to the door, Ewe unable to resist asking the likely verdict at this stage. “It’s murder, do you think? Or suicide? Don’t sound like she was strangled if there’s no bruises. And a lovely white little neck like hers, the bruises would show up . . . maybe they’ll show up in the next few days, mind. You got one of them body experts coming from London, Sir Edward? I don’t suppose we’ve got any here in town, have we?”

“That’s whom I am to meet,” Sir Edward divulged, opening his umbrella and sauntering off down the path. “Good day, ladies.”

“Well.” Ewe shut the door behind him. “What a to- do! And you, a
key
witness. Even if I don’t tell ye mother, she’s bound to find out, y’know.”

“I’ll write them.
Please,
Ewe.”

“Please what?”

“Don’t say a word.”

She chuckled, her copious chin rumbling a little. “Keeping secrets from parents, eh? I’ve done that before. Quite skilled at it.”

“It’ll be
our
secret.” I seized her hands. “I’ll only say in the letter what terrible event occurred upon my arrival. They never need know I am involved or else they’ll whisk me away and I can’t bear to leave this place now I’m here. ‘Windemere Lane,’ ” I mused to myself aloud, “ ‘a beautiful bride washed up at the cove.’ Oh, what inspiration!”

“Inspiration, my foot,” Ewe mumbled. “Now, why don’t you inspire me and cut up some potatoes?”