Murder on the Cliffs (4 page)

As promised, I’d sat down and composed a letter to my parents. This appeased Ewe and set her mind to rest, though she expressed her disapproval with my wording of the incident.

“They’ll see it in the papers,” she warned.

The death of a beautiful young bride was bound to cause a sensation anywhere. That the affianced groom should prove to be Lord David Hartley, known throughout town and abroad in his earlier years, qua drupled the sensation.

I loved the sensation. I knew I shouldn’t, but a feast for the imagination had greeted me at Windemere Lane.

I soon remembered that I’d stumbled upon Victoria’s body during my erstwhile search for the abbey, an abbey I’d since abandoned.

For my second attempt, Ewe gave me the directions. “You’ll get lost easily in these parts, winding narrow lanes galore, but if you follow what I’ve mapped out for you, you’ll find the Grand Dame up there nestled in what we kids used to call the Dark Grove.”

“The ‘dark grove,’ ” I sighed, chewing on the edge of my pencil.

“Children went missing there years and years ago,” Ewe went on. “It’s a creepy old place. Too silent for my liking and run by a bunch of nasty nuns.”

“Nasty nuns?” I laughed. “How could a nun ever be nasty?”

“Pious old birds. Too pious for my liking. Keep themselves away and think themselves above all of us mortals below. Oh,” she wrinkled her nose, “they never set foot in the village. Oh no. They send their lackeys down to get their supplies, just like they used to do in the old days.”

Deliberating whether or not to take an umbrella for my excursion, I decided on caution. One could never predict the weather. Thanks to Ewe’s hot composts, I had not caught a cold from following David Hartley out into the sea.

“If Victoria didn’t drown as Lord David says,” I queried Ewe before I left, “then how do you suppose she died?”

“I haven’t a clue, but I wouldn’t trust one word out of the mouths of them Hartleys. They’ve got the talent to lie. Born with it, like all the richies. Sir Edward will have his work with them.”

“He may be ill equipped to handle the case.”

Ewe shrugged. “We’ll find out. Well, off to the abbey you go and don’t be finding any more bodies on the way. Oh”—she stopped me, placing a few pennies in my hand—“could you go to the drugstore on ye way back and pick up me powders? Mr. Penford knows the one.”

I set upon my journey, my thoughts full of David Hartley. His grief seemed too genuine to fault. He’d fallen stunned, sagging to his knees out there in the waters, unable to believe she was really gone.

It was a tragic scene and one I itched to write, somewhere out here in the wilderness, in my own little notebook not unlike the one Sir Edward carried. Dare I make my own notes about the murder?

The mischievous notion appealed to me. Why should I not conduct my own murder investigation? My interest in people, potential characters, and their motivations demanded I at least try; what had I to lose? Nobody need know.

The hour- long walk to the abbey gave me ample time to absorb the innocence of early summer, the still- budding flowers from a late spring, the evergreen growth, the whisper of the morning breeze through the silent trees, their swaying branches drinking in the few glimmers of sunlight. A fine day for a wedding, I thought.

How had she died? I tried to think of her face, the way her body had lain there in the sand. There were no defining marks, no marks of strangulation or even a look of terror to denote murder. On the contrary, her face appeared so peaceful, so . . .

Suddenly, through the trees, the stone abbey arose, piece by piece, a towering monument, gothic, medieval, aloof. Around it, the deeply cut grass shone, as though a satin mat for its masterpiece.

Spying a lone nun powering across the green, I approached. “Hello, there. Is the abbey open today? I’ve come to look at the records and I have a letter of introduction by Bishop Rogers.”

It always helped to have useful family friends and upon hearing of my interest in the abbey, Bishop Rogers had readily written a letter to the abbess.

The nun, a severe- looking woman of some forty years, accepted the letter from my hands and silently guided me inside the abbey.

Whenever I entered such ancient, quiet places, I experienced immediate peace. I understood how the church became a sanctuary for so many through troubled times.

“Wait here,” the nun instructed, and I spied a nearby pew, one of twenty or so, and sat down to gaze up on the huge vaulted ceiling and admire the arched curves. Fairly quickly the nun returned.

“Miss du Maurier, the abbess will see you now.”

I followed the nun into an inner sanctuary, a room devoid of anything but a desk, two chairs, and some kind of bookcase serving as a filing cabinet piled with handwritten notes groaning out of antiquated folders.

The mysterious nun closed the door and suddenly I imagined a heroine with no name. Could one write a whole book without naming the heroine, I wondered.

“Bishop Rogers is my cousin. I am Dorcas Quinlain. Welcome to Rothmarten Abbey, Daphne du Maurier,” the Abbess murmured from her desk, reading my letter. “We don’t often welcome visitors with illustrious connections.”

Behind her nun’s weeds burned a bright face with very fine eyes, porcelain skin forever youthful, or so was the illusion, and a helpful spirit. “We don’t often open all of the abbey’s records to one so young, but on such recommendation, I would be pleased to show you what Rothmarten has to offer. However,” she said, and paused, examining me closely, “first, I must ask you what your intentions are. We have many sacred documents.”

“The Charlemagne scrolls interest me mostly,” I replied. “I’d like to study them and perhaps write a thesis on what I find. I intend, if I am successful, to publish them in the
London Journal
. Hopefully, the article will inspire many to pilgrimage to Rothmarten and even donate a modest contribution to the safekeeping of the records entrusted to the abbey.”

My answer pleased her.

“We have many interesting records in our library, which you will see, Miss du Maurier. I am impressed one so young is so interested in such things. I do so hope and pray there is no ulterior motive in your coming here?”

“I’m afraid not,” I laughed my reassurance. “My family thinks me mad wanting to immerse myself in ancient scrolls instead of enjoying the delights of a London season, and in truth, Abbess, I am also here to escape.”

“Escape? What ever from, child?”

“From marriage and men.”

She smiled with me, guiding me to the library where I imagined nuns or monks hard at work on their elaborate manuscripts centuries before.

The library commandeered one entire section of the abbey, closed to the public by a fretwork gate locked by the abbess. Rattling the key, Abbess Quinlain opened the gate for me and invited me to make use of one of the three stool desks like those employed in the dark ages.

“The records are in some disarray,” she began by way of apology. “Sister Agatha and Sister Sonya were attempting to catalog them . . . that is when the discovery of the older scrolls were found. You’ll find every thing in the pigeonholes and there’s paper and pencils in the drawer of the desk.”

I thanked her, promising to work quietly.

“Take as long as you like,” said she. “We have no fixed assembly today, but I should like to be the first to see what ever you discover. We’ve no Latin scholar here and Victor Martin, the writer of that piece in
The Times,
came by way of recommendation, too.”

“Oh.” I attempted, and failed to hide my embarrassment. “I’m no Latin scholar, but I do seem to stumble upon things elusive to others.” I blushed, not sure whether to mention the body of Victoria Bastion or not, and then decided I may as well be honest and shared my recent discovery.

Abbess Quinlain turned very pale. “Have you seen death before, child?”

“Yes, once or twice. But this is very different . . . a
murder,
Sir Edward thinks.”

“Sir Edward,” the abbess sniffed.

She said nothing more but I detected a faint hint of disapproval. “What kind of man is Sir Edward, Abbess?” I asked, innocent and childlike. “He . . . er— rather frightened me.”

“Sir Edward,” she paused, sighed, “is a
bully
and not to be trusted. I know him from school days. Don’t be frightened of him, Miss Daphne. He has friends in high places to whom he is indebted, but I’ve always predicted that one day he’ll come down with a crash.
Pride goeth before the fall,
so scripture says.”

And with that, she left me to ponder her dire prediction.

Sir Edward? Untrustworthy? I thought of his great sideburns and stern brow. One never knew a person, did they? Even those in authority could not always be trusted. If he had friends in
high places,
there could be none so more than the Hartleys, and if any of the family had killed Victoria, would he choose to conduct the case to their mutual benefit?

I confess the abbess’s denunciation of Sir Edward interfered with my first day’s investigation of the abbey records. I also confess the murder case would not leave my mind. Who wouldn’t be obsessed? It was natural. I’d never been involved in a murder case before and the fact thrilled me.

The silent, stiff, and beautiful face of Victoria haunted me, daring me, taunting me,
hoping
I could find a way to “illuminate” the truth.

“Oh, er, miss, are you finished now with that one?”

I found myself staring into the face of one grumpy nun old enough to be my grandmother. “Oh, yes. And,” I stood, taking my paper and pencil, “I must be going. I forgot I have to go to the drugstore to pick up something for my mother’s nurse.”

“Drugstore,” the nun repeated, almost fainting.

I steadied her arm. “It’s all right. It’s just medicine.”

“Medicine,” she frowned, watching me flap away.

I breathed a long sigh of relief when I exited the abbey. If ever I’d entered a primeval place that was it. It seemed alien to the world, untouched and horrified by any reminder of reality. The abbey had escaped the Great War, and had remained virginal, something apart and unpolluted.

“Ah , the
sleeping
draught for Miss Sinclaire,” Mr. Penford at the drugstore beamed at me, caressing his mustache into a fine, smooth line.

I inwardly shuddered. A desperate male, desperate for a wife. Not me, I vowed. Not me, not ever. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Penford,” I responded, gracious and correct. “I shall be sure to inform my ficancé of how
useful
a person you are should we ever think of moving to the area.”

There, I’d said it. A white lie.

My mother would be incensed. A true lady never lied, even out of desperation, but I didn’t care.

As I darted out the door of the shop, David Hartley stopped me in my tracks.

“Miss du Maurier,” said he, suave, sophisticated, expertly dressed, and genteel to the bone atop his horse.

“My lord,” I stammered, “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“No?” He smiled. “Dare I ask where you’d expect to find me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. On some . . .” I was about to say “stranded beach” and the ridiculous notion was instantly inferred by David Hartley.

“I see,” he said coldly, resuming his air of indifference. “I bid

you good day, Miss du Maurier.”

He tipped his hat and trotted off.

“Did you get my powders?” Ewe pounced upon me as soon as I returned home. “And what d’you make of the abbey? Meet old iron face, Abbess Quinlain herself? What did she say? What happened? Did you find anything?”

I grinned in spite of myself. Ewe Sinclaire was, in one word,
incorrigible.

And I loved her for it.

“No great revelations. But I did manage to see Lord David on my way out of the drugstore, and he was very out of sorts.”

“Out of sorts? What kind of out of sorts?”

“I don’t exactly know,” I murmured, “but I know this: Abbess Quinlain does not like Sir Edward. According to the abbess, Sir Edward is not to be trusted. The more I think of it, the more I reason that each Hartley had a reason to kill Victoria. Only which one and
why
remains to be seen.”

“Well, you’ve a chance to start your investigations now.” Ewe smiled, handing me the note. “My, my,” she twittered. “An
official
card invitation.” Swapping the card for the powders, I ran my finger over the printed crest. Not since my grandmother’s house had I seen such a rare and wondrous thing, a reminder of yesteryear.

Miss Du Maurier,

Please call at the house between nine and noon.

Lady Florence Hartley

“Must be old house stationery,” Ewe remarked. “Aren’t
you
lucky!”

Lucky. I didn’t think myself lucky to be summoned for interrogation under the guise of a pleasant cup of tea, but I did look forward to returning to Padthaway.

“Will Sir E be there?”

“I don’t know. I imagine so.”

“Better get dressed then. You can’t show up in
that.
”

“Oh, Ewe,” I teased. “You’re such a frightful snob. What ever is wrong with my gardening frock and boots?”

I enjoyed teasing Ewe, but I exaggerated. I had made a little effort, out of respect for the abbey and its occupants, but a frock and boots were not appropriate for a summons to the Big House.

Thankfully my mother had the foresight to pack extra clothes. I selected a smart black skirt, thin waist belt, and a pale lemon blouse. The lemon blouse sported pink buttons, adding a dash of color to an otherwise plain outfit.

I ran a comb through my hair and pinned up two sides, curling the ends. I wasn’t beautiful, but I
was
attractive, though I hated my nose and my thin upper lip. I always wanted to have lips like the movie actresses had . . . full of pout and perfection.
Le Grande Femme Fatale.

“Lovely,” Ewe approved when I exited my room, slipping my arms into the sleeves of my best black coat.

“Pity you have to hide under your coat. What if they try and take it at the door?”

“Since I am a stranger,” I pondered aloud, “it could be construed as presumptuous if I wore all black.”

“You’re not intending to
walk
there, are you?” Ewe’s face exploding into a fierce scowl.

“I’ll be fine.” I waved cheerily, tapping the umbrella under my arm.

I weaved my way through the village and down the lane, admiring the quaint and slow village life. Simplicity. That’s what appealed to me, myriads of minute lanes, stacks of cottage houses tumbling one upon the other, everywhere greenery and flowers, the old man walking the dog, the grocer stacking his vegetables outside his shop, the schoolmistress marching down the street to the post office. Up ahead, sunshine bathed the glorious contours and skyward steeple of the old church. Gothic structures like these dotted every nook and cranny in En gland and I rejoiced, for here in Windemere, I had three buildings to explore: the abbey, Padtha-way, and the church.

Upon passing the church, I thought of the cold body lying inside awaiting her funeral. Having been examined by a “body expert” (I had to smile at Ewe’s term), I wondered if Sir Edward intended to deliver the verdict as to the cause of death at Padthaway today.

Locating the long winding drive leading to the Big House, David Hartley’s face, full of anguish, rose to mind. So many had lost fiancés, husbands, wives, fathers, and mothers during the war. One expected death from war, but not death by murder.

As I mounted the front steps of the house, I noted the fair weather, and wished I’d come to tour the house instead of as a witness in a suspicious death. I loved nothing more than exploring such treasures, and this one exuded its own unique personality. Half mansion, half restored castle, it dominated the flat cliff- head where it rested, a huge structure, old stone melded with new, shining glazed windows, arches and turrets, west wings and east wings built around a central tower dripping with ivy.

A young maid opened the door. Bobbing, she took my umbrella, and as I shook my head to the removal of my black coat, Mrs. Trehearn exited from a western corridor.

“Please come to the Drawing Room, Miss du Maurier. They are awaiting you there.”

Following her through the expansive house, I yearned to count the corridors. The house looked like a museum. It’d take many days to become familiar with all of its inward pathways and rooms.

A beautiful set of Florentine doors guarded the most revered room in grand houses: the Drawing Room. This one was opulent, possessing quality furnishings, from Rembrandt oil paintings mounted on rose gilded wallpaper to cabinets filled with endless objets d’art that were undoubtedly priceless; the sweeping burgundy and gold drapes framed the windows and the marble fireplace bore its own selection of jade ornaments in the French salon suite setting. Amongst the pomp, Lady Hartley stood proud by the window in a black silken gown, her bejeweled hand fixed to her hip.

“Ah, Daphne,” she acknowledged. “Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. Sir Edward is here, as you can see.”

“Er, yes,” Sir Edward coughed from a far corner of the lounge, decidedly uncomfortable.

Whilst taking a seat nearest Lianne on the upright tapestry-covered salon suite, I spied David hovering in a far corner of the room, slipping his hands in and out of his pockets. His entire demeanor screamed his annoyance.

“Miss Daphne.” Sir Edward’s bland smile failed to strike a harmonious chord. “I am quite certain
Miss Lianne
discovered the body before you did. Is this true?”

Lianne turned motionless beside me. She clenched the side of my leg. The action, however, only served to discredit her in my opinion. Why should she be so keen that I should find the body at the same time as she? Had she murdered Victoria?

“That is true,” I said quietly, under my breath, wondering how Sir Edward reached the conclusion. “I am sure it was only
minutes
between . . .” I broke off.

“Then why did you lie and say you found the body at exactly the same time as Miss Hartley?”

“Because . . . because . . .” I glanced at Lianne’s fearful face. “Because . . . I must have stumbled upon the body shortly after, and the
horror
of seeing a dead body and all . . .”

I left the remainder to interpretation.

And Sir Edward interpreted.

“It’s understandable. A shock like that can obscure the facts. Thank you for your honesty.”

I felt feverish, clad in my black coat in the French salon suite. I hoped Lianne did not hate me for telling the truth. It was important to tell the truth, even if we didn’t want to, and I prayed she understood.

I dared not face her. I felt she was innocent but I also felt she knew something about Victoria’s death.

A belief I intended to explore somehow.

“Thank you, Miss du Maurier. If you and Miss Hartley would excuse us, I have further questions for Lady Florence and Lord David.”