Murder on the Cliffs (8 page)

“I don’t believe it.”

Ewe and I stayed up very late that eve.

“She’s sure to cause a storm, Mrs. B.”

“She certainly stormed out of the house,” I said. “After swearing the Hartleys would get ‘their due.’ ”

“Tough mettle, showin’ without her Connan.” Ewe nodded. “Makes ye wonder whether he were there, peerin’ through the windows.”

I pointed out to Ewe that the location of the Queen Anne dining room on the second level discounted such a possibility.

“Never stopped Romeo, did it?”

When we finally retired to bed, sleep eluded me. The vision of Connan Bastion climbing up the ivy- covered walls and slipping into the house unobserved played over and over in my mind. Restless until dawn, I listened to the birds waking before getting up and dressing for an early- morning walk. It was still dark outside, Ewe’s cuckoo clock striking the sixth hour. I slipped out of the cottage and stumbled my way into the woods.

A flock of birds circled above me, heading for the sea. I hurried after them. Reliable guides, they led me through the eerie woods and into the daylight that flooded the horizon.

Nothing, I vowed, could be more beautiful than the sunrise over a Cornish sea. Radiant colors collided and burst, and all the while the birds circled high, their defining squawk heralding the morning.

Turning away from the sunrise, I began my search for Victoria’s missing shoes. I hunted all around the headland, returning to the place where Victoria had lain. The sand felt hard beneath my fin-gers and I shuddered. Death had laid here.

The formation above, the sharp jagged cliffs, produced no clues. She could have fallen, she could have been pushed, but her shoes were nowhere to be found.

I sat down for a moment, allowing the early breeze to rifle through my hair. It refreshed the mind and spirit. “Victoria, Victoria,” I murmured to the wind. “What happened to you?”

“Daphne!?” A voice pierced the early- morning calm.

“Daphne!” said the incredulous voice again. “Is that you?”

I glanced up.

Lianne waved from the top of the cliff. “Wait!” she cried. “I’ll come down.”

She slid down a path that seemed very familiar to her. I wondered whether she came to this spot often.

“Oh, Davie and I used to come here all the time. Davie says this is the best headland in the country.”

“Do you believe everything your brother says?”

She didn’t take offense for I tempered my comment with a smile.

Wrinkling her nose, she rolled her eyes. “Noooo. I’m not stupid. Everyone
thinks
I’m stupid.”

Immediately downcast, I tried to pacify her mood by asking for the news.

“Sir Edward,” she groaned. “We had to feed him breakfast while he came to talk to Davie about . . .”

“Yes,” I prompted, “he came to talk to Davie about what?”

“I shouldn’t really say— it’s
confidential.
”

“But if it’s to do with the murder, it’ll come out in the papers somehow.”

She frowned, unwilling to go on.

Eager to learn more, I accepted her invitation to breakfast with the family.

“Oh, goody! We can paint and draw and do anything you like. I don’t often have friends. I should like company.”

We strolled across the grassland toward the house, plucking a wildflower or two on the way.

“I know!” She suddenly twisted and turned. “You like to write. When the abbey bores you, you can come to Padthaway and write. It’s a huge house and quiet and perfect for that kind of thing. Mummy won’t mind, nor will David.”

I said I’d think over her extremely generous invitation.

“Wait and see.” Lianne grimaced. “You’ll come; I know you will! You can’t keep away.”

I allowed myself a little smile. Lianne had read my mind. How could I refuse an invitation to any grand house— and this house in particular?

“It won’t be boring.” Lianne tempted me, eyes hopeful. “There’s a lot to explore. The old tower, for one. I found its secret room— would you like to see it?”

The mention of a secret room and old tower led me to imagine myself inside the house, exploring its inward paths, its forbidden rooms, unraveling its mysterious call. I yearned to learn everything about it and its secrets, to unravel the mystery of Victoria’s death.

As we arrived the house greeted us in silence.

“You are so lucky,” I whispered to Lianne, “to belong to such a place. I’m quite envious, you know.”

She lifted a shoulder. “It’s sad and lonely at times. When Papa was alive, it was different. But it all changed.”

I wondered why things had changed. Was there some mystery attached to the death of the late Lord Hartley?

One couldn’t discount the numerous misgivings on the character of Lady Florence Hartley, daughter of an earl.

It amazed me how the aristocracy often thought themselves above crime. I’d seen it many times, in many differing cases. Sensational cases intrigued my father, too, and we’d often sit up late at night deliberating over the available facts.

I suppressed an urge to telephone my father. I’d have to call home soon enough, for Mother was bound to worry, and if I didn’t allay her fears, they’d descend upon Ewe’s door and cart me off back to London. That eventuality had to be delayed at all costs.

Lianne insisted on my using her boudoir to refresh myself before breakfast. I did so, making liberal use of all the powders and creams on display. The Hartley’s were
very
rich, but were they capable of buying a verdict?

I put such thoughts out of my mind, for I’d arrived as a guest and Lianne’s friend.

As I primped I felt as if I’d stepped into the pages of a Jane Austen novel, or a work of Mrs. Gaskell, who loved to pen the dark, gothic tales of murder, mystery, and revenge.

“Daphne? Are you all right in there?”

“Oh yes.” I quickly made haste, pinching my cheeks for color. “I’m ready. Will breakfast be ready yet, do you think?”

“Yes,” she said, her curious eye examining me from head to toe. “I sent a note to Mrs. Trehearn to have all ready early. Mummy’s a late riser. She has breakfast in her room, mostly. Davie likes to have it early. If we go down now, we might catch him.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t wish to be interrupted?” I said on the way down the grand staircase.

“Let’s see.”

Her mischievous smile sent a wave of nerves through me. I had to confess I found David Hartley quite the romantic, forlorn hero.

“Good morning, Miss du Maurier!”

Lord David sprang out of his chair when Lianne and I entered the breakfast room.

“What a delight to have you here at our table.”

“You are very kind, my lord,” I replied, accepting a seat.

“There are all kinds of hot and cold dishes,” he advised. “And coffee or tea? Which do you prefer?”

“Coffee, please,” I smiled, and he delivered the order to a stone-faced Mrs. Trehearn.

“I met Daphne on my walk this morning.” Lianne began the conversation, leading me to the bread basket.

“You rise early, Miss Daphne?”

“Please, just Daphne, my lord—”

“Then, please, just David, Daphne . . .”

We shared a look.

“Yes,” I went on with a smile, “I am very fond of walking, and like your sister, I rise early as a rule.”

“A rule?” he questioned.

“It’s just my routine. I love to be up early with the birds . . . and the sunrise. There’s something sacred about the mornings.”

“I couldn’t agree more with you.”

His solemn, reflective response warmed me to him. It was diffi cult to think him a murderer. I detected pain and grief etched in the taut lines of his face, and hoped that he’d loved and adored Victoria.

David’s words repeated in my head.
I couldn’t agree with you more.

“You’re frowning? Coffee not good?”

“Oh.” I stopped stirring the milk in my coffee. “Forgive me. I silently correct grammar in my head sometimes. I’m afraid it’s a very bad habit.”

He laughed. “You sound like my old English teacher at Eton, Professor Brasic. Devilishly strict on the grammar. Were your teachers the same?”

A friendly tête-à- tête on our education and experiences commenced, with Lianne listening and asking dozens of questions. Although going away to school was not for her, she wanted to hear everything her brother and I had to say on the matter.

“I met Miss Perony, your local schoolteacher,” I said at the end. “She’s a very interesting character.”

Lord David choked on his coffee.

“Oh, she doesn’t like us,” Lianne scoffed. “Mummy says she’s a bluestocking.”

The straight and direct Miss Perony
would
seem like a bluestocking to Lady Hartley. What didn’t she like? That Miss Perony had the ability to address them as an equal? That she did not fear the loss of her post, despite the Hartley influence?

“Miss Perony,” David coughed, “is very knowledgeable, and her cousin, I believe, is at the abbey. Perhaps she mentioned it?”

“Yes, she did. I am to meet her tomorrow.”

“But Davie is a better guide,” Lianne said sweetly, smiling at her brother. She looked at me eagerly. “We can make a day of it, can’t we, Davie? Take Daphne to the abbey and you can show her the records. Old Quinlain can’t refuse you.”

Lord David considered the idea.

“Very well,” he smiled, “shall I pick you up at ten, Miss du Mau-rier?”

The official verdict was diligently peddled about the village by Ewe Sinclaire and others.

“Death
accidental,
” I heard the old gossipmongers reporting. “Oh
yes.
And we all know who got away with it, don’t we?
Them Hartleys.
Don’t know which one of ’em did it. I’d ’ave me money on her ladyship, but ye never know. There’s that odd sister, Miss Lianne, she could ’ave pushed poor Vicky over the cliffs to her death. . . . ”

Ready to make the most of wagging tongues, I placed myself in a strategic position outside the bakery and sighed, “Oh, it’s all too
horrid
. I shan’t cope!”

I strode off and one of the village ladies pursued me, as I’d intended.

“Oh, miss, wait, would ye?”

I waited . . . with a huff, feigning reluctance.

“I heard ye. Yes, it’s horrid. It’s
all
horrid. And I know what ye feelin’. Dear Vicky. I knew her as a babe and I knew Lord David, too. I were his former nurse before Jenny stepped in, y’know, so I know them both. It’s an
awful
tragedy. But I can’t think my David guilty, not for one bit. For Vicky, well, she were a secret child. She kept lots of secrets from her parents and such. I often wonder . . .”

I stared at this creature in absolute wonderment. “What is your name?” I heard myself asking.

“Rebecca Shaw” came the reply. “
Mrs.
Rebecca Shaw. I gave up nursin’ a long time ago.”

“And you live here now? Windemere Lane? Cornwall?”

“Oh, miss, so many questions!”

“I’m sorry.” I swallowed. “I shouldn’t be so interested except . . .”

“Except ye found the body and them Hartleys want ye on their side?”

The succinct summary sent a chill through my veins.

“Well, if ye askin’ my opinion, which ye not, I’d say run away from them Hartleys. They’re trouble.
Big
trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Rebecca Shaw, blushing, “I’m not one for sayin’. My head be lopped off by me husband if he heard me speak so ill of the Hartleys. He works in a mine owned by them, y’know. He’s what they call a ‘supervisor.’ ”

“Ah,” I sympathized. “The job brings responsibilities . . . and loyalties.”

“Oh, aye,” agreed Mrs. Shaw, ever so ready. “I often say to Mick it were a pity we’re stuck here with them such. I’d rather serve somewhere else, with no big dark cloud attached, y’know. I reckon—”

A passerby disrupted her final comment and I gazed at the departing figure of Mrs. Shaw in utter hopelessness.

“Ye just be careful, miss!” came the shout, and I doubted I’d ever see Mrs. Rebecca Shaw again.

Oh, yes, indeed, the Hartleys held sway over everything living in this village and yonder. Exactly as in medieval times, as Miss Per-ony had said.

I spent the morning with my gaze fixed on the ticking hands of the cuckoo clock, striking nine thirty, then a quarter to ten, then ten o’clock, then ten fifteen. And still no cancellation note, nor a David Hartley at the door to collect me for our abbey excursion.

“He’s not comin’,” Ewe stated, having observed my overly frequent and frantic clock- bound glances.

I started to pace. “Something’s delayed him . . .”

“His dead bride.” Ewe crooked her finger at me. “He can’t be trusted. Death by accident, they say. I think they’ve got it wrong and a body don’t lie.”

A body don’t lie.

I thought of those words all afternoon. Terrible grammar, mind. A body doesn’t lie; it has no need to do so.

At half past two, a note arrived.

Dear Miss du Maurier,

I apologize for neglecting to pick you up at ten this

morning. An unexpected visitor is to blame.

Perhaps we may postpone our excursion for another day?

David Hartley

“He’s a very nice hand, that Davie boy.”

Ewe couldn’t resist reading the note a dozen times, flicking it thoughtfully across her lips. “An unexpected visitor . . . to do with the murder?”

“It’s not a murder now,” I reminded. “We’re to believe it was an accident.”

“Oh, defendin’ the Hartleys already, are ye? Caution, my dear. Caution. Caution never killed anyone.”

“Accidents
do
happen. You can’t out- rule the fact.”

“Humph!” Ewe huffed, and I asked her what she knew of Rebecca Shaw.

“Becky Shaw,” Ewe mused. “Married Michael Shaw. A fine man, good worker. She were a nurse up at the house before Jenny Pollock came along.”

“She warned me to be careful, and that the Hartleys were big trouble.”

Ewe clicked her tongue. “Same thing I said. But you can’t help yeself.”

“Nor can you,” I retorted. “We both want to know what really happened to her. It’s natural. Well, now that this morning’s mystery is solved, I’m off. I’ll go to the abbey anyway, with or without David Hartley. See you later.”

I departed with a mischievous grimace; Ewe’s stern demeanor monitored my escape into the woods. I knew I should heed her advice. She knew this village and the Hartleys better than I and uttered warnings for my benefit. Both of us understood the dangers of becoming too involved and too close to this momentous scandal.

I paused to think about telephoning my father, but the abbey beckoned and the lost scrolls of Charlemagne won my affections.

I found it difficult to concentrate, working around Sister Agatha and Sister Sonya in their frustrated attempts to put the papers in order. Upon watching them, I offered a few suggestions, which were overheard by Abbess Dorcas Quinlain.

“Are you volunteering to help, Miss du Maurier? If so, I am sure Sister Agatha and Sister Sonya would appreciate it.”

Sister Agatha, so unlike her refined cousin Perony Osborn, wiped her hand across her forehead. “Oh, yes, please! Can’t make any sense of half of ’em!”

Sister Sonya responded affirmatively to the abbess, nodding, relieved to have me as their guide.

I queried the abbess about her refusal to employ a proper researcher.

“Oh, Lord David said he’d do it. He enjoys the work, like you do.”

“He was supposed to give me a private tour today,” I murmured, “but something unexpected came up. A visitor.”

“Then you’ve not heard?”

To my surprise, the abbess shepherded me into her office and closed the door.

“Heard what?”

“The cause of Victoria’s death. It’s poison. Could change the verdict.”

I noted her emphasis on “could.”

“How do you know?”

She sighed. “Lord David told me himself. He telephoned to say you were coming and to assist you in his absence.”

I wanted to know the depth of their relationship. “You are a friend of his?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘friend,’ exactly. We do share a love for the abbey, the preservation of its culture and history, and Lord David has been very generous . . . far more generous than his father ever was.”

“You didn’t like his father?”

“Like? What curious terms you use, child. That man was a beast.”

“But poison? Poison?” My inquisitive question echoed through the silence of the room. “What kind of poison, do you know?”

The abbess shrugged. “Something common called ricin.”

Perhaps Victoria occasionally dabbled in some form of drugs? Perhaps she took sleeping powders, too? How did one differentiate between drugs and powders?

“Surely this will change everything— imagine how the mother will feel. Poison! Even if it was an accident.”

“Unlikely,” I heard myself muttering under my breath while the abbess looked at me in stony silence. “Do you believe Sir Edward will continue his investigation?”

“He’ll have to. One must follow the expected protocol.”

I thought I better telephone my father before he heard.

I went down to the post office to make the call.

“Hello, Papa? It’s Daphne.”

“My darling girl. How’s the weather down there?” I glanced outside. “Bleak, as usual.”

“Found any ‘Bleak Houses’ down there, sweetheart?”

I hesitated.

“Daphne?”

Families and close friends have a natural aptitude for wheedling out information. “Yes.”

Within minutes, he knew what I knew. I did leave out one or two little things, nothing of any importance and mostly in relation to David Hartley and his affiliation with Rothmarten Abbey.

“I’m not certain I want you down there, honey. It mightn’t be safe— a murderer on the loose and when your mother finds out—”

“She rarely reads the papers, Papa.”

“True, but women have a way of knowing all about the scandals. So who was this girl? You said she was about to marry the great lord of the county?”

“She was a local girl from a low- class family. Used to be a maid up at the house— that’s how she met David Hartley.”

“Ooohh, I see.”

I heard the warning in my father’s voice.

“I know what you’re going to say,” I sighed. “And I promise I’ll take care.” I told him about the abbey work. “This is just perfect. If I help them catalog, I can truly explore what I came here to find.”

“For what purpose?”

I couldn’t help suppressing a slight mischievous laugh. “Find some lost scroll and write a sensational piece for the papers.”

My father laughed. “Nothing like a healthy competitive spirit, my girl. What ever you find and write, though”—his voice dropped to a cautionary tone—“show it to the abbess first.”

“Of course I would! I’m hoping, too, that the papers will pay handsomely and the money can go as a contribution for abbey restorations.”

“You’d need to write a book for that, darling.”

“Perhaps I will someday,” I smiled. “There is ample inspiration here.”

As I said good- bye, an unpleasant sensation trickled up my spine.

I spun around.

The door to the post office slammed, bells ringing to announce an abrupt departure.

I darted outside and glanced down the lane, left and right, but I couldn’t see anyone.

However, I knew someone had been watching me.