Murder on the Cliffs (14 page)

The funeral approached.

Ewe and I stood outside the bakery to watch the motorcars roll in to disturb the peace.

“Reminds me of the war,” an old man nearby said.

I asked him if he served during the war.

“Aye.” He shook his head. “And I don’t like to see it. Fancy black cars. They’re evil.”

“They’re all stayin’ at the inn.” Mrs. Penmark spoke from the shop window. “Might be good for business.” She meant the sensation of the murder would bring curious visitors to town.

Ewe and I talked about it on the way home.

“We don’t want to go on the map for murder!”

“You can’t help it, Ewe. You already are. Look ahead.”

A journalist stood in the woodland grove, setting up his camera.

“Beastly things. They’ll snap, too, if ye don’t look out.”

Yes, I dreaded it. I dreaded my photograph being taken and recognized by my mother. My father sanctioned my stay here, though with a large degree of caution. However, if my mother knew the truth, there would be hell to pay.

I despaired over what to wear. I had nothing appropriate for a funeral, since I’d not planned on attending one, coming on a quiet holiday. A quiet holiday. I laughed, for this affair at Padthaway proved the least quiet holiday of my existence, one I never would have expected in sleepy old Cornwall.

“I’ve a black skirt,” I informed Ewe, helping her arrange the table for her lunch party tomorrow. “Do you have a black coat I can borrow? Mine is too much a shade of gray.”

“Lots of gray shades round here, ain’t there.” Her eyes squinted at me. “And I heard you went up to the Bastion cottage. Ye were seen talkin’ to Connan Bastion.”

She looked hurt that I’d kept it secret from her. I repaired the damage by relaying the conversation I’d had with Annie and Betsy, the maids.

Ewe had to sit down to contemplate the latest news. “She probably said it to vex him. I still can’t believe it . . . about the baby.” She paused over a spoonful of hot porridge. “And what does Connan Bastion have to say for himself, hmm?”

“Not a great deal,” I said truthfully.

Ewe studied me through those shrewd eyes of hers. “He’s a good- looking lad, dearie. Wild, like his sister. Not your class.”

Not my class.
I chanted the phrase as I dressed for the funeral, in the smartest black attire I could manage. Pinning up half my hair, I opted for the merest touch of gloss on my lips and pinched my cheeks for color.

“Modest,” Ewe chirped her approval. “Ye’ll disappear in the crowd.”

“Which is exactly my intention. I wish to observe all the faces and emotions, don’t you?”

I could see the thought had occurred to her.

“Wonder what’ll happen.”

It looked like the whole village thrived on the suspense. Wondering, waiting, every face bearing question marks of its own.

This became more evident upon our walk to the old church. I’d walked by the church many times before, curious to go inside, and it felt odd that I should enter it now, for a funeral.

“Vicar’ll be out of sorts. He’ll have a heart attack at all these people.”

I pitied Vicar Nortby. To be on such display, amid a plethora of shiny motorcars lined up across the field, cameramen and reporters scrambling with their equipment while village children ogled the spectacle, was not an enviable position.

I don’t think anyone expected such an enormous turnout, and I kept my head lowered, fearful someone might recognize me. From the crème de la crème of society to the village folk wearing their Sunday bests, a large group supported the Bastion family. “Commoner versus nobleman,” I whispered to Ewe, as she shoved us toward the tiny church.

Could it hold such a group? I spared a moment to admire the dark weathered stone, the sleek steeple, and the gothic architecture while being pushed through a hail of snapping photographers.

“Miss du Maurier!”

I cringed.

“Miss du Maurier!”

I had no choice but to turn and smile at the reporter’s greedy scanning eyes.

“What do you say about the murder?”

His companion photographer snapped away.

I groaned. Just what I needed. My picture in the paper, and holding my hand halfway up to my face hadn’t dissuaded them.

“The
murder,
” the reporter prompted. “It
is
a murder, says Mrs. Bastion.”

My father taught me avoidance with the media was the best defense. Biting my tongue (though I was sorely tempted to point out the “open investigation” status), I tagged on the heels of Ewe to the nearest side pew.

Vicar Nortby perspired on the pulpit. He, like everyone else, awaited the Hartley family, the front pew left vacant as was the custom.

The atmosphere inside the church matched the gloomy nature of the occasion. Stilted whispers, grave faces, lifting eyebrows, androunded eyes filled the room. It was a community divided, those of the lower class sitting on one side and those of the upper on the other.

Mrs. Bastion remained stony- faced, second row from the front, her son Connan’s arm around her for support. The next eldest Bastion, a girl of ten or so, looked after the little children.

Victoria’s little sister, I thought. I wondered how much she knew of her sister’s life. Probably nothing. I said little of my inner thoughts to my elder sister Angela, and certainly nothing to my younger sister Jeanne. It made me wonder why females prefer to conceal so much. Pride? Fear of reproach? Fear of interference?

Vicar Nortby took the stand.

All eyes turned to the front door where Lady Hartley, David, and Lianne, made a sweeping entrance. Lady Hartley, her arm interloped with that of her son, guiding him to the front pew, was
far
removed from Mrs. Bastion and her ilk.

I watched Mrs. Bastion’s face. It showed a stony silence. Connan’s jaw, however, twitched in anger.

Throughout the service that followed, with the good vicar mopping his brow at regular intervals, I kept my gaze fixed on the radiant Victoria. Lying there in her casket, half hidden from the world and half on display, adorned all in white, she was radiant, ghostly, and beautiful.

The service ended.

David led the mourners to the grave site where Victoria was placed in the family crypt. Lady Hartley’s disapproval was still evident by the taut line of her mouth.

The ritualistic closing of the crypt unleashed the emotional mother. Tearing across the manicured lawn, Mrs. Bastion spluttered the anguished cry of the grief- stricken. “It’s murder! Murder, I tell you!
You
killed her!”

She was looking at David.

He visibly paled, hesitant sympathy flooding his tense face. Extending an arm to her, he tried to console her in a humane fashion.

She shook him off, having none of it. “No, it was
no
accident. One of you did it! One of you killed my baby!
You !
”

She accused the mother, Lady Hartley.

“Yes,
you!
You killed my girl.”

Lady Hartley snorted her indignation, her defiance. “Don’t be absurd, woman. I did not kill your daughter.”

Mrs. Bastion sobbed away, comforted by the protective gleam in her son’s eye, still looking back at Lord David, and Lianne, and especially Lady Hartley.

The excitable reporters danced to this graphic tune, snapping, scribbling, recording every nuance of the sensational outburst.

Mrs. Bastion’s crowd of supporters, after some persuasion, guided her away from the grave site and into her home. Staring after the sad, bewildered family and friends, I knew, beyond a doubt, they suspected murder, too.

Sighing, Lianne came up to nudge me. “Thank goodness that’s over.”

“Come with me,” Lianne chimed, pulling me from the grave site to the open lavender field.

“What ever for?” I stopped her.

She shrugged. “Just because I want to and we’ve little time.”

Little time for what?
I wanted to ask, but allowed her to lead me to a seat amongst the swaying grass.

“Phew!” She fanned herself. “How
stressful
. And poor Davie! And Mama! I felt sorry for them.”

I noticed she used “mama” on this occasion instead of “mother.”

“Mummy didn’t do it. Davie didn’t do it. Victoria did it herself. She wanted to die. She was so scared of David finding out.”

“Finding out what?” I queried, trying to appear casual and squashing the urge to shake the girl’s shoulders.

“Oh,” she giggled. “About,” she paused, blushing, lowering her long, dark- lashed eyes to a piece of swaying grass, “her secret life.”

“Victoria’s secret life?”

She nodded.

So did I. “I thought she might have had one. She was so beautiful.”

Lianne’s face instantly hardened. “She was a whore! She
deserved
to die!”

She ran away, and I stood witness to a child’s emotions, but was she truly a child? Was she, I hated to ponder, capable of murder?

“Absolutely.”

“Absolutely?”

“Absolutely that Miss Lianne could do anything and her mother, her brother, or Jenny Pollock would cover for her. She’s born
mad,
she’s been indulged since day one of breathing. Do you think murder could be far from her? They lock her up all day in that big house with only softy Jenny Pollock to keep her in check. Oh, aye, Miss Lianne is capable of murder.”

“I can’t believe it,” I echoed, yet I challenged my own words. For what I’d seen that day in that child’s face confirmed my worst suspicions. Yes, a child could and would commit such a crime. Of course, such a crime must be proven.

Mounting suspicion generated two separate wakes, one held at Padthaway and one at the Bastion cottage in the village. Knowing I’d hear all the news of the village gathering from Ewe in the morning, I chose to promenade amongst the society romp, a masterful affair filling the graceful inner courtyard at the splendid, dignified mansion.

Mrs. Trehearn and Mr. Soames had outdone themselves, their prowess evident by the smooth running of the function, the correct choice of refreshment, and the singular attentiveness shown to guests.

Fortunately, I knew none of this London set. The Hartleys must have mixed in different circles for I did not recognize one face. A good thing, for it suited my purpose. I wanted to observe and monitor the event.

With Lianne disposed of chatting to two girls her own age, I pursed my lips and became the huntress. Scanning for adequate prey, I found an unassuming freckled male of thirty or so who grinned at my meandering approach.

“Dreadful business, all this,” he said, shaking his auburn head. “Thought old Davie would’ve wed that American heiress, not a simple country lass. Family needs the money, y’know. Things haven’t traveled well since the old mad fellow shot himself. Some say family’s cursed.”

I hadn’t expected such an easy victory. “Were you here when it happened, Mr. . . . ?”

“Cameron. Bruce Cameron.” He bowed, taking my hand. “And you are?”

I gave him my name.

A flicker of recognition danced in his eyes. “Ah, I know your father, I believe.”

“Yes, most do,” I smiled, turning back to the subject at hand. “You’ve known the family long, Mr. Cameron?”

“For years,” he enthused, pausing to pick a pastry from a passing plate. “Davie and I were at Oxford together. I often came down here to spend the holidays. Grand, fun old days, they were.”

“When the family had money,” I reminded, lowering my voice. “How did they lose it, if you don’t mind me asking? Lord David did mention something about his father’s gambling habits?”

“Yes,” he flushed, “lost quite a bit. Eventually they had to sell off the town houses. It was either those or this house, the family home, and David would never give up Padthaway. Anyway, afterward, the family buried themselves down here, living quiet as monks. I suppose they had no choice.”

“When did this happen?”

Mr. Cameron hesitated and I realized I’d reached the point where one must share a little of themselves to garner assurance. Choosing honesty, I told him how I’d come down here for a quiet holiday and stumbled into this catastrophic event.

He seemed to know about that. “The papers,” he grinned. “They mentioned a Miss Daphne du Maurier and a Miss Lianne Hartley had found the body. Tell me,” he said, and lowered his voice, “it must have been gruesome.”

“It was,” I confirmed, shivering at the memory.

Mr. Cameron now thought back, his former mistrust banished. “It was straight after the old fellow shot himself. Poor Davie. Had to deal with that and then take on the helm of the family responsibilities. Awfully tough for a sixteen- year- old. He’s done well, though I wonder—”

“If he’s happy?”

A shadow passed Mr. Cameron’s face, the expression of his eyes hidden behind his spectacles. “Hmm. He’s cut himself off, y’know. I worry about him. Good that you’re about in the neighborhood, Miss du Maurier, might liven things up a little. I hear Miss Lianne and Lady Hartley have taken a shine to you.”

I colored deeply.

“Oh, don’t let it unsettle you,” came the friendly advice. “Miss Lianne needs a friend and Lady Hartley, well, forgive me for saying so, Miss du Maurier, but you’d be a better candidate for mistress of this house than Victoria Bastion.”

Something about the curl of his mouth suggested a negative reading of Victoria. I decided to test it. “You didn’t think she was the right girl for him?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Playing the innocent, I examined his face carefully. “What ever do you mean?”

Fighting the instinct not to divulge but losing the battle, he leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Between you and I, Miss du Maurier, I saw his
intended
in London at a place I cannot call respectable. I never forget a face, especially one as beautiful as hers and . . .” Mr. Cameron then added significantly, “she wasn’t alone.”

Ewe had never heard of a Mr. Cameron.

“London folk,” she snorted. “Not good enough for the likes of us, and Missy Victoria mixed with that lot a good deal. Once she’d caught Lord David’s eye, she had to keep him, if you read me.”

“I cannot read you all the time, Ewe. You are a lady of secrets.”

Her plump cheeks brightened. “The Hartleys run with the London crowd. Not Lord David so much, mind. He’s a man of the land, the best landlord.”

“Sir Edward’s landlord, too,” I pointed out. “Where is this Castle Mor? I am eager to see it.”

“You won’t be seein’ it till after my lunch party. Oh, dear! How’s everything look, then?”

I turned around to survey the organized lunch party paraphernalia. The napkins were folded, the cutlery and table setting dusted and placed, and the chairs arranged; Ewe’s tiny cottage gleamed from head to toe and I told her so. “You know my father never stopped talking about your pasties. He used to say: ‘Old Ewe Sinclaire makes the
best
Cornish pasty. If you ever meet her, Daph, you’ll love her. She’s a people watcher, too.’ ”

“People watcher!” Huffing, Ewe steered me to the kitchen to show off her famous batch of newly baked pasties.

“Everything looks perfect,” I assured her. “Do you wish me to check the table once more? And that the curtains are dusted?”

“Yes, yes,” she nodded.

I went to the window instead, making one cursory glance over table and curtains. “The prevailing question,” I muttered aloud, “is who killed Victoria and why?”

I’d not forget my oath to Mrs. Bastion. I’d do my best to find her killer. I didn’t understand what stroke of fate had sent me to Cornwall at this time, to stumble upon a beautiful dead bride, to yearn to discover her secret life, but eventually, I would learn the cause of her death.

Men like Sir Edward and his London associates looked upon solving murder as a business, and a business it was, to a certain extent. But then there was the human part of it; a life lost, a grieving family, a murderer on the loose.

I reminded myself she may have taken her own life. “The business of death,” I whispered, slipping my fingers through Ewe’s fine lace curtains.

“What did you say?” Ewe yelled from the other room. “Has anyone arrived yet?”

“Not yet. Who makes you so nervous?”

Tugging off her apron, she pressed down the rolled sides of her hair. “We’ve got new folk drivin’ down today.” Winking at me, she whipped up some kind of cream concoction. “Fancy ones to rival yesterday’s offerings.”

I loved Ewe’s translation for the London crowd.
Yesterday’s offerings.
How charming.

“Did you ever see such snobs! Pegasus noses, poked higher in the air than a kite. Poor Mrs. B had a hard time of it. She ain’t finished with ’em either. Plannin’ something. Maybe,” Ewe said, her eyes rounded to saucers, “a
revenge
killin’.”

She was talking of the village “wake,” the one held at Mrs. Bastion’s cottage. I wished I could have gone to both. “And are you sure nothing else happened? Did Mrs. Bastion mention David or his mother?”

Emerging from behind the kitchen stove, Ewe sported her new starched white- collared blue dress. “Do I look as I should?”

I assured her she did.

Appeased, she marched to the window. “Can you see to the flowers for me, Miss Snoopy Socks? Thanks, there’s a good girl. No, Mrs. B said no names. Connan held his tongue, too. Clip- lipped he was, but he was angry. Boilin’ beneath the skin.”

“They do not lease the cottage through the Hartleys. They are independent, apart from Connan’s working for the shipping company. I am certain that Connan knows something if he was close to Victoria like Miss Perony said.”

“Pregnant! Not that I’m surprised. She always had that look about ’er. Goin’ up to London so often. Probably snagged Lord Davie that way. Simple country lass can’t learn the tricks here. Had to go to town to do it. Oh yes, saw her drive back with Lord D one day. Grinning like a cat, she was, wearin’ that pink smock her mother made for Christmas. Can’t get past old Ewe. I says to myself that day: that girl’s trouble.”

Trouble, yes, but deserving of death?

“And now, pregnant! That explains the ‘quickie’ wedding. Did Lady Muck know about it?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Lady Hartley seems as shocked as the others, as far as I can find out. Obviously, Victoria’s mother didn’t know either?”

Ewe shook her head. “Mrs. B didn’t know.”

“Connan knew. I wonder if he’s told the police.” Seeing the dread on Ewe’s face, I followed her gaze. “What? What is it?”

“They’re here. Our first guests.”

“Oh. I’ll see to the door.”

She nodded and fled to the kitchen, leaving me to watch the door. I loved watching the arrivals. I used to hide behind the curtain as a child when company arrived and never appeared to have grown out of the habit.

This time, however, I was caught peeking behind the lace curtain by a pair of curious, darkly amused eyes, and I scuttled away.

The eyes belonged to a man, a little older than me, of standard height and bearing wearing casual beige pants and a cream sweater roped around his neck. He looked as if he’d just come from his tennis club and I thought it very bad taste considering Ewe Sin-claire’s
formal
invitation.

“Daphne!” Ewe summoned. “
Do
get the door.”

Oh no, dread of dreads. It was bad enough to have been caught watching from the window, worse to have to answer the door and face the consequences.

Adopting a nonchalant approach, I opened the door, prepared to dismiss the incident.

A knowing smirk greeted me. “Brown. Thomas Brown. And you must be the lady at the curtain? Does the lady at the curtain have a name?”

I realized I’d unconsciously barred him from entering, standing there in the middle of the doorway. Something about his manner irked me as I replied, “Mr. Brown. Welcome. Have you just come from work?”

“Work?”

“At the tennis club.”

“Ah,” he smiled, removing the sweater around his neck. “Miss Sinclaire is fortunate to have such an insightful house keeper.”

“House keeper!” I stood back, incensed. “I am no house keeper.”

“And I am no tennis caddy. Shall we call a truce, then?”

Without waiting for a response, he cruised past me and I hoped Ewe hadn’t heard a word of this conversation. She’d be furious with my behavior, for I suspected he was one of her special guests and I hadn’t fulfilled my obligation as the welcomer. Trotting after Mr. Brown, I felt I ought to give him an apology and started to form the words when he laid his sweater over my arm.

“Can you see to this, Miss . . . ?”

“Du Maurier,” I seethed, seeking to fling his sweater somewhere on Ewe’s dusted and gleaming coat stand. I couldn’t say why he annoyed me; I’d only just met him. Perhaps the manner of his entry, yes, that was it. He was not conceited, but a peculiar blend of self- assurance enshrouded him.

The doorbell rang again, and happy to ignore the amiable Mr. Brown trying his charm on Ewe, I let in the remaining guests.

All in all there were three gentleman, although I hesitate to call Mr. Brown a gentleman considering his casual attire, and five ladies not counting myself and Ewe. I was delighted to see Miss Perony among the other ladies, two local unmarried girls in their late twenties who came accompanied by their parents. Thus Ewe had her perfect table of ten and since she’d gone to a great deal of effort, I put the smug Mr. Brown out of my mind to play a gracious guest.

Over luncheon, we spoke of little else but the death. “Mystery death” is what the papers were calling it, and for this sleepy Cornish town, the interest outdid the Germanic threat one to ten.

“It’s in every paper,” one of the girls gushed, fluttering her eyelashes again at Mr. Brown. “Can it be true what they say?
Can
it be murder?”

“Of course it can,” Ewe chimed, loving any kind of gossip, “the whole village is convinced of it. I know you folk are new here, so please feel free to ask any manner of questions. We’re not the sort to hide things, are we, my dear Daphne?”

“Certainly not,” I chorused, conscious of Mr. Brown’s intent gaze upon me.

Mr. Brown asked me to pass the salt. I did so grudgingly, since this was the third time he’d asked me to pass something to him. First, it was the potato dish; second, the meat tray; third, the salt. What was next?

“And the pepper, too, please.”

Groaning inside, I considered throwing the pepper at him, but I restrained myself, feeling Ewe’s sharp eye monitoring me serving her special guest. Like Mrs. Trehearn, she didn’t miss much, but whereas the former concealed, Ewe did the complete opposite.

Perhaps sensing the tension between us and determined to redirect it, one of the ladies attached herself to Mr. Brown.

“Oh, Mr. Brown, what are your thoughts on the whole affair?”

“A mother’s accusation is no proof.”

“But the secret baby! Mrs. Bastion is right to suspect the Hartleys. If they didn’t think her daughter good enough . . .”

“Social disparities are not motivation for murder,” Mr. Brown replied matter- of- factly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss du Maurier?”

Having run out of table items for me to pass to him, he now roped me into the debate. “Oh, I don’t know,” I accepted the challenge. “If one felt strongly about an issue, one might murder because of it.”

“Lord David or Lady Hartley?”

His dark- green eyes arrested mine.

Blazing at his deliberate baiting to try and make me look a fool, I simply shrugged my shoulders. “The verdict is the verdict.”

“What do you think, Miss du Maurier? You should have
some
idea, since you’re a regular guest at Padthaway.”

“You’re invited to go there?” cried the girl beside Mr. Brown.

“Yes, at
Padthaway,
” Ewe name- dropped, “as a
guest
. She even stayed the night.”

“That’s right,” the mother of the girls nodded. “They mentioned you in the paper. A Miss du Maurier found the body along with Miss Hartley.”

Now, he’d really goaded me. I had wanted to remain somewhat incognito at this luncheon, to gauge everybody’s thoughts and reactions, not to have to deliver my own. “The death is an odd one. I believe something or someone drove her from the house and out to the cliffs that night.”

“A man in a car could be some
thing
and some
one
,” Mr. Brown suggested.

Sending him a scathing look, I added, “
If
she was
driven
there, by vehicle or feet, where are her shoes?”

A short silence occupied the table.

“Excellent notion,” the fathers of the girls saluted.

“That’s me clever girl,” Ewe said proudly, letting herself ramble on about my accomplishments.

“Please,” I pleaded, “you embarrass me.”

The family, having learned of my father, now regarded me differently. Mr. Brown, I failed to read. Nothing showed in his face whilst listening to Ewe extolling the virtues of my existence. At the end of it, however, he exhibited a little yawn, which prompted Ewe to clear the table for coffee and cake.

The interim provided the perfect excuse to escape so I waved Ewe down, offering to do all the work.

“I shall help you,” Mr. Brown said, and having risen with plate in hand, gave me no opportunity to refuse.

At the kitchen sink, I took the serving dish from him. “There’s no need, Mr. Brown.
Do
sit down.”

“I have the distinct impression I’m not wanted around here,” Mr. Brown winked to Ewe. “Do you know what I think?”

“I am not interested in your observations, Mr. Brown.”

A mild smile assailed his lips. “I was actually speaking to Mrs. . . .”

“Mrs. Can’t Remember? Oh.”

I hurried away to save my pride as much as to collect the last of the plates.

“I
think,
” Mr. Brown said loudly enough for me to overhear, “our sleuth likes her shell.”

“I have no reason to hide,” I countered on my return.

“I inferred no reason. You did, Miss du Maurier.”

So I had and it appeared I had misjudged Mr. Brown. His level of intelligence rose far above my first assumption of him.

“Daphne likes to play tennis, too,” Ewe, wickedly enjoying the battle between us, said whilst strolling by with cake in hand. “Mr. Brown, please bring the cream. Daphne, the knife.”

With our assigned jobs, we returned to the table, where I met the hostile glare of the girl beside Mr. Brown. Understanding her frustration, for I’d distracted Mr. Brown even though I had no interest in him, I sent her a reassuring smile. I was tempted, however, to gush, “Oh, what a lovely couple you make” and see how Mr. Brown handled the situation.

“Speaking of shocks,” Ewe said, her eyes glittering at the cake in front of her, “did anyone see Soames at the funeral? He had no word for the papers and for an eagle like Soames, that’s curious.”

“Perhaps Lord David asked him not to speak to the papers?” Mr. Brown resumed his seat. “He has a right to, as his boss.”

“Lord David would never restrain his employees,” I said, meeting Mr. Brown’s gaze across the table.

“Well, Victoria was a gadabout,” Ewe declared. “Often saw her drivin’ about and hardly ever alone. She had many a male friend, that one.”

How do you know you’re not the father of my child?
The phrase leapt before me, followed by Mr. Cameron’s slow murmur
I saw her at a place I cannot call respectable.

“She’s certainly a mystery, this Victoria,” Mr. Brown surmised, echoing my own silent thoughts.

Tea and cake ended Ewe’s fine luncheon in triumph, and eventually, we all collected our bags and coats and filed out the door. Mr. Brown lingered behind, much to the distress of the girl who promptly invited him for dinner. He politely declined, saying he had another important engagement.

“Another engagement?” I dared to ask, waving them off alongside a devilishly proud Ewe.

“Yes,” Mr. Brown smiled, taking his sweater and kissing Ewe’s hand in farewell, “an important fishing trip with my uncle.”