Murder on the Cliffs (19 page)

Wednesday was the day before she died. “Do you think she went up there for some other reason?”

“I don’t know.”

Perhaps realizing she’d said too much, Lianne left me staring at the dress. By now, I expected a whistle or something from Mrs. Trehearn to signal the end of our tour of the forbidden room, but no intrusion appeared, and that fact made me feel positively uncomfortable. Certainly, strange behavior went on in this house hold.

Staring at the dress one last time, the irrefutable truth occurred to me. When a dress such as this awaited, its owner did not intend to die, no matter the circumstances or inducement. She had been murdered, but how and, more importantly, why.

I began with the why, searching for a clue, a motive, hunting through her dresser, searching the perfume bottles, wondering which one Lord David favored, rose, lavender, vanilla, sweet jasmine, or lotus?

Sitting down in the dressing chair where Victoria must have sat, a queer coldness overcame me. The brushes and combs, the jewelry box, and other items of Victoria’s personal life surrounded me, and I found myself reluctant to touch her things, as though it were Victoria watching me and not Mrs. Trehearn.

Victoria’s cache of jewelry revealed little, a collection of beads, brooches, hat pins, bangles, and pearl necklaces, the drawers crammed full of such accessories. Remembering where I’d hidden a letter as a child, I felt underneath the dressing table, my foot feeling for anything that may have fallen in those last hurried minutes before her death. Nothing.

No, but wait . . . a perfume puffer had rolled its way to the back leg near the wall. Bending down to pick it up, I almost cut my finger on the jagged amber glass.

“What’d you find?”

“Ouch!” Checking my finger, I reinserted the stopper. “It’s only a perfume puffer and the top’s broken.”

“Mother bought her that one. I remember when she gave it to her. It’s supposed to be exotic Persian.”

I sniffed the remaining liquid, instantly repelled. “It must have gone off— it’s dreadful.”

Mrs. Trehearn’s fixed eyes detected us in the corner. “Did you find something?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

Lianne thought it was amusing to see me do it, to lie about something so stupid. Maybe it wasn’t so stupid, I thought. It could be a clue to piece together what had happened that night . . . had she thrown the puffer at David, or if she was in a hurry, had she knocked it under her dresser? After a furtive glance at Lianne, I put the puffer in my pocket. Since it’d rolled under the dresser, I didn’t think anybody would notice it was missing.

“Two minutes,” Mrs. Trehearn dictated.

“Yes, yes,” Lianne rolled her eyes while I searched through Victoria’s jewelry again, picking up a string of lavender beads. I’d seen those beads before . . .

“She always wore those.”

Lianne stood behind me.

“Oh, yes, the photograph.”

“They’re not worth anything. Come, we’d better go.”

Examining the beads closer, I fancied I heard a faint, mocking laugh. Glancing into the mirror, I imagined Victoria’s face there, watching me with her beads.

I put down the beads and prepared to go when the clasp caught my attention. Oval, of unusual shape, with a little star- cut ruby stone at either end, it sprang open at my touch to reveal its carefully guarded secret.

To V . . . love MSR.

“And she let ye see it, just like that?”

Pulling the kettle off the stove, Ewe poured the tea, asking me a thousand questions all at once.

“Nice to have ye here for a change,” she scoffed. “How did ye drive with Mr. Brown go? He’s a handsome fellow! Such fine manners.”

“You don’t have to sell Mr. Brown to me.”

“Oh?” She grew excited.

“Yes,” I smiled, “for I am not interested.”

Her crestfallen face adopted an ominous hue. “It’s that Lord David, ain’t it?”

“Getting back to Mrs. Trehearn, for it’s the
mystery
that interests me more than
men,
why do you think she let Lianne and me inside the room?”

“Because ye were both standin’ there like two little puppies?”

The simple explanation failed to satisfy me. “I think she knows something about Lianne. She was watching both of us like hawks, but Lianne more so.”

“The child is strange. And despite what Jenny Pollock says, the father was as mad as a hatter! Shot himself, y’know.”

I described the rest of the picnic to Ewe, and the mystery of Victoria’s missing shoes.

“Easy. The murderer has them, or hid them.”

“Or maybe she wore none, but I don’t believe that. It’s a rocky stretch . . . No, I’d leave behind a purse, but not shoes.”

“The beads are better,” Ewe nodded. “Tho’ don’t know if ye should be stealin’ things from her room. That hawk Mrs. T will know what’s missin’.”

“The beads, maybe, but certainly not the puffer. It had rolled all the way under her dresser.”

“I heard Mrs. B wants her daughter’s things back.”

This was news to me. “What would she do with all those glorious clothes? She has no occasion to wear them.”

“
Sell
them.” Ewe rolled her eyes. “My, my, for a smart girl, ye don’t think of
everything ,
do ye?”

Ewe was right. Small, little things, things a fresh mind or a stranger might see at an instant, often escaped my notice.
Had I become too close to the case? Should I even be here, embroiling myself in it? Should I remain silent?
One thing was certain. Victoria’s murderer lurked out there somewhere, and they’d not take kindly to my meddling, particularly if I stumbled upon something of import.

“Ye should stop huntin’.” Ewe read my thoughts.

“So should you,” I retorted. “Oh, I
know
you’ve been to Miss Perony’s a few times. . . . I’ve seen your basket out front.”

“She’s well bred and too tight- lipped for my likin’,” came Ewe’s report. “And she knew a lot more about Vicky Bastion than she’ll tell. Even when Vicky got engaged, she still waved to Miss Perony and the like. Miss Perony said she went to tea at Padthaway once.”

Could Miss Perony, the schoolteacher, know the reason for Victoria’s London visits? Probably not, if it was at a
place not respectable.
“I’ll try with Miss Perony.”

I doubted I’d have more success than Ewe, me, a mere stranger asking questions about a local girl, when Ewe had been in the village for many years.

“The best time to see her is after school on a Tuesday or a Thursday, for Wednesdays she’s off at some knittin’ class and Mondays and Fridays she tutors privately.”

I nodded and went as instructed, on some pretext of lending a book to Miss Perony and talking of the progress I’d made at the abbey with her cousin Agatha.

Miss Perony seemed delighted to see me.

“You’re almost one of us now, Daphne. Have you extended your stay in Windemere?”

“Yes. I’ll expect a letter from home soon, speeding my return.”

“Your sisters must miss you terribly.”

“My father more, I think. I’m very close to my father. Speaking of which, Connan Bastion said his real father couldn’t acknowledge him. That father lives in London, doesn’t he?”

Miss Perony removed her spectacles. “Daphne, I do advise against you associating with Connan Bastion. He’s a good lad, at heart, but he’s wild, like his sister. They can’t be tamed.”

I thought this was interesting. “I didn’t know Victoria, but I imagine her being so beautiful, with a personality to go along with it. What do you mean by wild, if I may ask?”

Expressing a deep reluctance to say more, Miss Perony consented. “I know you are trustworthy, Daphne, even though I disapprove of your involvement with the Hartleys.”

“Whom do you suspect? Lord David? Miss Lianne? Lady Hartley?”

Her lip trembled at the latter. “Lady Hartley is capable of anything.”

“And Victoria didn’t take her own life, in your opinion?”

“No.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Her eyes lowered.

“It can’t be breaking a confidence when she’s dead, can it?” Daphne asked.

“I suppose not.”

“Then?”

“She came and saw me a day or so before she died. She said she knew she was going to die. She sat there shaking, prewedding jitters apparent in every line of her body. I said it’s only natural to feel nervous before the big day, and then she did the strangest thing.”

“What was that?”

“She laughed. It was a hysterical laugh through which she mentioned her future mother- in- law.”

“Lady Hartley?”

“Yes. Victoria and she had never seen eye to eye, and from when Lord David proposed, Victoria always feared his mother would break them apart. This time, however, she said Lady Hartley had been acting differently, so
attentive,
even to the point of buying her bride gifts and so forth.”

“What was your reply?”

“I said I thought it a little odd, but naturally Lady Hartley has no choice but to accept her this close to the wedding.”

“Poison,” I whispered. “Lady Hartley poisoned her through the bride gifts?!”

“The Judas kiss,” Miss Perony shrugged, “but they’ve found no evidence to link Lady Hartley to anything.”

“Did Victoria talk of David?”

“Yes. She said she and David were having arguments over Connan, and money again. Connan wanted his future brother- in- law to pay his gambling debts; he’d done so before but now he’d refused.”

“What of the father in London?”

A shadow came over Miss Perony’s face. “I could be wrong, but I don’t believe Connan and Victoria ever met their father. He disappeared . . . years ago.”

“But he spoke of a father, one who refused to acknowledge them because he had a wife and children of his own.”

Miss Perony nodded. “He is not their father. I think Connan and Victoria liked to fantasize about having a rich father. Their real father was just a sea lord who died out at sea, leaving his pregnant woman behind.”

“So Connan and Victoria are twins?”

Miss Perony stared at me in astonishment. “Of course they were twins. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“No, but I should have guessed. The resemblance of the eyes . . .”

“Yes,” Miss Perony murmured. “Beauty is dangerous. It did no favors for Victoria.”

We sat there in silence for a moment. I understood Miss Perony and why she’d allowed me to speak to her. From our very first conversation, we shared a love of literature and history, and a common interest in Rothmarten Abbey and its treasure. She knew she could trust me, and she rarely trusted anyone. A lonely schoolteacher, learned and intelligent, she struggled to fit in with the village folk. She glowed in the company of Mr. Brown, if I remembered correctly, and I faintly teased her about her affection for him to see if I was right.

I was right. She blushed.

“Oh, I am nothing to him. I’m not even pretty. I think he’s interested in you, Daphne.”

“If you saw us driving together, it was only a favor. I hardly know Mr. Brown and find he doesn’t agree with me at all.
You
he’d find enchanting, and you have it in your power to capture him.”

Long- lost hope flared in her nondescript eyes. “He’d never see me in the romantic sense. In any case, I am a few years older than him.”

“He prides
intelligence,
” I said. “You only have to exhibit yourself a little more. Terrible to have to resort to such devices, isn’t it? Since we can’t all be as beautiful as Victoria and have a lineup of suitors. Speaking of which, she often went to London, didn’t she? What did she do there?”

“She waited tables at a club. That’s where she met Lord David. He’d never notice her driving through the village.”

I nodded, thinking of the beads. “Was there another man before Lord David? Someone with the initials MSR?”

“MSR,” Miss Perony echoed, and I had to explain myself. Without going into too much detail, I said Lianne and I had found a string of beads in her room and those initials were engraved inside the clasp.

“Yes, yes, I remember those beads. They were her favorite and she had them when I first came to Windemere seven years ago. She was sixteen then, and every boy in the village ogled Victoria. But she wasn’t going to settle for anything less than a man with a title, and stuck to it. She went to London to catch a husband. She told me so herself, but I know of no MSR.”

“Why did she confide in you?”

“She enjoyed teasing me, but she never truly confided in me; I wish now she’d done so. If she had, maybe her death could have been prevented. I knew something was troubling her deeply, but I rarely saw her, so there was nothing I could do. If I pressed her, she probably would have said nothing. Even Connan knows little.”

Lady Hartley and the poisonous bride gifts.

Returning to my room in Ewe’s cottage, I placed the two items I’d purloined on the tiny table serving me as a dresser.

Two clues. The beads and the broken perfume puffer. The beads.

To V, love MSR.

Who was MSR? A lover, or a secret father? Or perhaps the initials meant nothing at all. Perhaps she’d simply bought the beads in a shop selling secondhand wares and the initial V was merely a coincidence?

Hiding the two items in my underclothes, I went out for a late-afternoon walk. My favorite walk in Windemere was the one down to the sea.

I pretended I was Victoria, and unbidden, like a jolting flash, Lord David’s face drifted before me, the memory of his lips on mine. We both knew what had driven him to kiss me that day in the library, yet I had to admit I enjoyed the kiss and so did he, I believed.

“Looking for a new mystery? Or still working on the old one?”

It was Mr. Brown, the one person I did not want to see today. Miserable over my foul luck, guilt, and unruly salt- splattered hair, I smiled through my teeth.

“You catch me fishing in forbidden waters.” Grinning, he put down his sea rod and tackle box.

“Were you successful?” I thought I should ask.

“I am always successful.” Lifting the lid of his box, he showed me the still flipping fish. “He’ll steady in a minute. Hmm, a snack before dinner.”

“You’re cruel.”

Shutting the box, he pushed up his rolled- up sleeves. “Cruelty comes in many forms. One could call driving with a man in mourning cruel. In fact, cruel is the wrong word.
Inappropriate.
”

I opened my mouth in astonishment. “You have your information wrong, Mr. Brown. I was not alone with Lord David. There was—”

“On that occasion,” he tempered, his green eyes challenging me. “Why do you insist on associating with a potential murderer? Is it your intention to follow the ill- fated Victoria, for that, my dear Miss du Maurier, is where it will lead.”

“I’m afraid you are entirely wrong in your assumptions,” I retorted.

“Oh,” he goaded, “so you
have
made progress since our last date. Was Conna n—”

“Date, Mr. Brown? Our drive was no date.”

“A pity. I like to think it was.”

He stood there, grinning, intensely amused. “I can recommend a lady to you, Mr. Brown, if you are in want of female company. A Miss Perony Osborn.”

His lip quivered. “You are unkind. How could I look at another woman now that you have waltzed into my life?”

I raised my eyes.

“Or is Lord David your primary concern now? Poor fellow. Lost one bride, he’s in need of another—”

I felt my face grow hot. “How can you say that!” I stepped back, furious. “You’re jealous. That’s your problem. You’re jealous of him because . . .”

He lifted a brow. “Because?”

“Because he has a fine house and women are attracted to him. Because he
is
a good man, despite local suspicion.”

I wished he’d go away. I wished he’d not stand there and utter such unfair and completely erroneous assumptions. I had a mind to leave him without saying a word. However I’d be in a worse mood if I didn’t discover his identity, and to be truthful, I was intrigued.

“Let’s sit over here for a minute,” Mr. Brown directed. “Out of the wind.”

Locating a grassy patch on a side of a jutted rock, we sat there, overlooking the gorge below. Still breezy, I roped my hair behind my ears, pulling the odd strand out of my mouth.

“Don’t you just
love
our wild Cornwall.” Mr. Brown, to my horror, began gutting his fish, whistling and smiling. “You don’t mind, do you? It’ll save me time.”

I think he wanted to shock me. It amused him to do so, so I employed the opposite reaction and swapping disgust for casual indifference, I rolled my shoulders and lulled back into the rock. “You called Cornwall ‘our’ Cornwall, but you don’t live here.”

“I’m a homeless wanderer,” he laughed, “moving from one hovel to another.”

“Does this hovel owner have a profession?” I smiled.

“Ah, the old profession. Why don’t you hazard a guess, Miss Sleuth?”

He dressed casually, that faux pas at Ewe’s an act of social disregard more than ignorance, for he spoke well, indicating a good education, and he retained a certain athletic poise, if somewhat self-confident and overdisciplined. “Military . . . and you’re on holiday.”

“Very good,” he smiled. “I expected no less.”

“Aren’t you going to properly introduce yourself?”

He swept up his newly gutted fish and bowed. “Major Frederick Arthur Montague Browning the Second at your service, Miss du Maurier,” he said, pausing to add with a wink, “but always Mr. Brown on holiday.”

In spite of myself, I laughed. He reminded me of Rudolf Rassendyll in
The Prisoner of Zenda.
“Sometimes it’s wise to go incognito on holidays,” I said, “unfortunately, I can never do so.”