Murder on the Cliffs (6 page)

Ewe and I returned to the cottage to find a note slipped under the door.

“Tch tch tch.” Bending her copious backside to sweep up the note, Ewe bustled through her house reading aloud the note.

“It’s from Sir Edward,” she announced in passing. “And it’s for
you.
”

I hurried after her.

“If it’s for
me,
then may I have it?”

I held out my hand.

She reluctantly conceded it, peering over my shoulder. “He’s got neat handwritin’, I’ll give him that, even if ye can’t see it for the length of a whistle!”

“It says . . .

Miss Daphne,

I shall have the motorcar waiting at the end of the

lane to take you to Padthaway this evening.

Yours etc.,

Sir Edward

“Sir Edward,” I mused aloud, “does this Sir Edward have a last name?”

Ewe was about to tell me when I stopped her. “No, don’t. I think I shall prefer to think of him just as Sir Edward. Do they call me Miss D now?”

My teasing came to an end when Ewe forced me to consider the time and I raced off in a frantic flurry.

What to wear!
I pondered the eternal question as I rummaged through my assortment, stumbling across a dress my mother must have snuck in before closure. A shell- colored pink evening gown with a few rows of fringed tassels. “Perfect!”

Whilst rolling the sides of my hair in a fashionable upward style, popping one pin in my mouth and sticking the other in the hairstyle, I felt a sense of excitement. To dine at the Big House! To dine amongst a den of murder suspects, in the perfect position to monitor events as they unfolded. My mind was full of racing thoughts.

I should really not involve myself in the affair.

I should really just concentrate on the abbey records, write my findings, and return home.

I should really not wonder if Lord David liked my dress or the way I’d pinned up my hair.

And I should really
hurry,
for was that Sir Edward knocking at the door?

It sounded like a thump more than a knock, and I grabbed my handbag, coat, and slipped on a pair of modest heels. I had no time for jewelry and makeup; perhaps a wise dilemma, for the dress needed no jewelry and if I made the error of wearing too much makeup, people might arrive at the wrong conclusions.
Lord David had just lost his bride.

I was a single woman of notable family in Lady Hartley’s eyes, and if she disapproved of her son’s last choice of wife, it was not out of the question that if I was not careful, she might see me as a possible new candidate for the vacant position.

The thought made me uneasy, especially when Sir Edward began the conversation by asking, “You are a young lady of Victoria’s age, Miss du Maurier, would you be terrified of such a prospective mother-in-law?”

I blinked my astonishment. I had not anticipated such a direct question after a perfunctory remark on the weather. “It’s hard to answer. Miss Bastion and I are very different people. We come from different backgrounds with our own principles.”

“Morals?”

I lowered my gaze. True, I’d been raised in a fairly liberal house hold, but a strict moral code still prevailed. Victoria, young and impressionable, may not have lived by the same code.

“Do you think Victoria Bastion would have been a girl of relaxed morals?” Sir Edward pushed further.

I dreaded the deliberation. My immediate instinct said “yes,” but what did I know of the dead girl on the beach? What did I know of her private live? Her aspirations? Her loves and passions?

“You think my question out of turn?” Sir Edward drove into the darkened drive leading to Padthaway. “But let me remind you, Miss Daphne. This is a murder inquiry and no stone can be left unturned.”

“How did she die?” I asked in the smallest voice I could muster, gazing up at the lights of the great mansion ahead.

Sir Edward frowned as we arrived. “There is evidence to support she did not die of natural causes, but as yet such evidence is inconclusive.”

Attending to an open button on my coat, I accepted Sir Edward’s arm to escort me into the house. He’d not betrayed a single shred of information and I suppose I had to respect him for it. If I were a detective, I’d keep all my cards close to my chest, too.

I tried not to show my annoyance. I tried to smile at the maid opening the door, at the figure of Mrs. Trehearn clad all in black. I tried to behave as a dinner guest should behave.

The house at night breathed of wonder. Though kept moderately lit, I pictured how magnificent it would look with every light ablaze. As a young girl, I once attended a dinner party at a country mansion in Devonshire, and the spectacular sight of the house awash in light had arrested my sisters and me to the point at which my father had to snap his fingers twice to regain our attention. These empty corridors of Padthaway begged to be filled with gaiety and laughter and light, not the dour repercussions of death.

“Here we are.” Mrs. Trehearn’s skeletal- looking hand gestured to the right. “You will find the family down the hall.”

“This is not the usual room,” Sir Edward said, waiting for me to go first. “The family usually dines in the Queen Anne room. It’s never changed.”

“Why do you think that is, Sir Edward?”

“I honestly don’t know. There have been deaths and bad times here before—”

“Perhaps something occurred inside the Queen Anne room?”

The notion dawned on him as we located the family seated at a circular walnut table with places set for five.

“Pity Lady Beatrice is so ill she can’t join us, Sir Edward,” Lady Hartley exclaimed, modish in her deep blue evening gown, her hair dressed high and sapphires sparkling from ears to neck, as she twisted the huge ring on her finger.

A chill swept over me as I thought of the ring on Victoria’s dead hand.

“What a lovely dress, Daphne!”

Lady Hartley’s eyes appraised me. “I do so approve of the new pink. I trust your replacement is adequate, Sir Edward?”

“I need a pink dress like Daphne’s,” Lianne sighed, placing her elbows on the table. Her mother gave her a deadly frown and she immediately placed her hands in her lap.

Dinner commenced, hot and cold dishes carried to the table by two maids. Sir Edward lured the silent and grave Lord David out in conversation about local land matters, with Lady Hartley occasionally venturing into the fray.

“Vicar Nortby should be replaced. He is far too old.
Deaf,
even. I can barely hear his sermons on Sunday.”

“Not that you regularly go to church on Sundays, Mother,” Lord David snapped.

“I do . . . attend regularly enough,” she replied. “What of your family, Daphne? Do you plan to go to church whilst you are here? You’re staying with Ewe Sinclaire, are you not? For how long?”

“My plans,” I said, glancing down at my plate to avoid the intense scrutiny, “are unfixed. I can remain for as short or as long as I wish.” I then mentioned my interest in Rothmarten Abbey.

Lord David’s jaw twitched. “You are not a fool for scything through the relics of Rothmarten, Miss du Maurier. There’s not many women I know who appreciate what we have here in sleepy old Windemere.”

“It’s not going to be sleepy for much longer,” Lady Hartley put in gravely. “Will it, Sir Edward?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady. As I said to you and Lord David earlier, there are . . .” His gaze flickered over Lianne Hartley.

“Don’t worry if Daphne and I hear it.” Lianne picked up her fork to tap her forehead. “I mean, we’re going to hear all of the
terrible
news anyway. Isn’t it better we hear it now rather than later?”

Lord David sprang from the table. The action was so unexpected, we all jumped.

“Surely this can wait till
after
dinner,” he exclaimed before stamping out of the room, leaving the rest of us to ogle one another.

“He detests the suspicion and the scrutiny the most.” Lady Hartley eventually broke the silence. “And I daresay you heard he ran into Connan Bastion yesterday afternoon?”

“No.” Sir Edward wiped his perspiring forehead with his napkin. “And I worked very hard to prevent that catastrophe.”

“Well, it didn’t work. Connan can’t stay away . . . nor can David. They both gave Vicar Nortby a heart attack, from what I hear. He and your London person had to restrain the two from killing each other.”

“Oh dear.” Sir Edward wiped his forehead again, this time using the hanky inside his coat.

“More than ‘oh dear,’ ” her ladyship warned. “They’re bound to kill each other. Nortby came running here to tell me. ‘I’ll not have another body at the church,’ he vows. ‘Somehow, they
must
be kept apart.’ The answer is clear. Connan Bastion shall have to leave the village and seek work elsewhere.”

“But his family are
dependent
upon him,” Sir Edward emphasized.

Lady Hartley shrugged. “My concern is chiefly for my son, of course. Need I remind you, Sir Edward, that my son rules the county. Connan Bastion and his ilk are merely subordinates. Therefore, it is Connan Bastion who must go.”

“His mother . . .”

“Shall never agree, I know.” Lady Hartley poured herself another glass of wine. “But I am in the position to see that she does.”

A gloating smile tinkered across her lips.

“Bribery, my lady?” Sir Edward flushed. “I cannot approve . . .”

“Oh save your conscience for confessional. It has no business here . . . nor in my son’s case.”

Sir Edward and I drove back to the village.

“You are wise, Miss Daphne,” he advised, “to speak of all of this to no one. Not even Ewe Sinclaire and
especially
not to any newspapermen who may knock at your door.”

I knew he was right, but I wanted something from him before I agreed to his plan.

“I can be trustworthy,” I began, knotting my fingers together in my lap. “My big ambition is to write stories, you see . . . and to write stories, one must
live
in the present, one must
absorb
the surroundings, study the people and their motivations, so, Sir Edward, I beg of you, if I am to remain silent, could you not share just a little information with me? I promise it shall go nowhere. My mother once called me the ‘brick wall.’ And a brick wall I am, silent and trustworthy.”

If I’d startled Sir Edward, he didn’t show it. He whistled under his breath.

“You’re an unusual girl, Miss Daphne, if I may say so. Lord David was right to praise your curious spirit, but whether he is right on the whole is yet to be seen.”

Hearing David’s name mentioned sent a tingling excitement through me. “His mother is convinced of his innocence, Sir Edward. Do you doubt it?”

“His mother,” Sir Edward coughed, “is the only true ruler of this village and its county. She rules in her son’s name ’tis true, but everybody knows ’tis she, Lady Florence, who is to be obeyed.”

“Perhaps she did it then?”

Sir Edward stopped the motorcar near Ewe Sinclaire’s cottage. Turning off the motorcar’s lights, Sir Edward turned to me, the downward turn of his mouth somewhat timorous.

Her ladyship had spoken of Vicar Nortby and Connan Bastion, but she also held precedence over Sir Edward, and I dared not think who else. “You lease Castle Mor from them, don’t you? Was the castle in the Hartley or Lady Florence’s family, Sir Edward?”

His silence answered me. It seemed he leased Castle Mor directly from Lady Hartley. “Is everybody scared of her?” I whispered whilst organizing my coat and handbag for departure.

“Yes,” Sir Edward admitted. “She’s a force to be reckoned with.”

“Even in a murder inquiry?”

“Even in a murder inquiry.”

I slipped out of the motorcar. “It is sad, don’t you think, that this girl lies dead while her killer is very much alive? I do so hope you find her killer!”

“I am not so sure murder can be proven,” he admitted. “Lord David is our prime suspect, but I fear, oh, Miss du Maurier, I fear his mother is
largely
involved. She may have even done it, but I may never be able to prove it.
Proof
is all that matters. We can know the identity of a culprit but to
prove
it is entirely another thing.”

I murmured a good night and shut the door to the motorcar.

I wandered up the lane to Ewe’s tiny dull- lit cottage. She was awake, as I expected. “Hm,” she yawned, opening the door, “how goes it? Was the food good? What news? What news of the murder?”

I had to chuckle that she asked about the food before the murder case. “It’s very odd . . .” I began, and went inside to start our usual deliberations.

I heeded
some
of Sir Edward’s advice.

I didn’t tell Ewe Sinclaire everything— just
almost
everything.

“
How
interesting,” she crowed, seeing to the poached eggs for our breakfast.

“The eggs are done . . . and so is her ladyship. I foresee the ‘end’ of her domination here— oh, how delightful!”

“Delightful?”

“You shouldn’t defend her, Miss D. She don’t care for any of us. She only cares for herself, always has done. It’s her way.”

“And her children blindly tramp down this path?”

Crinkling her nose in thought, Ewe reassessed. “Lord David, I’ll vouch, has shown himself apart from her in the last while.”

“The last while?”

“In land matters and such.”

“So he’s exerted his independence and she—”

“Disapproves.”

“Disapproves?” I croaked. “I’m sure she
loathes
it!”

“There’s the writer speakin’,” Ewe raised her eyes to heaven. “And I am not sure I approve of you wrappin’ yourself up in this no- good affair. What good shall it lead you to?”

“It fascinates me,” I said, to which Ewe sighed long and hard.

I couldn’t wait to escape the house.

Her words accompanied me out the door, through the cottage gate, and down the lane. I hastened toward the beach. I’d go to the abbey afterward, I decided, but first, a morbid curiosity compelled me to revisit the murder scene.

As I walked, I imagined myself the beauteous Victoria, about to marry the handsome Lord David. She must have been ecstatic with her good fortune. Why had she slipped out for a midnight walk? Couldn’t she sleep? Did she often stroll along the beach in the moonlight? Had she been alone?

Or maybe there was a simpler explanation. Suicide. I had difficulty believing it. Why would a young woman who had everything: beauty, a handsome fiancé, and a full life ahead of her kill herself? It didn’t make sense.

As I pictured her wandering the shores bathed in the moonlight, I remembered doing something similar once on a Greek island. Granted, I had worn a shawl over my nightgown and took shoes, for the rocks were sharp.
The rocks were sharp.
Victoria had not been wearing shoes when we found her body!

If she’d gone for a walk or intended to go for a late- night swim, wouldn’t she have removed her shoes somewhere along the beach? And why would she have gone swimming in her nightgown?

Why had Lady Hartley been quick to point out Victoria’s love of swimming? She did not approve of Victoria Bastion, a former servant in the house, but would she commit murder? And what did Lianne fear? What did she know about Victoria’s demise?

Images of the dead girl in her cream satin nightdress filled my mind. I saw her there, on the cliff, staring down, down . . .

I closed my eyes.

I pictured an aggressor, sneaking up behind her, pushing her over.

My feet took the path to Padthaway, a foolish expedition as I had no business being there. Pity I hadn’t thought to leave behind a glove. Mrs. Trehearn answered the door. “Miss du Maurier.” Astonishment, the briefest kind, shadowed her stony face. “Are you here to see . . . ?”

“Miss Lianne Hartley,” I smiled. “May I come in?”

I pushed my way into the house, for she didn’t seem eager to permit me entry.

Mrs. Trehearn proved a reluctant escort to Miss Lianne’s chamber.

Severe displeasure clipped her mouth as she informed Lianne of my arrival.

“Oh, Daphne! How wonderful of you to visit me. Mrs. Trehearn,” she giggled, sweeping me inside her sanctuary, “probably thought you came down the chimney!”

I asked why she thought this so.

“No one visits us, and I mean
no one
. You can’t count Sir Edward or Vicar Nortby as visitors. I don’t know why. When we’re in town,
everyone
visits, but here . . .”

She directed her troubled gaze out her bedroom window. “I suspect it’s because of Papa’s death.”

“Your father? When did he die?”

“Many years ago.”

I nodded. Her room, I noticed, faced the old tower. The highest and remotest part of the house, the attic suited her eccentricity— open wood- beam ceilings, creaky floors, random old trunks stacked in varying corners, an eighteenth- century doll house, a Thonet rocking chair, a Victorian tea suite by the double- glazed full windows, and a modest collection of white semi- modern furniture all adorned a vast area of oddly slanted proportions.

White and lavender were her colors. They gleamed everywhere, from the sprigged lavender bed- quilt to the oil painting of a heather field on the wall.

A tiny smile played on her lips. “So, you came. I’m glad. Did you see Mummy? What did Mummy say to you?”

“I didn’t see her,” I replied, recognizing her mother’s control over her. “Does she monitor your visitors?”

“No!” Lianne laughed. “But Trehearn does. Isn’t she
positively dreadful
? I call her Old Crow. Don’t you think the title suits her?”

“Very much so,” I smiled.

“Aren’t you scared of her? Most people are.”

“No. It would take a great deal to scare me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too keen to say that round here,” came the swift warning. “This house
breeds
tragedy. My father . . . Victoria . . . and so many others . . .”

“Others?” I echoed.

“Over the years. Windemere is cursed. We’ll never rest until the Rothmarten Abbey records are restored to their true resting place.”

“What resting place is that?”

“A remote village in Italy. I keep saying to David they ought to be shipped there, but he refuses to do it. He could, you know,
force
the abbey to give up their precious treasure and return it to its rightful place.”

“Does your brother truly have power over Rothmarten?” My question was filled with disbelief.

“Oh
yes.
” Lianne stared at me as if I were a mad person. “The Hartleys of Padthaway have always held precedence over Rothmarten since
centuries
ago. We’ve financed and seen to their protection. Now, they’re not in need of ‘swordlike’ protection but still protection nonetheless. You ought to talk to Davie about this. Rothmarten was his favorite passion growing up. Do you know he donated quite a sum to restore those records you are so keen upon studying?”

My experience led me to recognize the importance of the phrase “quite a sum” among the rich and titled. Indeed, Lord David Hartley had benefited the abbey in a considerable way and I wondered if Abbess Quinlain kept her association with the Hartley family to a minimum because of this debt to a family of such prestige and influence.

“My mother is quite interested in
you,
” Lianne stated sheepishly.

“Oh . . .” I feigned ignorance. “Why?”

“She likes to build connections. And you, dear Daphne, are worth building. How amazing! I never thought someone who looked like you would belong to such a family . . . such a family of
interest
to my mother.”

Poor Lianne. Once her mother learned I’d called at the house of my own volition, she’d draw on the acquaintance. It was the way of the aristocracy. She seemed to have wholeheartedly despised Victoria’s presence, but she’d welcome
any
female with superior connections into her intimate circle.

“Do you think my mother likes me?” Lianne’s face hardened. “Sometimes, I think she despises me. You see, I’m not smart like other girls. I’m different. I don’t think she likes me to be different. I think she’d like me to be more like . . .
you
.”

“Me? Then you’re both at a loss, for I’m
very
different. My mother says so. All families have their ups and downs. I’ve caught my mother saying things about me before. I’m the black sheep, in a sense. My elder sister Angela is beautiful and clever, and Jeanne, she’s younger and merry. But I always seem to do and say the wrong things. My father finds it funny but my mother doesn’t. She raked me across the hands once for sympathizing with the Germans in front of everyone at the dinner table!”

A swift smile came to Lianne’s lips.

“So, you see , no family is perfect, and you’reclose to your brother aren’t you?”

“David.” Her smile softened. “I’d do anything for him . . .
anything
. ”