The gentlemen stood when we arrived. Sir Edward, by my side, greeted the company in his pompous manner. The Vicar Nortby, whom I’d heard so much about, was a wizened old fellow flashing grotesque yellowed teeth and an uncertain nature; Lady Hartley was bedecked in her usual splendor; and, to my infinite surprise, a dour- faced Mrs. Trehearn also graced the table. At her side sat a woman I hadn’t yet met, Lianne’s nurse Jenny, plumpish and merry- faced. Lastly, I was introduced to one Mr. Ridgeway Soames.
I was seated between Lady Hartley and a smugly attired Mr. Soames, his handsome face shaven to perfection. Black- haired, tall, lean, and smartly dressed, his sangfroid overwhelmed the table.
“Daphne,” I grinned, and promptly shook hands with him.
“Ridgeway Soames,” said he, very debonair. “I’m the chef here at Padthaway. I hope you approve of to night’s menu.”
“What is to night’s menu?” I asked gaily, accepting the gracious pouring of a fine champagne into my glass.
“Oh,” replied he, “I say it’ll be one dinner you won’t ever forget.”
His curious gaze then ran over me. “You’re here as witness?”
“I wish I wasn’t,” I confessed. “This is all rather horrid, yet I must do my duty.”
“Duty? To whom?” His dark eyes seemed to bore into my soul.
“Oh, I feel a duty to the investigation, as I found the body. That’s why I’m here.”
“Yes, I know,” said he, quickly downing his glass. “The facts of the case cannot be concealed as well as some might wish it . . .”
His voice trailed off as he glanced in the direction of David Hartley, who sat at the head of the table. His mother sat at the opposite end with Vicar Nortby. Lianne, squeezed near her brother and nurse, sent me a timid smile. I dreaded the next, and last, arrival.
Sir Edward kept glancing at the door and soon all gazes followed, until the last guest, Mrs. Bastion, arrived.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Bastion.” Attempting a calming lilt, Sir Edward drew back a chair for Mrs. Bastion.
Lady Hartley rang the bell and the strangest dinner of my life commenced. Sir Edward’s impending announcement filled the air with expectation, but he’d decided to leave it for after dinner.
It seemed a wise notion. The redness of Mrs. Bastion’s face matched mine but hers bore no creams or colors to conceal it. She’d dressed in severe black, her graying hair raked behind her. How could this woman be Victoria’s mother? I’d expected a beautiful woman, not this half- starved scarecrow boring into the eyes of everybody at the table. Why Connan had not come to support his mother I didn’t understand. If he hated Lord David or suspected him of murder, why not show his stance here, now, in front of all the witnesses involved?
Victoria’s mother wouldn’t stop looking at me and suddenly sprang out of her chair, pointed her finger. “She’ll not be my daughter’s replacement! Not now! Not ever! I won’t have it, I tell you! My Vicky were murdered, yes, murdered! Someone didn’t want her bein’ Lady Hartley and that’s the whole truth, I swear it.”
She took her seat again only at the insistent urging of Sir Edward. Poor Sir Edward had the unpleasant duty of delivering a verdict to the estimable Mrs. Bastion.
After a good half hour she waved her finger at Lord David. “Dinin’ mighty fine to night aren’t we, milord! While me girl lies cold, you sit here celebratin’!” Her eyes turned into icy slivers.
“How are your medicines coming along, Mrs. Trehearn?” asked Jenny, trying to change the subject. “I do say I must confess I am fascinated.”
I lifted a brow. “Oh? Did you work with medicines during the war?”
Mrs. Trehearn retained her usual icy demeanor. “Yes, I was a nurse.”
“A nurse? And which Red Cross hospital did you work in?”
Mrs. Trehearn remained silent, perhaps for fear of enraging Mrs. Bastion.
I forced her response. “Torquay, perhaps, Mrs. Trehearn? I heard they trained many nurses for the war efforts.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged through clenched teeth. I would have found some means of extracting more out of her had not Sir Edward chosen that very moment to slide out of his chair.
“Thank you for all coming,” he began, his tone dire and monotonous. “It is my solemn and unpleasant duty to formally deliver the death certificate for the late Victoria Bastion.”
Laying a calming hand on Mrs. Bastion’s shoulder, he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Bastion, as the deceased’s closest relative, I declare it is my solemn duty to inform you that your daughter passed away by ‘death accidental.’ ”
“Accidental!” Mrs. Bastion immediately shouted.
“Yes,” Sir Edward confirmed, his tone graver than a tomb. “After extensive inquiries and two thorough examinations of the body, the official verdict from the chief of police is ‘death by accident.’ ”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“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 frown
ed, 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?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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.
Murder on the Cliffs Page 8