How like my father to get straight to the facts. “Still ongoing. Since they found this poison, it’s overturned ‘accidental death.’ Sir Edward,” I coughed, “appears to be handling it.”
“Daphne,” rang my father’s voice. “You’re like me, so there’s no use pretending. You want to solve this case on your own, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I confessed, dreading what he’d next say.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
“I know you don’t like it, but you’re going to have to put up with it because I’m not coming back until it’s over. I just can’t. The sea, the air, the mystery, it’s all part of me now . . . and I love Ewe dearly. She amuses me. She’s worse than we are. You should hear her. She talks of nothing else but the ‘murder case.’ ”
“What of these visits to Padthaway, though? The Hartleys are rich and dangerous, or so I’ve read. It’s not beyond them to murder.”
“I know that.” And I shared a few of my private thoughts on Lady Hartley. “She’s just inhuman. There’s something odd there. Out of anyone, I’d say she murdered Victoria. Think, Dad. If she’s an earl’s daughter, accustomed to being mistress of the house, and a mere commoner, oh no, a village strumpet almost, one who served as kitchen maid in her house, aspired to the affections of her only son . . . and that son agreed to marry her—”
“Agreed,” my father echoed, “you make an interesting point. He agreed to marry her because she was pregnant. Do you think he’d marry her if she wasn’t?”
What my father said made sense. I thought about it as I strolled home, still in a daze from the eventful visit to Padthaway. Oh, how the imagination soared! I couldn’t wait to get to my journal, to jot down notes for a novel. Oh, yes, I had in mind a novel of graphic proportions, and every page filled with these events.
“Thank you, Padthaway,” I said, late into the evening, lying on my bed. “I know I can truly write a novel now, with your help. A story worth publishing. A story fit for the world.”
And I began to scribble in earnest, jotting down character ideas, motivations, a setting, a grand old house set by the sea, a mystery, and a dead love.
Excited, I had trouble sleeping at first. I kept dreaming of this future book. I knew it would be special. I knew it would sell, if anyone would publish it.
I dreamed of it . . .
I dreamed of an opening line.
I dreamed of Manderley . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY- SEVEN
Intensely inspired the next day, I journeyed up to Castle Mor, to the home of Sir Edward.
The castle looked splendid perched up on the hill, overlooking a lush green valley. It was the perfect place to sit and write, and dream.
“Reporting to the sleuth society?”
So lost within my pencil- chewing deliberations, I had not seen Mr. Brown approach the green. “You should know better,” I said, “than to sneak up on ladies.”
“I did wave to you from the other side.”
Oblivious to my cool glare, he had the further audacity to peer over my shoulder. “Nice handwriting.”
Shutting my journal, I tucked it under my leg and smiled my best socialite smile. “Good day, Mr. Brown. I see you’re not dressed for tennis today?”
“I’m going fishing,” he grinned, dropping his rod and tackle box and finding a spot on the grass beside me. “Much like you, really. What are you fishing? Let me guess . . . is this an exclusive abbey piece or a private unauthorized investigation report?”
I glared at him again. The man was far too arrogant for his own good. Who did he think he was, a duke? “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Brown,” I returned sweetly. “I have no need to fish in any waters.”
“Then what holds you, the glamorous socialite, in the modest hills of Cornwall?”
“Glamorous socialite,” I echoed, never having heard myself described that way. Usually, such descriptions were lavished upon my sister Angela.
“A m I wrong? Shall you correct me? Do you not delight in murder for your stories?”
I couldn’t believe his audacity. How dare he, a stranger, question my motive for staying in Cornwall! Giving him my best evil eye, I said I resented his comments and thought it inappropriate in the circumstances to trivialize a local death. He listened to everything with somber sobriety, nodding here and there, and I realized he must have learned of my writing aspirations from Ewe.
His eyes sparkled like a newly kindled fire. “You don’t like me, do you, Miss du Maurier.”
It was a statement, not a question. At least, I thought, a perceptive intelligence favored Mr. Brown, and if he had not so annoyed me by what he’d said, I might have mentioned the letter I’d found at Padthaway, or asked his opinion of Mrs. Trehearn. I wanted to know if he knew of her job during the war and her penchant for brewing tonics in the Padthaway green house. “What do you actually do, Mr. Brown, other than attack ladies out in the hills?”
“The wild isolated hills,” he replied, “are perfect for secret rendezvous.”
“Then I shan’t keep you a moment longer,” I smiled, and getting up, prepared to leave.
His arm shot out to stop me, an amused expression lingering on what Ewe Sinclaire thought his “very fine cheekbones.”
“But aren’t you forgetting something?”
I lifted a weary brow.
“Your journal?”
Tapping the book over his knee, he strove to look inside it. Furious, I managed to snatch it back off him. “How dare you! You are very ill- mannered. Good- day, sir!”
“Where are you off to now?” he called out after me. “Rothmarten Abbey? To shake up its secrets?”
Pausing, I spun around to see him tilt his hat and stroll off, whistling, his rod bouncing on his shoulder. Unbidden, I couldn’t resist watching him swagger away. The man behaved like an overbearing ship captain. Truth be known, he was probably little more than a tennis club caddy, living in a hovel somewhere, and I felt intensely irritable that he’d walked away without my discovering anything about him. I’d learned nothing about him, whereas he seemed to know everything about me.
How can you say those beastly things to me? I will always be yours. I know what they say about me . . . please don’t believe it. It’s not true, I tell you. I love you.
I wrote the words down in my journal as I remembered them.
“Two callers for you this morning,” Ewe said on my return. “Sir Edward and Miss Lianne Hartley. She seemed quite put out to hear you weren’t here.”
“Yes, she would be.” The cloying attentions of a teenager were tiresome.
“And ye invited out tomorrow,” Ewe chirped, “on a country drive with the Hartleys.”
“Oh. What did Sir Edward want? Did he leave a note?”
“No. Askin’ more questions, I think. Don’t know what it’s got to do with you. Your part is over, just as ye father said. And if you listen to ol’ Ewe, ye shouldn’t be seen too much with Lord David.”
The warning, though friendly and delivered with a good purpose, annoyed me. “Why shouldn’t I spend time up at Padthaway? He hasn’t been arrested.”
“But the case ain’t closed yet,” Ewe reminded. “And I’ve a care and duty for ye reputation while ye’re under my roof.”
I sighed. “What do you think I should do then? Decline tomorrow’s invitation?” I looked at her suspiciously. “Has Mr. Brown been here at all?” ”
Color stained Ewe’s cheeks. “He bought me flowers. Thanked me for the luncheon—”
“And no doubt shared his reservations concerning my association with the Hartleys?”
Ewe couldn’t deny it. She hadn’t the face to lie.
“Well, I’m going,” I announced, going to my room, “and I don’t care what anyone says.”
“Ye will care very much so if ye picture’s taken with ’em,” Ewe called out.
Perhaps I should have taken more care, but the fine day, and the allure of driving in a plush motorcar down the Cornish coast
, were too much to resist. After my conversations with Connan Bastion and Mrs. Bastion, I no longer feared being seen in town with the Hartleys. I intended to keep my promise to them both, to discover the truth, no matter where it might lead.
They picked me up in front of the post office. From the corner of my eye, I gleaned Mrs. Penmark’s head poke outside the bakery window, watching, lifting her eyebrows as I climbed into the car.
Lord David drove, Lady Hartley beside him in the front. I said hello to them all as I took a seat by Lianne, and in record time we were nosing out of the village, passing several curious villagers on the way.
“We’re going to St. Mawes for lunch,” Lady Hartley informed, adjusting her driving gloves. “At a place called Stall’s. Have you ever been there, Daphne?”
“No,” I said. “What is it?”
“A resort hotel by the sea,” Lord David answered, his gaze perusing me in the rearview mirror. “I daresay you’ll approve. It was once the home of a Russian countess. Late Georgian with a few Victorian gothic touches. Your favorite form of architecture, I believe?”
I nodded, marveling at his ability to act so naturally after our kiss in the library. Then I remembered all the stolen kisses I’d shared with Geoffrey. He, too, had acted in a similar cavalier manner and I wondered if all males followed the same code.
Mercifully, the scenery usurped my troublesome reflections. It was a Cornish summer’s day, still and perfect, the blue sky looming above open grasslands ablaze with red and yellow poppies, pink mallows, white clovers and yarrows, a lovely harmony of color.
“Stall’s has the best shops and ice cream.” Latching on to me, Lianne tugged my sleeve with childish joy.
I had decided to wear a dress, a wise choice considering the warm day. I had little time to do my hair but then, one could never keep hair in order on an open drive. Lady Hartley’s hat, I noticed, preserved her manicured image. David wore no hat, his sunglasses shielding his eyes and emotions from view.
Inhaling the fresh, sweet air, I closed my eyes and let the wind assail my hair. It had been so long since I’d driven down this part of the coastland, the Roseland peninsula, and I was determined to enjoy every minute of it.
Weaving our way up to the quaint cliff top village of Portloe, where we stopped for fresh tea and scones, I immersed myself in the beauty and history of the place. Each village had something different to offer, like Veryan, with its circular thatched cottages and wide- eyed locals.
“The round shape is supposed to guard the village from evil.” David happened upon me at one point while we waited for Lady Hartley and Lianne. “I hope you don’t think I’m evil, Miss du Maurier.”
He’d used my surname, I believed, to establish distance and formality between us. Wanting to support this wisdom, yet mildly disappointed by it, I shook my head. “No person is truly evil.”
“Then you do forgive me. . . .”
“Forgive you?” I echoed.
“Do you forgive me,” he murmured, “for upbraiding you the other day?”
He asked nothing about the kiss. “It is purely my fault. I shouldn’t read other people’s private letters.”
“May I ask,” he began, losing confidence halfway.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“May I ask . . . your opinion. Need I turn it in to Sir Edward?”
I didn’t know what to say. It didn’t incriminate him in any way but she did speak of an argument, she did speak of doubts, doubts concerning the parentage of the baby. Was it possible grounds for murder? “You should at least show it to Sir Edward,” I advised. “For if it is somehow discovered later, it mightn’t be . . .”
“Good for me?” he finished, smiling. “And what of the kiss? Do you forgive me for that, too, Daphne?”
I felt the heat rise to my face, especially as Lady Hartley and Lianne were only yards away. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s forget it and be friends.” I held out my hand.
He shook it, a tiny smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
I think we both embraced the drive to Stall’s, a chance to dispel the awkwardness of our tête-à- tête, and the tour of St. Mawes Castle proved an excellent diversion.
The mansion of Stall’s lurked on the other side of town with a view of the little boat- filled harbor. Once a private home, now an elite hotel and club, it breathed a history all of its own, the lineup of fancy cars outside the front merely a foregleam of its popularity.
I dreaded I might see someone I know. However, luck prevailed and after a sumptuous lunch surrounded by an intriguing array of dazzling hotel guests, we spent a leisurely afternoon on the terrace, sipping pink lemonade and devouring homemade ice cream. The tranquillity of the splendid seaside view with all its little boats seemed a perfect end to a perfect day.
“I don’t think I’ve had such a lovely day in a long time,” I said to Lord David when Lady Hartley and Lianne disappeared to greet old family friends.
“Nor have I,” he murmured.
By the line of his mouth, I sensed something troubled him.
“Daphne, you don’t think I did it, do you?”
“Did what?” I whispered, my throaty voice betraying a reluctance to allow anything to ruin this day.
“Murdered her.”
I shivered, seeing the face of Victoria floating between us. “I . . . I wouldn’t know,” I stammered, alarmed by his deadly serious face. “Are you a murderous type, my lord?”
A half- laugh assailed his lips. “I don’t know. Am I?”
I think he posed the question to test me. “Why do you ask?”
The corners of his lips lifted slightly. “Everybody else seems to think so. Just read the papers.”
His mocking coldness concealed a deep and tortured soul. I noticed it and sought to sympathize using a heartening smile. “Yes, but one must realize the papers always sensationalize, and you’re not exactly a nobody, are you? Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll be forgotten in a month.”
Forgotten in a month. What stupidity had possessed me to utter such a thoughtless thing? The breeze suddenly turned chilly.
“Lord David!”
Startled, we both turned to the gleaming eye of a photographer as he snapped us there, standing side by side on the terrace.
“Thank you, my lord.” The greedy photographer bowed, racing away with his latest kill.
“Hell!”
Uttering another swear under his breath, David guided us back to the others.
“You’d think they’d have had their fill, wouldn’t you?”
“Something has to sell papers,” I said. “And I suppose they have to earn a living.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose they do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY- EIGHT
“He was given the car by her ladyship. Oh, yes, oh, yes.”
I blinked at Ewe Sinclaire’s saucer eyes. “I trust you had a nice day, too?”
“Don’t ye give me your smart lip, miss. I’ve a mind, and I nearly did trot to the post office to call ye father today.”
Dropping my things in my room, I faced her with a weary turn. “And what stopped you?”
“I found out our Soames was given that fancy car he drives by Lady Hartley— a bonus. For what service, one can only imagine, for Lady H, I hear, gives him private menu instructions every morning in the drawing room. Have ye seen anything while ye’ve been up there? That Soames is worth investigatin’, if ye ask me. He hired Victoria, remember. He, Lady H’s lover, the cook!”
Something in her rambled speech made perfect sense. “Of course,” I mouthed. “Of course!”
“Of course what?”
Stirring what ever concoction she was making on the stove, Ewe waited for the revelation, one arm poised on her generous hip. “What’s the plan next, then?”
“I’ll go to Padthaway. I’ll find some reason to go to the kitchen, to talk to Soames. Ridgeway Soames,” I mused, “such an odd name for a Cornishman. Who is his family?”
“No idea.” Ewe sh
rugged. “A cagey one, that Soames. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he and Victoria were, ye know . . .”
“Having an affair?” I pondered aloud. “Ewe.” I rang up to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re amazing! Of course, yes, of course, there was something between him and Victoria. Why else would he hire her?”
“Hmm.” Ewe rolled her eyes. “A pretty face didn’t strike ye smarty mind, did it?”
“I’m not clever in the least,” I defended myself. “But you’re right, Ewe. A pretty face is not the only answer. And if it began as the only answer, it ended up quite differently. I need to speak to Connan.”
“Connan Bastion?”
I nodded, still deep in thought. “Where does he work? Do you know, Ewe?”
She confessed she knew the name and location of the shipping company Connan Bastion worked for, and owned by the Hartleys.
“It’s a fair distance, though,” she warned. “Can’t get there by foot.”
I was grabbing my coat and bag.
“Neither by train,” Ewe’s shout assailed me, “for there is none. The boys go there by company boat.”
Defeated, I collapsed on my bed with a sigh. Trust the lack of local transport to thwart my investigative efforts!
“Any ideas on how to get there?” I called out.
“Well.” Ewe rounded the corner, wide- eyed, and saucy wooden spoon in hand. “Ye could ask Mr. Brown. He has a car, y’know. And he’s only a telephone call away.”
“I’ll not ask him,” I said proudly. “What is he, anyway? Has he any profession?”
“I think he’s a gentleman,” Ewe sighed romantically, “or in the army. I don’t know which, but he don’t work for a living. He has means. I know that much. And a much better catch, I might add, than your fancy Lord David.
“I mean,” Ewe continued, “if ye really serious about this murder and all that, a little phone call ain’t goin’ to do any harm, is it?”
So I called Mr. Brown, against my better judgment.
And he came, right on cue.
“Are you certain,” he asked, driving his little nondescript motorcar, so unlike the polished numbers belonging to the Hartleys, “someone isn’t paying you to investigate this sordid affair?”
Murder on the Cliffs Page 18