The novelty of being a male embarking on a great adventure swept away all of Lianne’s inhibitions and we settled down to an entertaining afternoon.
However, my feet remained not with Robinson Crusoe but with Victoria and her missing shoes.
The desire to see Victoria’s room grew within me to a wild urge, beckoning, unrelenting, drawing me to that part of the house time and time again.
“The trouble is,” Lianne whispered to me on the way back from our picnic, “Trehearn’s got the key with her all the time. She doesn’t carry other keys around with her. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Very much so. Why cordon off the room? Why carry that key and not the others? Had Lady Hartley or David ordered it locked?
I could understand the emotional aspect from David’s point of view. If he truly loved her it would be terribly romantic to keep a room exactly the way it was the day she left it. However, from a murderer’s point of view, how clever to keep it shut from prying eyes.
Sir Edward had finished with the room, supposedly not finding anything of interest there. Perhaps he’d overlooked something.
“Come on,” Lianne nudged me, her whisper conspiratorial and full of mischief, “I’ll take you to the forbidden room.”
“Did Victoria choose this room or did your mother choose it for her?”
“Mother suggested it,” Lianne grinned. “I think Victoria wanted Mother’s room and asked David. Davie sorted it out.”
I imagined the scene: a man caught between two women, both wanting the best room in the house. From Victoria’s standpoint, she thought herself entitled to it as David’s bride, while the room had belonged to Lady Hartley for years.
Heading along the breezy corridor, I put myself in Victoria’s place. If I were a young bride I’d want Lady Hartley’s room, too. I felt sure Victoria felt the same way, her purpose in moving here a step toward the end goal as mistress of the house. How this must have enraged Lady Hartley.
“Davie said Victoria could have this room instead. The King’s Chamber. It’s the best room after Mummy’s.”
I stared at the old oak door, alive with a history of its own. Elusively locked, I suspected the key matched those of the era, heavy and ornate. I wanted it. I wanted to see her room.
Mrs. Trehearn proved a cagey guardian, catching us standing there, her black eyes taunting me. You want to see the room, don’t you, Miss Daphne? You’ve always wanted to see it. They were never voiced, but I saw the words there as she pointed her little chin downward and rattled the key before me.
“Well, then, do you want to see it?”
“Are we allowed to? Will Sir Edward mind?” I asked, shocked.
Mrs. Trehearn’s answer was to open the door.
My heart beat faster and faster. There had to be some clue inside here, some clue the police had missed, some clue as to what had happened that tragic night.
Lianne pushed in ahead. “Come on, Daphne. Come and see.”
The King’s Chamber was a masculine room, owing to its name, with a heavy canopied four- poster bed dominating the expanse, cavalier tapestries and paintings adorning the walls, the thick Turkish rugs below one’s feet, and a Georgian lady’s dresser gracing the back wall, bearing eerie remnants of its dead owner.
Other remnants of Victoria’s presence remained, including a wardrobe full of clothes and accessories, shoes, and a coat slung over the coat stand. Innately curious, I touched each item as I explored, caressing the fine silk sheets of her bed, her underclothes; the satins, the laces; admiring the subtle elegance reflected everywhere.
Victoria had a keen sense of taste and style, most of it neat and orderly; however, there was an impression of haste that disturbed the peace of the room.
Returning to the front door where Mrs. Trehearn still stood guard, her blank face squashing any attempt at conversation I may have made, I envisaged Victoria on the night of her death. What had happened? The row with Lord David, heard by Betsy and Annie, the disturbance at the dinner table, her drinking . . . then she runs back to her room in an emotional state, flings off her coat and shoes, dumps her purse on the dresser before storming to her wardrobe. Tearing off her evening dress, she changes into her nightgown.
Her nightgown. If she was upset and angry and planned to go for a walk, why get into her nightgown?
Even in an enraged, erratic moment, surely one could manage to take a pair of shoes? I thought of the rocky part on the cliffs, not exactly pleasant for bare feet.
“Has your brother ever been back here, Lianne?” I whispered out of Mrs. Trehearn’s earshot.
Flicking through a magazine left by the sleek bedside table, Lianne didn’t hear me.
It was a bridal magazine and I drew closer, observing the queer look on her face. Did I imagine it or did Lianne smile?
“Here it is,” she found the page she was looking for. “Victoria wanted this wedding gown but some Italian opera singer snapped it up. She got into an awful rage about it. I don’t know why. The wedding dress she ordered as second best is beautiful. Did you see it?”
I stared at her, dismayed. She spoke so heartlessly of the woman who had carried her brother’s child and was to become his wife. “You hated her, didn’t you?”
Shrugging, Lianne led me to the wardrobe to see the wedding dress. “She didn’t love Davie. She trapped him with the baby just like Mummy says. And she wanted his money. His money and his title.”
“Did she ever try to talk to you about her love for David?”
Lianne shook her head, hunting through the very back of the closet to find the dress, hanging there eerily white and shining with a myriad of pearls and beads and crystals, a lovely dress fit for a princess.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Lianne sniffed. “They had to alter it and there was something wrong with it, that’s why she went up to London on the Wednesday. Or so she said.”
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“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 fant
asize 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.
Murder on the Cliffs Page 20