Murder on the Cliffs

by Joanna Challis

  “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.”

  “It’s part of the package, coming from a famous family. I daresay Lady Hartley has singled you out as her future daughter- in- law. Am I correct in that assumption, Miss du Maurier?”

  “I suppose you are, Major Browning.”

  “Does it caution you to heed a little friendly advice?”

  I had prepared to listen so I waited, folding my hands together in my lap.

  “There’s not enough evidence to convict any of them for murder . . . unless something shows up. My reason for believing ill of Lord David is not based on idle assumptions but rather knowledge, knowledge of the madness in the family and its colorful history.”

  He sounded reasonable, too, darn him. “Do you suspect all of them, then?”

  “Every member of the Hartley family and its associates.”

  “You mean Mrs. Trehearn and Mr. Soames by associates? You know something about Soames, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I cannot reveal all of my secrets, just like you. You’ve said nothing, yet your face betrays you. You have your doubts about the family, too, don’t you?”

  I deliberated over what to say. Wishing to remain loyal to my new friends, yet understanding I needed to share something with him if I wanted to learn more of his knowledge of the family, I mentioned Victoria’s room.

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “You are a sleuth, aren’t you?”

  “We found a broken perfume puffer in her room.” I ignored his cynicism. “It might be nothing but it smells awful.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Lianne and I.”

  “Lianne and you . . .” he murmured thoughtfully. “How did you get inside?”

  “Mrs. Trehearn let us, just for a moment.”

  “Did she stay the whole time watching you? Or watching Lianne Hartley?”

  I said yes, confused. “Why do you ask?”

  “I told you. Any member of the Hartley family cannot be ruled out and that includes Miss Lianne—”

  “But she’s just a child.”

  “Age bears no hold on madness.”

  “You think she’s insane, don’t you?”

  “I have good reason to believe so. Why else do you think Lady Hartley keeps her there under Jenny’s tight
rein?”

  I recalled the conversation with Lady Hartley and everything said about Lianne, a consummate liar. Did the madness induce her to jealously poison her brother’s bride and then forget she’d done it?

  I felt suddenly ill. The odd comment here and there from Lianne, the intense look in her eyes, a fixated intensity, all perhaps out of her control, suddenly came to mind.

  “Did you find anything else in the room?”

  I thought of the smooth lavender beads, the beads she always wore, the beads now hidden in my stocking drawer, but I decided to keep that find to myself. “I must be getting back,” I said, glancing at my watch. “It’s late and I promised Ewe I’d help with dinner.”

  “Why don’t you test your stolen perfume puffer then? Or are you afraid?”

  “You probably just happen to know someone who works in a poison lab . . .”

  “I do, actually.” He cheerfully brushed aside my sarcasm. “All you have to do is hand the goods over to me. That is, if you trust me.”

  He was baiting me. “You’re the kind of man who always knows somebody,” I mocked. “May I ask what you’re really doing here? I may be fishing a murder but I wager you’re hunting abbey treasure.”

  He grimaced. “Do I look like a hunter?”

  He posed for a moment, giving me his best smile.

  “Good- day, Mr. Brown.”

  “Good- day, Miss Daphne. Mindful meddling now.” And without further ado, he collected his box and rod and disappeared.

  Mindful meddling.

  He didn’t think I would solve the mysteries. Well, I’d prove him wrong. Yes, and I’d start by giving him the puffer, after making him wait a certain while to dismantle his arrogance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY- ONE

  A letter arrived from home. Ewe waved it at me while pruning her roses. The roses reminded me of Ben the gardener.

  “The mad one? Been here forever. Likes to watch life, does Ben.”

  Likes to watch life. A vision of the blank, starry- eyed Ben stalking the gardens at night sprang to mind. Had he witnessed the death of Lord Hartley? More important, had he seen Victoria on the night of her death?

  Tapping the letter between my fingers, I imagined its likely contents. A directive from home advising me to leave Windemere Lane and return to dreary old London. I was correct.

  The envelope contained two letters, one from father and one from my sister Angela.

  I read father’s first. In true style, he’d written it on the scrappy back of his latest play flyer:

  My dear girl,

  Your mother is outraged. She demands you come

  home. She saw your picture in the paper.

  Made some inquiries about the Hartley lot.

  Father, nutty, shot himself. Son, distant. Lady

  Hartley linked to more scandals than one can count.

  Sounds interesting, though. I can understand why

  you’ve swapped us for your Cornish mansion by the

  sea . . .

  Your loving D,

  Sir Gerald du Maurier

  I laughed. He always made me laugh.

  Angela, my elder sister, and quite the polished beauty, composed her ensemble on crisp white writing paper scented with rose.

  Dear Daphne,

  A quiet country holiday is it? D and I know it’s

  not (see photo attached). M is out of her mind with

  worry. She thinks you’ll be next to fall over those

  perilous cliffs . . .

  Is it murder, do you think? I’m quite jealous, you

  know. You ought to invite me down. This Lord

  David creature . . . hmm, I wouldn’t mind investi

  gating him.

  Love, A

  P.S.: Jeanne sends her love. She’s staying at

  Aunt May’s. Wonder if she’s seen the picture?

  Trust Angela to include it. Smiling at her diligence, and for knowing me so well to want to see one’s picture in the city paper, I perused the verdict. How did I look? Not bad, a trifle flash- stricken, but oh dear, was that a smut on my nose?

  I shoved the paper aside, not wanting to see it, yet I felt I must.

  The photographer had captured the mood of the funeral day perfectly. The old gothic church, the lineup of spectators, the grieving family, the—

  I peered closer. No, it couldn’t be . . .

  Mr. Soames was standing beside the younger Bastion boy and they looked alarmingly alike— the broad jawline, the heavy brow. Was it a coincidence? I recalled Soames’s blatant denial . . . No, I knew none of her family.

  “Mmmm, let me see.” Putting on her strongest spectacles, Ewe perused the photograph at great length. “Mmmm, they do look alike, but it might just be ol’ Cornish blood. We’re all related, if ye go back far enough.”

  Disappointed, I sighed. “I saw your favorite person yesterday, Ewe. Mr. Brown. Who is not Mr. Brown.”

  “No,” Ewe smiled elusively. “He is someone much more important. Why else do ye think I was so excited about his attendance at my dinner. Not for Miss Perony!”

  “Poor Miss Perony,” I sympathized. “I recommended her to your Major Browning. I told him what I’d found in Victoria’s room. He had some interesting things to say about Lianne Hartley.”

  “Does he think she did it?”

  Ewe’s mouth remained open as I relayed his words.

  “She might ’ave got jealous,” Ewe considered aloud. “Lord David’s looked after her like a baby. She hates her mother so he’s her only friend, ain’t he? And then he brings his bride into the picture and forgets about his sister, or don’t pay her enough attention—”

  The doorbell rang.

  I jumped. “I’ll go and take a look.”

  “Hello,” Lianne smiled. “I am like you and walked here. I wanted to show you my paintings.”

  “Who is it?” Ewe called from inside the cottage.

  “Come,” I said, trying to calm the beating of my heart at being caught talking about someone just before they show up at the door, and led Lianne into the sitting parlor where Ewe nearly spilled her tea all over her skirt at the sight of us. “Meet Ewe Sinclair. Ewe Sinclaire, Miss Lianne Hartley.”

  “You were Daphne’s mother’s nurse, weren’t you?”

  “Aye, I were.”

  Getting to her feet, Ewe seemed suddenly out of place in her very own cottage. High spots of color appeared on her apple cheeks at the “unexpected” intrusion.

  Gazing around, Lianne nodded. “I’m very fond of my nurse Jenny. Do you know Jenny? We should have a nurse day one day. I like your cottage, Ewe! Do I call you Ewe or Mrs. Sinclaire?”

  Ewe and I shared a glance. We both felt guilty when she’d come to make such an effort with her manners and to impress my host.

  “We’ll have tea, jam, and scones in the garden.” Bustling away, Ewe disappeared to the kitchen while I showed Lianne around the cottage and my room before taking her outside.

  “Was that the funeral, the paper on your bed, Daphne?”

  She had a keen eye. I hadn’t expected she’d notice it. “Yes . . .”

  “Why have you got it still? That’s old news now.”

  Old news. Yes, indeed, and Miss Perony’s warning shot to my mind, the Hartleys reign supreme here. None of them appeared the slightest dismayed over the possibility of suffering ramifications for Victoria’s death.

  “Here’s my painting,” Lianne handed to me proudly. “What do you think of it?”

  Examining the four charcoal sketches of Padthaway, I breathed out a sigh of surprised admiration. “You did this? It’s beautiful . . .”

  “Do you really think so?”

  She so desperately craved attention and compliments for her achievements, considering her mother’s continuous and harmful lack of interest. “You’re very talented, you know. I’ll speak to your mother about it. This talent should be nurtured.”

  Her face darkened. “You mean lessons?”

  “Or a respite in Switzerl
and . . . a week or two . . . lapping up the scenery and drawing to your heart’s content. Does that sound nice?”

  She looked almost wistful. “Mother’ll never agree. She doesn’t let me go anywhere.”

  I patted her hand when she slumped beside me. “Let’s work on it, shall we? Who else has seen these pictures?”

  “Davie . . . and Jenny, of course. Davie started me on them but Mummy says I don’t have the right eye. You saw her watercolors. They’re perfect.”

  I thought of the watercolors in the Green Salon. “I can see why your mother’s proud of them, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I much prefer yours to hers. If this picture is any indication, your work has feeling. Did Victoria ever see any of your sketches?”

  She frowned and I wondered if she received a similar response from Victoria, dismissal, or worse, a mocking admiration.

  “Once. I was on my way to show Davie and she was there. She barely looked at it.”

  “Perhaps her mind was on other things?”

  “Perhaps.”

  It wasn’t much but it was an indication of her dislike for Victoria. I decided to journey a little further. “What happened on that day . . . the day before she died? I promise what ever you say stays with me. You’re my friend, remember.”

  Twitching her nose, she shrugged. “She went to London to pick up her dress. Soames drove her to the station. He picked her up, too.”

  So she’d taken the train to pick up her wedding dress. “Did you think this was strange? Why didn’t she use the car?”

  “She always went on the train. Davie used to tell her to use the car but she said she liked the train ride.”

  Perhaps it was Soames she didn’t like and not the car? “Did she go alone?”

  Lianne nodded. “And came back later that afternoon. I caught her yelling at Annie and Betsy for dropping her wedding dress box.”

  Something didn’t sound right to me. Why go alone to London to pick up one’s wedding dress? Wouldn’t you take your mother or a friend or your fiancé? “Where was David? Why didn’t he go with her?”

  “She wanted to go alone. I heard her say it at breakfast.”

  “Did your brother think this was odd?”