Murder on the Cliffs

by Joanna Challis

  “Miss du Maurier, the abbess will see you now.”

  I followed the nun into an inner sanctuary, a room devoid of anything but a desk, two chairs, and some kind of bookcase serving as a filing cabinet piled with handwritten notes groaning out of antiquated folders.

  The mysterious nun closed the door and suddenly I imagined a heroine with no name. Could one write a whole book without naming the heroine, I wondered.

  “Bishop Rogers is my cousin. I am Dorcas Quinlain. Welcome to Rothmarten Abbey, Daphne du Maurier,” the Abbess murmured from her desk, reading my letter. “We don’t often welcome visitors with illustrious connections.”

  Behind her nun’s weeds burned a bright face with very fine eyes, porcelain skin forever youthful, or so was the illusion, and a helpful spirit. “We don’t often open all of the abbey’s records to one so young, but on such recommendation, I would be pleased to show you what Rothmarten has to offer. However,” she said, and paused, examining me closely, “first, I must ask you what your intentions are. We have many sacred documents.”

  “The Charlemagne scrolls interest me mostly,” I replied. “I’d like to study them and perhaps write a thesis on what I find. I intend, if I am successful, to publish them in the London Journal. Hopefully, the article will inspire many to pilgrimage to Rothmarten and even donate a modest contribution to the safekeeping of the records entrusted to the abbey.”

  My answer pleased her.

  “We have many interesting records in our library, which you will see, Miss du Maurier. I am impressed one so young is so interested in such things. I do so hope and pray there is no ulterior motive in your coming here?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I laughed my reassurance. “My family thinks me mad wanting to immerse myself in ancient scrolls instead of enjoying the delights of a London season, and in truth, Abbess, I am also here to escape.”

  “Escape? What ever from, child?”

  “From marriage and men.”

  She smiled with me, guiding me to the library where I imagined nuns or monks hard at work on their elaborate manuscripts centuries before.

  The library commandeered one entire section of the abbey, closed to the public by a fretwork gate locked by the abbess. Rattling the key, Abbess Quinlain opened the gate for me and invited me to make use of one of the three stool desks like those employed in the dark ages.

  “The records are in some disarray,” she began by way of apology. “Sister Agatha and Sister Sonya were attempting to catalog them . . . that is when the discovery of the older scrolls were found. You’ll find every thing in the pigeonholes and there’s paper and pencils in the drawer of the desk.”

  I thanked her, promising to work quietly.

  “Take as long as you like,” said she. “We have no fixed assembly today, but I should like to be the first to see what ever you discover. We’ve no Latin scholar here and Victor Martin, the writer of that piece in The Times, came by way of recommendation, too.”

  “Oh.” I attempted, and failed to hide my embarrassment. “I’m no Latin scholar, but I do seem to stumble upon things elusive to others.” I blushed, not sure whether to mention the body of Victoria Bastion or not, and then decided I may as well be honest and shared my recent discovery.

  Abbess Quinlain turned very pale. “Have you seen death before, child?”

  “Yes, once or twice. But this is very different . . . a murder, Sir Edward thinks.”

  “Sir Edward,” the abbess sniffed.

  She said nothing more but I detected a faint hint of disapproval. “What kind of man is Sir Edward, Abbess?” I asked, innocent and childlike. “He . . . er— rather frightened me.”

  “Sir Edward,” she paused, sighed, “is a bully and not to be trusted. I know him from school days. Don’t be frightened of him, Miss Daphne. He has friends in high places to whom he is indebted, but I’ve always predicted that one day he’ll come down with a crash. Pride goeth before the fall, so scripture says.”

  And with that, she left me to ponder her dire prediction.

  Sir Edward? Untrustworthy? I thought of his great sideburns and stern brow. One never knew a person, did they? Even those in authority could not always be trusted. If he had friends in high places, there could be none so more than the Hartleys, and if any of the family had killed Victoria, would he choose to conduct the case to their mutual benefit?

  I confess the abbess’s denunciation of Sir Edward interfered with my first day’s investigation of the abbey records. I also confess the murder case would not leave my mind. Who wouldn’t be obsessed? It was natural. I’d never been involved in a murder case before and the fact thrilled me.

  The silent, stiff, and beautiful face of Victoria haunted me, daring me, taunting me, hoping I could find a way to “illuminate” the truth.

  “Oh, er, miss, are you finished now with that one?”

  I found myself staring into the face of one grumpy nun old enough to be my grandmother. “Oh, yes. And,” I stood, taking my paper and pencil, “I must be going. I forgot I have to go to the drugstore to pick up something for my mother’s nurse.”

  “Drugstore,” the nun repeated, almost fainting.

  I steadied her arm. “It’s all right. It’s just medicine.”

  “Medicine,” she frowned, watching me flap away.

  I breathed a long sigh of relief when I exited the abbey. If ever I’d entered a primeval place that was it. It seemed alien to the world, untouched and horrified by any reminder of reality. The abbey had escaped the Great War, and had remained virginal, something apart and unpolluted.

  “Ah , the sleeping draught for Miss Sinclaire,” Mr. Penford at the drugstore beamed at me, caressing his mustache into a fine, smooth line.

  I inwardly shuddered. A desperate male, desperate for a wife. Not me, I vowed. Not me, not ever. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Penford,” I responded, gracious and correct. “I shall be sure to inform my ficancé of how useful a person you are should we ever think of moving to the area.”

  There, I’d said it. A white lie.

  My mother would be incensed. A true lady never lied, even out of desperation, but I didn’t care.

  As I darted out the door of the shop, David Hartley stopped me in my tracks.

  “Miss du Maurier,” said he, suave, sophisticated, expertly dressed, and genteel to the bone atop his horse.

  “My lord,” I stammered, “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “No?” He smiled. “Dare I ask where you’d expect to find me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. On some . . .” I was about to say “stranded beach” and the ridiculous notion was instantly inferred by David Hartley.

  “I see,” he said coldly, resuming his air of indifference. “I bid

  you good day, Miss du Maurier.”

  He tipped his hat and trotted off.

  “Did you get my powders?” Ewe pounced upon me as soon as I returned home. “And what d’you make of the abbey? Meet old iron face, Abbess Quinlain herself? What did she say? What happened? Did you find anything?”

  I grinned in spite of myself. Ewe Sinclaire was, in one word, incorrigible.

  And I loved her for it.

  “No great revelations. But I did manage to see Lord David on my way out of the drugstore, and he was very out of sorts.”

  “Out of sorts? What kind of out of sorts?”

  “I don’t exactly know,” I murmured, “but I know this: Abbess Quinlain does not like Sir Edward. According to the abbess, Sir Edward is not to be trusted. The more I think of it, the more I reason that each Hartley had a reason to kill Victoria. Only which one and why remains to be seen.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Well, you’ve a chance to start your investigations now.” Ewe smiled, handing me the note. “My, my,” she twittered. “An official card invitation.” Swapping the card for the powders, I ran my finger over the printed crest. Not since my grandmother’s house had I seen such a rare and wondrous thing, a reminder of yesteryear.

 
Miss Du Maurier,

  Please call at the house between nine and noon.

  Lady Florence Hartley

  “Must be old house stationery,” Ewe remarked. “Aren’t you lucky!”

  Lucky. I didn’t think myself lucky to be summoned for interrogation under the guise of a pleasant cup of tea, but I did look forward to returning to Padthaway.

  “Will Sir E be there?”

  “I don’t know. I imagine so.”

  “Better get dressed then. You can’t show up in that.”

  “Oh, Ewe,” I teased. “You’re such a frightful snob. What ever is wrong with my gardening frock and boots?”

  I enjoyed teasing Ewe, but I exaggerated. I had made a little effort, out of respect for the abbey and its occupants, but a frock and boots were not appropriate for a summons to the Big House.

  Thankfully my mother had the foresight to pack extra clothes. I selected a smart black skirt, thin waist belt, and a pale lemon blouse. The lemon blouse sported pink buttons, adding a dash of color to an otherwise plain outfit.

  I ran a comb through my hair and pinned up two sides, curling the ends. I wasn’t beautiful, but I was attractive, though I hated my nose and my thin upper lip. I always wanted to have lips like the movie actresses had . . . full of pout and perfection. Le Grande Femme Fatale.

  “Lovely,” Ewe approved when I exited my room, slipping my arms into the sleeves of my best black coat.

  “Pity you have to hide under your coat. What if they try and take it at the door?”

  “Since I am a stranger,” I pondered aloud, “it could be construed as presumptuous if I wore all black.”

  “You’re not intending to walk there, are you?” Ewe’s face exploding into a fierce scowl.

  “I’ll be fine.” I waved cheerily, tapping the umbrella under my arm.

  I weaved my way through the village and down the lane, admiring the quaint and slow village life. Simplicity. That’s what appealed to me, myriads of minute lanes, stacks of cottage houses tumbling one upon the other, everywhere greenery and flowers, the old man walking the dog, the grocer stacking his vegetables outside his shop, the schoolmistress marching down the street to the post office. Up ahead, sunshine bathed the glorious contours and skyward steeple of the old church. Gothic structures like these dotted every nook and cranny in En gland and I rejoiced, for here in Windemere, I had three buildings to explore: the abbey, Padtha-way, and the church.

  Upon passing the church, I thought of the cold body lying inside awaiting her funeral. Having been examined by a “body expert” (I had to smile at Ewe’s term), I wondered if Sir Edward intended to deliver the verdict as to the cause of death at Padthaway today.

  Locating the long winding drive leading to the Big House, David Hartley’s face, full of anguish, rose to mind. So many had lost fiancés, husbands, wives, fathers, and mothers during the war. One expected death from war, but not death by murder.

  As I mounted the front steps of the house, I noted the fair weather, and wished I’d come to tour the house instead of as a witness in a suspicious death. I loved nothing more than exploring such treasures, and this one exuded its own unique personality. Half mansion, half restored castle, it dominated the flat cliff- head where it rested, a huge structure, old stone melded with new, shining glazed windows, arches and turrets, west wings and east wings built around a central tower dripping with ivy.

  A young maid opened the door. Bobbing, she took my umbrella, and as I shook my head to the removal of my black coat, Mrs. Trehearn exited from a western corridor.

  “Please come to the Drawing Room, Miss du Maurier. They are awaiting you there.”

  Following her through the expansive house, I yearned to count the corridors. The house looked like a museum. It’d take many days to become familiar with all of its inward pathways and rooms.

  A beautiful set of Florentine doors guarded the most revered room in grand houses: the Drawing Room. This one was opulent, possessing quality furnishings, from Rembrandt oil paintings mounted on rose gilded wallpaper to cabinets filled with endless objets d’art that were undoubtedly priceless; the sweeping burgundy and gold drapes framed the windows and the marble fireplace bore its own selection of jade ornaments in the French salon suite setting. Amongst the pomp, Lady Hartley stood proud by the window in a black silken gown, her bejeweled hand fixed to her hip.

  “Ah, Daphne,” she acknowledged. “Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. Sir Edward is here, as you can see.”

  “Er, yes,” Sir Edward coughed from a far corner of the lounge, decidedly uncomfortable.

  Whilst taking a seat nearest Lianne on the upright tapestry-covered salon suite, I spied David hovering in a far corner of the room, slipping his hands in and out of his pockets. His entire demeanor screamed his annoyance.

  “Miss Daphne.” Sir Edward’s bland smile failed to strike a harmonious chord. “I am quite certain Miss Lianne discovered the body before you did. Is this true?”

  Lianne turned motionless beside me. She clenched the side of my leg. The action, however, only served to discredit her in my opinion. Why should she be so keen that I should find the body at the same time as she? Had she murdered Victoria?

  “That is true,” I said quietly, under my breath, wondering how Sir Edward reached the conclusion. “I am sure it was only minutes between . . .” I broke off.

  “Then why did you lie and say you found the body at exactly the same time as Miss Hartley?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” I glanced at Lianne’s fearful face. “Because . . . I must have stumbled upon the body shortly after, and the horror of seeing a dead body and all . . .”

  I left the remainder to interpretation.

  And Sir Edward interpreted.

  “It’s understandable. A shock like that can obscure the facts. Thank you for your honesty.”

  I felt feverish, clad in my black coat in the French salon suite. I hoped Lianne did not hate me for telling the truth. It was important to tell the truth, even if we didn’t want to, and I prayed she understood.

  I dared not face her. I felt she was innocent but I also felt she knew something about Victoria’s death.

  A belief I intended to explore somehow.

  “Thank you, Miss du Maurier. If you and Miss Hartley would excuse us, I have further questions for Lady Florence and Lord David.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Quick, come with me!”

  Evading the all- seeing eyes of Mrs. Trehearn, Lianne swept me into the next room. “From here,” she whispered, “we can hear.”

  “What, eavesdrop?”

  “Shhh!”

  The room she’d ushered me into appeared abandoned, for white sheets covered the furniture. It may have been a small antechamber at one point, used to screen visitors prior to entering the Drawing Room. It was a system that belonged to those pretentious enough to heed protocol. “Do you often do this?”

  “Always.” Grinning, Lianne pressed her ear to the thin papery side of the wood paneling, inviting me to do the same.

  I was not one to dispute when given such a rare opportunity . . . an opportunity to hear the whereabouts of Lady Florence and Lord David on the eve of Victoria’s disappearance.

  “When did you last see Miss Bastion?”

  “At dinner,” Lady Hartley answered, cautious, direct. “I’ve told you this before.”

  “It’s important to get the facts correct,” a dismissive Sir Edward chided. “Why do you believe your daughter lied about finding the body?”

  “She was terrified. And she’s really just a child, Sir Edward. She made no sense when she ran back to tell us. If it weren’t for Miss du Maurier . . .”

  A notable silence ensued and I imagined Sir Edward jotting down his notations.

  “Lord David. When did you last see Miss Bastion, your fiancée?”

  “At dinner” came the same reply.

  “You, er, didn’t go up to her room or wish her a good night? You said she left the table early.�
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  “Yes . . . and, no, to your question.”

  “So you remained here the whole evening at Padthaway?”

  “Yes. In my room.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Oh, what is the point of your questions, man! If you have something to accuse me of, then accuse me!”

  “David, darling,” Lady Hartley tried to soothe. “Sir Edward is only doing his job.”

  This wise counsel had its proper effect. After a minute or so, Lord David asked if Sir Edward had any more questions.

  “I know this is hard for you, my lord, but the young lady’s death has baffled even our expert from London. We are as yet unsure as to the cause of death—”

  “When will you be sure?” Lady Hartley interrupted without a qualm. “For there can be no other verdict than death by her own hand.”

  “Suicide, my lady?”

  “Yes, suicide. Or perhaps a silly fall off the cliffs? Or perhaps she drowned. How will we ever know what truly happened? Can this expert of yours tell or not tell?”

  “He is studying the nature and pattern of the bruises. Some only become apparent after a time.”

  “Oh, how interesting,” Lady Hartley remarked.

  “This is preposterous,” Lord David cursed. “Bruises! I saw her. There were no bruises. She died painlessly. I have to think she died painlessly.”

  The abject emotion muffling his breaking voice sent a shiver down my spine. He love d her, so passionately, so dearly. He couldn’t bear to think of her as dead or suffering in any way.

  “My lord,” Sir Edward said after a long pause, “you have to consider the possibility your fiancé was murdered.”

  Exchanging a wide- eyed glance with me, Lianne pressed her ear harder against the wall.

  “Murdered!” Lady Hartley laughed. “Oh, please, it must be her family saying so. The girl had no enemies; who’d want her dead?”

  I envisioned Sir Edward’s great eyebrows rising and him thinking, What of you, my lady, and your loss of position?

  “Miss Bastion began as a house maid here, did she not? In the winter of last year?”