Murder on the Cliffs

by Joanna Challis

  “You’ll have to confirm the date she started with Trehearn,” Lady Hartley replied, matter- of- factly. “She engages all the staff here. I have nothing to do with it.”

  “How many do you employ here, my lord?”

  Through the paneling, I pictured David’s frustration. “I have no idea. Twenty or so? Mrs. Trehearn keeps it all in her books. Staff doings, I mean.”

  He answered the question but it did not seem that his heart was in the room, in the conversation, or even, I hastened to conclude, in his present life. His heart remained cloaked in mourning, black and dismal and beyond consolation. To mourn one so dear . . . and to be accused—

  “You were due to be married, was it, Saturday next? How do you feel, my lord?”

  “How do I feel?” he echoed bitterly. “How do I feel? Shall I tell you how I feel?”

  I closed my eyes. I imagined him chest to chest with Sir Edward, fierce, yet each retaining a dignified distance.

  “I . . .” He suddenly broke down in gutted desolation. A man who cried, unafraid to show his emotions, ranked high among the elite, in my opinion.

  “It’s all right, darling.” Lady Hartley’s consoling motherly affections washed over the noise. “You don’t have to do this today.”

  “Today? Tomorrow? Next week, next month? Does it make any difference to me? Victoria is dead. Dead!”

  “Yes, well, we needn’t exhaust the facts. Let us put them to good use.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let us find her killer . . .” Sir Edward continued, “if she was indeed killed by nefarious means, we should do our utmost to fin-ish the business.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said upon reflection. “You are right. A full investigation. Yes! Nothing less than she deserves. Delve, Sir Edward, delve, into the inner recesses of this mystery. Solve the murder. The crime. Give me peace for my soul for it can never rest until I know the truth.”

  “Oh,” I sighed, unknowingly aloud, as Lianne stared at me.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “It’s just so tragic. I feel your brother’s pain and his despair. Do you think there is something we can do to help?”

  Lianne considered and I registered all the troubling emotions flooding her young face, which seemed so innocent and naïve.

  She outstretched her hand and gave it to me in silent accord.

  A solemn handshake.

  An agreement to find the killer.

  I needn’t have worried for an opportunity to begin my investigations, as it seemed Lady Hartley had taken a singular interest in me.

  I knew it was solely due to my status as Sir Gerald du Maurier’s daughter, and because of my family’s illustrious connections. Sometimes it went that way, and who was I to discount it?

  As I took my leave, she invited me to dine at Padthaway, and I graciously accepted.

  “An invitation to dine at Padthaway,” Ewe cooed, “how . . . divine.”

  I replied that I didn’t think divinity factored into the equation.

  “You’re a key witness. You discovered the body. And that sets you right in the middle of this whole drama. Are you ready for it? It’s going to be big,” she emphasized with those shrewd eyes of hers. “Miss Daphne du Maurier found herself in the midst of a murder scandal in Windemere Lane. Oblige me, would you?” She chuckled, continuing on, “And oh, what a scandal! A young bride . . . found dead on a beach. Her handsome fiancé unable to accept the fact. He mourns her but is he truly innocent? And then there’s the sister, who is said to be unstable. Not to mention the mother. Oh yes, she’s the prime suspect. Lady Florence Hartley . . .”

  “What’s her history?” I asked Ewe. I couldn’t imagine Lady Hartley anything but aristocratic.

  Ewe grunted. “Lady Florence Stanton, she were, and come no prouder. An earl’s daughter; brought money and her own title with her. Little good it did them with ol’ Lord Hartley gambling it away. Oh dearie, I wonder how they’ll handle this one? Can’t closet up the body of Victoria Bastion! Mrs. Bastion, Victoria’s mother, will be in a fine rage, mark my words. She had her heart set on her girl bein’ the next lady of the manor.”

  “Victoria’s mother,” I echoed almost silently to myself. “How she must be suffering . . .”

  “Oh, sufferin’ a great deal, losin’ out on all that money! She were set for life, were Mrs. Bastion, and lordin’ it over all and sundry in the village.”

  “Victoria was a house maid, wasn’t she?”

  “Not for long,” Ewe quipped. “A too pretty house maid in a grand place like Padthaway with Lord David roving about, fresh from his ‘abroad’ adventures and keen to try new discoveries— if ye get my meaning, and it ain’t scandalous to your young, innocent ears.”

  “My ears may be young,” I replied, “but they are not unhinged by scandalous doings. In fact, it’s quite inspirational for me and my writing. Oh yes,” I sighed, deciding to include Ewe in on the secret, “I’ve come to Windemere Lane at the right time. For a reason.”

  “A reason?” Ewe barked. “Well, I’d put my two bob on you more than Sir E in solving this case. I reckon one of those Hartleys did it— her ladyship more than likely. But Sir E, he’s a stickler for the old and rich. He may seem to be investigating, but he’ll never betray them, not ever.”

  “Even when . . .”

  Words failed me, but Ewe made up for it. “Even when he ought to be doing his duty and not being bothered about pleasin’ or ma-kin’ considerations for the Hartleys? Hmmm, a tough one.”

  “Then he shouldn’t be conducting the legal case,” I said.

  “Oh, my,” Ewe laughed. “If I were Sir E, I’d be worried about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you, Miss prim and proper Miss Daphne du Maurier wanting to be a writer of great novels.” She paused. “You’ve come to Windemere because you wanted adventure, and adventure met you halfway. You wanted inspiration, well, a real live murder case could be no more inspiration needed. I say so, even tho’ I’ve never attempted to write anything in my life apart from a shoppin’ list. Too wordy and too much effort, them novels, for my likin’.”

  She was right. I’d stumbled right in the midst of murder and mayhem.

  In Windemere Lane, of all places. I intended to shake things up and solve the mystery of Victoria Bastion’s death.

  It had become my mission.

  And nobody could stop me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Exhausted by the morning’s events, I retired to my room.

  During my first few days, I had seen a dead body, visited a house that lingered like an elusive lover in my soul, and made a rather bizarre acquaintance or two.

  Inspired, I lay on my bed to daydream and record what ever re-flections came to mind.

  I conjured up a grand production just as I’d seen countless times at the theater— a dramatic death, a murder, a house— a man, a woman, a mystery.

  “Come on, sleepy head!”

  Ewe poked her ample face right in the middle of my daydream.

  “We’re goin’ to call upon Perony Osborn, the schoolteacher.”

  “What?” I blinked. “Schoolteacher?” I vaguely recalled seeing a school madam march down the lane. “Why do I have to go? Is she a friend of yours?”

  “No,” Ewe smarted. “But she’s been here for nigh on twenty years and she’s full of information. Might be worth it.”

  I couldn’t deny it, or Ewe’s conspiratorial winking eye. Rousing myself, I washed and tidied my hair and in little less than half an hour, Ewe and I crossed the green. I had intended to rest the entire afternoon before I was due to dress for the evening at Padthaway but Ewe’s enthusiasm prevailed. She was as interested as I in this murder case, and was adamant that we explore every avenue available to us.

  “How do you know Miss Osborn?” I asked, a hair’s breath before we reached the unobtrusive tiny little town house cottage.

  “We went to school together. Mind your p’s and q’s. She’s a terrible snob with the English langu
age. She attended a grand finish-ing school in Switzerland. Not like me. I finished me schoolin’ and straight into the nanny business. Perony, after serving a family or two abroad, came back here to take up the post as local schoolteacher. She’s always been a local girl so the role suits her. She’s been here so long nobody can budge her. And,” Ewe grimaced before we knocked on the door, “she taught Victoria Bastion. I hear she even tutored the girl after hours with her English and the like.”

  The knock resounded.

  A razor- sharp face belonging to one Miss Perony Osborn came to the door. She seemed annoyed to have been interrupted, from what, I could only wonder.

  “Oh, Ewe, I wasn’t expecting anybody.”

  “Well,” Ewe said as she bustled her way inside, “I brought freshly baked muffins, so put on the tea, there’s a good girl.”

  Poor Miss Perony Osborn had no choice. I watched her rushing about her tiny little house, setting everything to right, chairs, cushions, kettle . . .

  “And this is Miss Daphne du Maurier,” Ewe announced in grandiose manner. “She’s the daughter of Sir Gerald du Maurier, yes, Sir Gerald du Maurier, who has a theater business in London. Perhaps you’ve heard of Peter Pan and such?”

  Now Perony Osborn began to take an interest in me. Her absurdly thin eyebrows raised a fraction and her thin lips pulsed.

  “Miss du Maurier, please do take a seat. I shall bring round the tea.”

  She appeared unused to visitors and I raised my eyebrows to Ewe, and Ewe winked in return. I trusted her superior wisdom.

  Unexpected guests, we waited and I examined the small living parlor of Miss Perony Osborn. Devoid of family photographs, nothing betrayed the personality but for a selection of books set on high reverence within the china cabinet.

  “Oh, Alexandre Dumas,” I cried in delight when she came forth, bearing the tea tray. “I do so love The Count of Monte Cristo. Is that one of your favorites?”

  “The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire is my favorite,” Miss Osborn replied, dour, while correctly transporting the tea tray to its “correct” position.

  There were too many things “correct” about Miss Perony Osborn, I decided. “But surely,” I enthused, “The Count of Monte Cristo far surpasses any depressing thesis on the Roman Empire. The Roman Empire, while intensely fascinating, is dead. Whereas, Dumas lives in all of us. The Count of Monte Cristo is an epic saga and a love story. And such stories abound to eternity.”

  “There you have the soul and heart of a romantic storyteller,” Ewe declared. “Miss Daphne likes to write, you know, Perony, tales of love and woe. She came here to Windemere to research the abbey records. Why ever such a young pretty girl should bother is beyond me! Charlemagne . . . I mean, he’s been dead for centuries!”

  “Perhaps, Miss Sinclaire,” Miss Osborn replied “correctly,” “you underestimate the power of Charlemagne and his legacy.”

  “Miss Perony,” I piped in, “have you yourself explored the abbey records? That’s really why I’ve come to Windemere. I read the article in The Times and I’ve been interested ever since. My mother’s nurse lived here,” I smiled fondly at Ewe, “so here I am, and unfortunately, I’ve found myself in the midst of another great travesty.”

  “Oh?” said Miss Perony. “You mean the murder?”

  So, she’d heard, as I expected she might. News traveled fast in a small town. Especially news of this nature. “So, do you really think it’s a murder?” I asked, wide- eyed and all innocent.

  “You had her at the school, didn’t ye?” Ewe launched ahead. “Oh, Vicky Bastion,” she crooned, “never a prettier girl were seen.”

  “Was she pretty, Miss Osborn?” I blushed. “Forgive me for being candid. I only saw her out there . . . on the beach. It was awful. I cannot describe it, and I cannot help feeling sad for the girl and her family. Do you know her family well?”

  “Very well.”

  Having effectively drawn out Miss Osborn by my admission, she began a confidence. Not a woman, I suspected, who easily gave out information to those of unfamiliar acquaintance. Even her good friends, I imagined, benefited little from her fierce privacy. A guarded creature, our Miss Perony Osborn, and one requiring time to thaw out to complete fruition.

  “Mrs. B suffers cruelly. I saw her on the street after she had to identify Victoria. Connan went with her. Connan is Victoria’s brother, Miss du Maurier.”

  “Oh please, call me Daphne,” I insisted.

  She smiled in turn. “It’s a good thing Mrs. Bastion has Connan, Daphne.”

  “I’ll say,” Ewe supported. “Such a good-looking lad . . . and resourceful. He keeps the family goin’ since their pa died.”

  “Mr. Bastion died several years ago,” Miss Osborn relayed. “In the shipping trade, as many of us are. You’d understand that, coming from Fowey?”

  I see Ewe Sinclaire had divulged my circumstances to the entire village community.

  “My family have a house in Fowey and in London.”

  “They’re gypsies!” Ewe nudged me, helping herself to another piece of lime cake. “Gad about from here to there. And now she don’t want her family knowin’ she’s got herself into this mess.”

  “No,” I pleaded to Miss Osborn. “I intend to remain here and complete what I started. I only managed to see a glimpse of the abbey records. It’ll take months to get through them all.”

  “You should offer to help catalog them,” Miss Perony suggested. “I know Sister Agatha. She’s a cousin of mine. I could ask her . . . ?”

  “That is so kind of you, Miss Perony! I confess I felt awkward poking into those pigeonholes with the dagger eyes of . . . is it Sister Theodora? . . . watching my every move. Sister Sonya is lovely . . . very learned.”

  “Oh, dear,” Ewe chimed, “is that the time? We’ll have to leave shortly, for she’s to dine at Padthaway this night.”

  The news unsettled Miss Perony Osborn.

  A crisp pallor crept into her cheeks. Was it concern?

  “The Bastions are convinced Victoria was murdered, aren’t they?” I whispered. “I want to ask you, Miss Perony, for I found the body with Lianne Hartley and the girl has taken a liking to me. Since I’ll be in the area, I think I may become a regular visitor to Padthaway and as the saying goes ‘forewarned is forearmed.’ ”

  My openness and asking her particular opinion worked wonders on Miss Perony.

  “I am not sure if I should say this, but as you are new to the area and are unaware of its history, I would be very careful.” She stood up to arch her back, her small hand resting on its middle, denoting she endured some sort of pain there.

  “I can only advise . . .”

  “Advise what?” I prompted.

  “The Hartleys reign supreme here. Their influence controls the village, the lives of the townsfolk, the livestock, and almost everything as it did hundreds of years ago. Little has changed since then.”

  “Do you mean,” I hastened to assume, “their wealth and prominence precludes them from murder?”

  “We are not that prehistoric,” Ewe defended. “There is the law, mind. Nobody can escape the law.”

  “But they do,” I breathed, and related a case I’d read in a newspaper in London. Exactly the kind to which Miss Perony Osborn referred: a rich aristocratic family, a murder, and the suspected murderer getting away with the crime due to “lack of sufficient evidence” despite the jury believing otherwise.

  “Daphne is right,” Miss Perony confirmed. “And such families have friends in high places.”

  She meant Sir Edward.

  I didn’t bring the name to attention.

  But Ewe did.

  “I hope Sir E will hold true! He must . . . for Mrs. B won’t rest. She’ll call the papers. Sir E has to do his job.”

  “Even if it means losing his tenancy on Castle Mor?” Miss Perony asked.

  My eyes rounded and Miss Perony smiled her wan smile. “Yes, I can see castles and history do interest you, Daphne.”

&nb
sp; “Not only interest me,” I cried. “They are my love, my passion!”

  “Her inspiration for writing,” Ewe translated.

  “As are murder cases?” Miss Perony inquired.

  I heard the undertone of her inquiry. She could see me walking straight into trouble, danger even.

  I embraced it.

  “I think,” Ewe said, “and I do think a lot and I never keep my thinking to myself, as you know, so here’s what I think now: Miss D will keep Sir E on his toes and Mrs. B will call the cavalry.”

  Miss Perony and I shared a grin.

  You couldn’t help but love Ewe Sinclaire.

  “What happens next?” I inquired.

  We listened to her humming deliberations.

  “I think . . . we can rely upon you, Miss D, to work that out.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ewe and I returned to the cottage to find a note slipped under the door.

  “Tch tch tch.” Bending her copious backside to sweep up the note, Ewe bustled through her house reading aloud the note.

  “It’s from Sir Edward,” she announced in passing. “And it’s for you.”

  I hurried after her.

  “If it’s for me, then may I have it?”

  I held out my hand.

  She reluctantly conceded it, peering over my shoulder. “He’s got neat handwritin’, I’ll give him that, even if ye can’t see it for the length of a whistle!”

  “It says . . .

  Miss Daphne,

  I shall have the motorcar waiting at the end of the

  lane to take you to Padthaway this evening.

  Yours etc.,

  Sir Edward

  “Sir Edward,” I mused aloud, “does this Sir Edward have a last name?”

  Ewe was about to tell me when I stopped her. “No, don’t. I think I shall prefer to think of him just as Sir Edward. Do they call me Miss D now?”

  My teasing came to an end when Ewe forced me to consider the time and I raced off in a frantic flurry.

  What to wear! I pondered the eternal question as I rummaged through my assortment, stumbling across a dress my mother must have snuck in before closure. A shell- colored pink evening gown with a few rows of fringed tassels. “Perfect!”