Murder on the Cliffs

by Joanna Challis

  “Oh . . .” I feigned ignorance. “Why?”

  “She likes to build connections. And you, dear Daphne, are worth building. How amazing! I never thought someone who looked like you would belong to such a family . . . such a family of interest to my mother.”

  Poor Lianne. Once her mother learned I’d called at the house of my own volition, she’d draw on the acquaintance. It was the way of the aristocracy. She seemed to have wholeheartedly despised Victoria’s presence, but she’d welcome any female with superior connections into her intimate circle.

  “Do you think my mother likes me?” Lianne’s face hardened. “Sometimes, I think she despises me. You see, I’m not smart like other girls. I’m different. I don’t think she likes me to be different. I think she’d like me to be more like . . . you.”

  “Me? Then you’re both at a loss, for I’m very different. My mother says so. All families have their ups and downs. I’ve caught my mother saying things about me before. I’m the black sheep, in a sense. My elder sister Angela is beautiful and clever, and Jeanne, she’s younger and merry. But I always seem to do and say the wrong things. My father finds it funny but my mother doesn’t. She raked me across the hands once for sympathizing with the Germans in front of everyone at the dinner table!”

  A swift smile came to Lianne’s lips.

  “So, you see , no family is perfect, and you’reclose to your brother aren’t you?”

  “David.” Her smile softened. “I’d do anything for him . . . anything. ”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Including murder? I wanted to ask. Instead, I sighed. “I wish I had a brother . . . a wicked brother like Branwell Brontë.”

  “Branwell Brontë,” Lianne mused. “Don’t think I know him. Does he live in London?”

  I tried not to laugh. “You’ve never heard of the Brontë sisters? The Brontës. The famous writers?”

  She shook her head and I sensed an impatience within her to change the subject. It was an interesting reaction, one indicating a negligent education or perhaps a reluctance to admit to a reading problem. She felt comfortable asking me questions, but when the reverse occurred, she stiffened. “Is your family rich?”

  “We are . . . comfortable.”

  “Maybe that’s why Mummy likes you. Now David’s free, Mummy wants you to marry him.”

  It was all so simple and conclusive in her mind. I stared at her, mouth agape. How could she dismiss Victoria with so little remorse? Had she no finesse, no moral sense?

  No wonder her mother kept her on a tight leash. “If that is your mother’s reason for her interest in me, I shall not visit. It’s not right to be even thinking . . .”

  “Right or wrong,” taunted Lianne as she rearranged a few pieces in her doll house, inviting me to help.

  “This dollhouse was made in the Elizabethan era,” she said, proudly giving me the “tour.”

  “I had a doll house once,” I said, amazed by the particular care she took in placing everything “just so.”

  “Did you play with it with your sisters?”

  I nodded.

  “I wish I had a sister. It’s so lonely here.”

  “You could go away to school,” I suggested. “That’s what I did. I loved it.”

  “Oh, Mummy would never agree, and I don’t think I could leave the house . . .” Glancing at the walls surrounding us, she acknowledged them with a fond sigh. “I love it here. This is my home. And I’ve no need to go away to school, for Jenny teaches me. You’ll meet Jenny soon but not today. Today , I’m keeping you to myself.”

  “I ought to be at the abbey,” I said, half- laughing, “but I do so love this house, too.”

  “Then you must come here often. You can come not as a guest but as my particular friend. I’ve never really had a friend before. Jenny says it’s because we’re so isolated and Mummy doesn’t want me mixing with the locals. They’re not good enough for her. But she can’t say anything about you. You’re our equal.”

  Snobbery was an unfortunate curse. Ladies like Lady Hartley bred it as keenly as orchids.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” Lianne exclaimed, embracing me before skipping back to her doll house. I’d seen loneliness in many a girl, but none more so than Lianne Hartley. True, she amused herself and she was a trifle odd, but her craving for love and attention was touching. I wondered which parent she was most like— her mother or her father?

  “I’m here to be your friend,” I expressed. “We’ll do things together . . . and together,” I added, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we’ll solve the mystery about Victoria. It’ll be our very own little adventure.”

  Her eyes flashed pure fear. Chewing on the edge of her sleeve, she regarded me with the timidity of a cornered animal. “What if . . . what if it leads to someone dangerous? What shall you do then?”

  I noticed she said what shall you do then, not what shall we do then. Sensing something significant lurked behind these changeable moods, I saw I’d have to tread cautiously. “I guess I’ll just try to protect myself whilst finding the truth.”

  “Truth,” she echoed and, reclining upon her bed, propped her hand under her chin to view me. “You’re a writer who likes to write stories and such. You should know what to do in such situations. Do your characters murder, Daphne?”

  “Do my characters murder?” I pondered. “I’m writing my first saga and I suppose I’ll have some kind of murder in it.”

  “What do you think makes people murder?”

  “It’s complicated and there are many answers. Ever read the papers? Even good people are driven to murder.”

  “Good people,” Lianne echoed, “truly good people don’t do bad things.”

  “Yes, they do. When pushed or suffering extreme trauma through various circumstances, they turn desperate. And desperation breeds trouble.”

  “But how do good people hide the bodies and get away with it? And do they ever confess?”

  “Hiding bodies depends on the moment, and confession, well, confession may take years. The mind hides many secrets. You know, my family often does this sort of thing at home . . . sitting up late at night, discussing people, motivations, exploring what lies beneath the surface—”

  “Oh, I’d love to do that!”

  Her face turned instantly glum. “But we don’t have interesting people here. And I have no one to talk to. They’re all boring and go to bed early. I wish I had a family like yours.”

  “It doesn’t matter where you are,” I countered. “London is different from Fowey, just as Padthaway is different from the village. If you came to my home at Ferryside, you might be bored. What we can’t find around us, we must ‘imagine.’ ”

  “Like daydreaming? Is that how you get ideas for your stories?”

  She sounded so excited. I couldn’t help but humor her. “Yes, indeed. I confess I am in love with your home and often daydream about what it must be like to live here.”

  “Really? Do you love it enough to murder for it?”

  When I grew silent, she chuckled. “I’m only vexing, I didn’t mean it, Daphne, truly I didn’t. It’s just that . . .”

  She broke off and I guessed she was thinking about Victoria.

  “I understand,” I said warmly, and gave her my hand.

  “No explanations?” she queried, uncertain.

  “No explanations.”

  Mine was certainly no match for Victoria Bastion’s beauty.

  The mirror always told the truth. My shoulder- length hair was of a rather nondescript color. But I possessed a pert nose, a well- formed chin, lips of adequate shape, smooth skin lightly tanned, and decent green- gray eyes with dark enough sweeping lashes. I supposed, in the end, from a writer’s point of view, I wasn’t bad- looking.

  But Victoria had been beautiful even in death.

  “Daphne! Are you ready yet?”

  Ewe Sinclaire’s irritableness outdid Lady Hartley’s. I’d love to see the two at war.

  An impos
sibility, for the Lady Hartleys of this world did not mix with those considered belowstairs and Ewe, as a former professional nurse, exuded the working tab abhorrent to her ladyship.

  “Oh, she’s always been willful,” divulged Ewe in a confessional manner to her good friend Mrs. Penmark after Ewe had shepherded me out of the cottage for our afternoon visit to the baker’s wife. “Got worse after Lord H shot himself,” she declared, piling a third helping of seed cake onto Mrs. Penmark’s prized china plates. “Scandal, I tell you, and bless me no money to keep up the grand parties then.”

  “Parties?” I repeated.

  “Oh, the grandest parties ever were to be seen,” Ewe went on, entirely swept away by the memory. “But as I said, after Lord Hartley done himself in, a great quiet descended on Padthaway. No great parties. No great visitors. Just . . . silence.”

  “We see Mrs. Trehearn every now and then,” Mrs. Penmark said. “She likes to do a village run every Sunday and stops by the bakery.”

  “Oh, hmmm? And what does the great Mrs. T buy from you, Mrs. P?”

  “She fancies those pastries I make. I feel sorry for her. So tied up to Padthaway and Lady Hartley . . . she’s got no chance of ever escaping.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t want to escape,” I said. “Perhaps she loves her job and her place.”

  Ewe’s response accompanied a hefty sigh and another “yes” to a piece of Mrs. Penmark’s favorite sweet pastry. “You ought to know, Cynthia, having been in service before you married your good Mr. Penmark. A woman’s got to have an occupation and Daphne’s right, Mrs. Trehearn loves her place. She queens it among us, just like her mistress, Lady H of the hated kind.”

  “The hated kind?” I asked.

  “Oh, that Lady H is a scarlet woman. She carries on with men on her staff.”

  “Oh?” I lifted a brow.

  “ ’Tis true,” Ewe supported. “Ridgeway Soames. I saw him just this afternoon, on his way into town again.”

  This comment elicited a sigh from Mrs. Penmark.

  “Ridgeway Soames, the cook,” Ewe put in for my benefit. “A gilded peacock if ever I saw one and hired by Lady H of Padthaway herself. Did you happen to see him when you were there?”

  “No . . .” I thought over my entire acquaintance with the house up to this point. “I can’t remember anyone by that name.”

  “Who served dinner?”

  “House maids. A skinny one and a fat one.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Penmark nodded. “Betsy and Annie. They’re local girls. Cousins, I think. In any case, they serve at Padthaway along with this Mr. Soames.”

  A raucous laughter rumbled from Ewe. “Her ladyship likes them young, doesn’t she? I s’pose it’s her money that gets them.”

  “She is still very comely for her age,” Mrs. Penmark reminded. “If you didn’t know it, you’d never think Lord David her son!”

  “True, true,” Ewe admitted. “That poor Vicky Bastion. Lady Muck didn’t look upon the match with a friendly eye, did she?”

  Mrs. Penmark seemed reluctant to comment.

  “The girl’s dead.” Ewe loaded her fork with the last crumbs on her plate. “A lethal death, I’d say, for Vicky Bastion was one of us—a commoner. The Bastions are village folk, always were, and always have been, and not good enough for the likes of Lady Florence Hartley, daughter of an earl.”

  Ewe turned to wink at me. “I’ve got it on good authority Mrs. B fancied herself living up at Padthaway one day.”

  “Mrs. Bastion still keeps to her room, I hear,” Mrs. Penmark whispered, clearly distressed over the whole situation. “One would think Lord David would have called on her by now. She was, after all, to be his mother- in- law.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It’s a very odd setup at Padthaway, (I noted in my journal) and I’m not sure if I should meddle, but I can’t help myself. For I did not ask, did I, to find a body? Therefore I am innocent, an unwilling participant drawn into this whole ugly affair. From what I have gleaned thus far, everybody is absolutely certain the Hartley family is to blame and will get away with the crime.

  Crime.

  But was she truly murdered?

  And if so, why?

  Putting my journal to the side, I found Ewe weeding in the garden.

  “I’m off to the post office to mail a letter to my sisters,” I said, peering over her shoulder and tapping the letter in my hand. “Ewe, I’ve been wondering . . . is Mr. Soames really Lady Hartley’s lover?”

  Ewe readjusted her apron. “I do believe so. A secondary occupation for a cook, if ye ask me, and he’s cooked himself up a treat there, didn’t he! Servicin’ her . . . but I s’pose she pays well and he gets to drive the motorcars as young devils are wont to do.”

  I was struck by an acute urge to visit Padthaway in search of this Ridgeway Soames. I didn’t need an invitation to visit as Lianne’s friend. I could march up there and demand to see the cook, though that was Sir Edward’s job, not mine, I thought as I headed out the gate.

  Wandering into the village, I overheard two women talking outside the grocer.

  “. . . it’s a dreadful thing and Mrs. B’s shut herself up.”

  “Curtains still drawn at the Bastion cottage,” the other remarked. “Mrs. B had her hat down low yesterdee. Connan took her out to get some fresh air. He’s a blessin’ for her to have, that boy.”

  “Before Lord David throws him out of town.”

  “He’d not dare!”

  “Oh, yes, he would. Those Hartleys don’t care for any of us.”

  I lingered over the fruit on display, picking up and inspecting an item or two. I kept my ears poised as the women rattled on.

  “Connan’s not the sort to be put aside, and he just adored Victoria as we all know.” A long sigh exuded out of her mouth. “It’s sad when I think of them two runnin’ in the woods and skippin’ down the lane, hand- in- hand . . .”

  “I tried to find out what Miss Osborn thinks,” her companion confessed, her hand flapping up as a shield.

  “Ye won’t get anythin’ out of her. Her mouth’s stopped up like a fish!”

  “Ye seem to be spendin’ a long time there, miss. Can I help ye?”

  I suddenly found myself staring at the grocer. “Oh, um, these apples, please. And one or two oranges.”

  “That’s Miss Daphne du Maurier,” I heard one woman say to the other as I scuttled off.

  “Oh, who’s she when she’s home, then?”

  I smiled. Someone who hadn’t heard of my father’s fame. What blissful anonymity!

  The post office, located in the center of the village, was typical of small- town En gland: quaint, busy, and served by the same postmistress for years, a disgruntled cantankerous creature, all thin, wispy hair and wiry eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d just like to post this, please, miss . . . ?”

  She ignored me. Stamping the envelope, she put it in a tray and I paid her the money. I must have looked as bewildered as I felt, for as I left a young man riding a bicycle paused.

  “Something wrong, miss?”

  His extraordinary looks left me speechless. He was of average height and muscular, with sweeping dark hair framing an angelic face: a short, straight nose; full lips; large, thick- lashed violet eyes; and a charming grin. He’d bring any girl to her knees and I guessed at once that this must be Connan Bastion, Victoria’s brother.

  “Ye’re new to the area, aren’t ye? Visitin’ or just passin’ through?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I offered my hand for him to shake. “I’m Daphne du Maurier.”

  His face turned white. “Ah . . .”

  “I’m sorry.” I glanced down at the dirt beneath my shoes.

  “So am I,” he said, readying his bicycle again.

  I examined his sailor’s uniform, thinking he looked very fine in it, and casually inquired after the latest catch. “My family has a house in Fowey,” I explained. “And my father loves to fish . . . when he has the chanc
e of it. I’m interested in boating, too.”

  “Well, Miss Daphne, maybe sometime I could take you out in my boat. I have a little one I use when I’m not working.”

  I thanked him for the offer and I watched in appreciation as he rode off. It couldn’t be denied. Good looks always set people ahead in this world and Connan possessed them, just as his sister had. They shared the same eyes, violet blue and dark- lashed. I wished I had such eyes.

  “Tch, tch,” Ewe beamed later that day as I dressed for another dinner at Padthaway. “You’ve made an impression. Two invitations to dine! Next, Lord David will be after the first two waltzes.”

  I hesitated over whether to mention my brief encounter with Connan Bastion to Ewe, and eventually decided against it. It was unlikely he’d make good on his promise to take me out on his boat, and it was unlikely he’d seek me out whilst I remained in the village.

  However, I could not erase him, or the fierce spark in his eye when I mentioned my connection with his dead sister, from my mind. Did he also think David Hartley a killer?

  A dashingly attired David Hartley greeted Sir Edward and me at the door— a gesture of regard for Sir Edward and myself.

  Sir Edward’s jittery nerves on the journey to the house led me to suspect that he had something of importance to announce this eve, and that the announcement was not altogether pleasant.

  “Is Mrs. Bastion here?” were Sir Edward’s first words to David.

  Promptly taking out a cigarette, he answered, “No, she hasn’t arrived yet. Shall we join the others in the dining room?”

  After a cursory nod to me, he marched toward the dining room, and Sir Edward escorted me in his wake.

  In spite of myself, I felt pity for Lord David, having to endure what ever news Sir Edward planned to deliver. As we ferried ourselves to the dining room, I wondered if Connan Bastion would escort his mother this evening, or if she would choose to arrive alone. I awaited the outcome in silence as we made our way to the Queen Anne dining room.

  The room lived up to its majestic title. Large and somewhat formidable, with an oversized table fit for a castle, it bore the charm of yesteryear with its plush burgundy upholstered chairs, matching velvet wall drapes framing family portraits of long- dead ancestors, and gleaming silver tableware.