Murder on the Cliffs

by Joanna Challis

  I despaired over what to wear. I had nothing appropriate for a funeral, since I’d not planned on attending one, coming on a quiet holiday. A quiet holiday. I laughed, for this affair at Padthaway proved the least quiet holiday of my existence, one I never would have expected in sleepy old Cornwall.

  “I’ve a black skirt,” I informed Ewe, helping her arrange the table for her lunch party tomorrow. “Do you have a black coat I can borrow? Mine is too much a shade of gray.”

  “Lots of gray shades round here, ain’t there.” Her eyes squinted at me. “And I heard you went up to the Bastion cottage. Ye were seen talkin’ to Connan Bastion.”

  She looked hurt that I’d kept it secret from her. I repaired the damage by relaying the conversation I’d had with Annie and Betsy, the maids.

  Ewe had to sit down to contemplate the latest news. “She probably said it to vex him. I still can’t believe it . . . about the baby.” She paused over a spoonful of hot porridge. “And what does Connan Bastion have to say for himself, hmm?”

  “Not a great deal,” I said truthfully.

  Ewe studied me through those shrewd eyes of hers. “He’s a good- looking lad, dearie. Wild, like his sister. Not your class.”

  Not my class. I chanted the phrase as I dressed for the funeral, in the smartest black attire I could manage. Pinning up half my hair, I opted for the merest touch of gloss on my lips and pinched my cheeks for color.

  “Modest,” Ewe chirped her approval. “Ye’ll disappear in the crowd.”

  “Which is exactly my intention. I wish to observe all the faces and emotions, don’t you?”

  I could see the thought had occurred to her.

  “Wonder what’ll happen.”

  It looked like the whole village thrived on the suspense. Wondering, waiting, every face bearing question marks of its own.

  This became more evident upon our walk to the old church. I’d walked by the church many times before, curious to go inside, and it felt odd that I should enter it now, for a funeral.

  “Vicar’ll be out of sorts. He’ll have a heart attack at all these people.”

  I pitied Vicar Nortby. To be on such display, amid a plethora of shiny motorcars lined up across the field, cameramen and reporters scrambling with their equipment while village children ogled the spectacle, was not an enviable position.

  I don’t think anyone expected such an enormous turnout, and I kept my head lowered, fearful someone might recognize me. From the crème de la crème of society to the village folk wearing their Sunday bests, a large group supported the Bastion family. “Commoner versus nobleman,” I whispered to Ewe, as she shoved us toward the tiny church.

  Could it hold such a group? I spared a moment to admire the dark weathered stone, the sleek steeple, and the gothic architecture while being pushed through a hail of snapping photographers.

  “Miss du Maurier!”

  I cringed.

  “Miss du Maurier!”

  I had no choice but to turn and smile at the reporter’s greedy scanning eyes.

  “What do you say about the murder?”

  His companion photographer snapped away.

  I groaned. Just what I needed. My picture in the paper, and holding my hand halfway up to my face hadn’t dissuaded them.

  “The murder,” the reporter prompted. “It is a murder, says Mrs. Bastion.”

  My father taught me avoidance with the media was the best defense. Biting my tongue (though I was sorely tempted to point out the “open investigation” status), I tagged on the heels of Ewe to the nearest side pew.

  Vicar Nortby perspired on the pulpit. He, like everyone else, awaited the Hartley family, the front pew left vacant as was the custom.

  The atmosphere inside the church matched the gloomy nature of the occasion. Stilted whispers, grave faces, lifting eyebrows, androunded eyes filled the room. It was a community divided, those of the lower class sitting on one side and those of the upper on the other.

  Mrs. Bastion remained stony- faced, second row from the front, her son Connan’s arm around her for support. The next eldest Bastion, a girl of ten or so, looked after the little children.

  Victoria’s little sister, I thought. I wondered how much she knew of her sister’s life. Probably nothing. I said little of my inner thoughts to my elder sister Angela, and certainly nothing to my younger sister Jeanne. It made me wonder why females prefer to conceal so much. Pride? Fear of reproach? Fear of interference?

  Vicar Nortby took the stand.

  All eyes turned to the front door where Lady Hartley, David, and Lianne, made a sweeping entrance. Lady Hartley, her arm interloped with that of her son, guiding him to the front pew, was far removed from Mrs. Bastion and her ilk.

  I watched Mrs. Bastion’s face. It showed a stony silence. Connan’s jaw, however, twitched in anger.

  Throughout the service that followed, with the good vicar mopping his brow at regular intervals, I kept my gaze fixed on the radiant Victoria. Lying there in her casket, half hidden from the world and half on display, adorned all in white, she was radiant, ghostly, and beautiful.

  The service ended.

  David led the mourners to the grave site where Victoria was placed in the family crypt. Lady Hartley’s disapproval was still evident by the taut line of her mouth.

  The ritualistic closing of the crypt unleashed the emotional mother. Tearing across the manicured lawn, Mrs. Bastion spluttered the anguished cry of the grief- stricken. “It’s murder! Murder, I tell you! You killed her!”

  She was looking at David.

  He visibly paled, hesitant sympathy flooding his tense face. Extending an arm to her, he tried to console her in a humane fashion.

  She shook him off, having none of it. “No, it was no accident. One of you did it! One of you killed my baby! You ! ”

  She accused the mother, Lady Hartley.

  “Yes, you! You killed my girl.”

  Lady Hartley snorted her indignation, her defiance. “Don’t be absurd, woman. I did not kill your daughter.”

  Mrs. Bastion sobbed away, comforted by the protective gleam in her son’s eye, still looking back at Lord David, and Lianne, and especially Lady Hartley.

  The excitable reporters danced to this graphic tune, snapping, scribbling, recording every nuance of the sensational outburst.

  Mrs. Bastion’s crowd of supporters, after some persuasion, guided her away from the grave site and into her home. Staring after the sad, bewildered family and friends, I knew, beyond a doubt, they suspected murder, too.

  Sighing, Lianne came up to nudge me. “Thank goodness that’s over.”

  “Come with me,” Lianne chimed, pulling me from the grave site to the open lavender field.

  “What ever for?” I stopped her.

  She shrugged. “Just because I want to and we’ve little time.”

  Little time for what? I wanted to ask, but allowed her to lead me to a seat amongst the swaying grass.

  “Phew!” She fanned herself. “How stressful. And poor Davie! And Mama! I felt sorry for them.”

  I noticed she used “mama” on this occasion instead of “mother.”

  “Mummy didn’t do it. Davie didn’t do it. Victoria did it herself. She wanted to die. She was so scared of David finding out.”

  “Finding out what?” I queried, trying to appear casual and squashing the urge to shake the girl’s shoulders.

  “Oh,” she giggled. “About,” she paused, blushing, lowering her long, dark- lashed eyes to a piece of swaying grass, “her secret life.”

  “Victoria’s secret life?”

  She nodded.

  So did I. “I thought she might have had one. She was so beautiful.”

  Lianne’s face instantly hardened. “She was a whore! She deserved to die!”

  She ran away, and I stood witness to a child’s emotions, but was she truly a child? Was she, I hated to ponder, capable of murder?

  “Absolutely.”

  “Absolutely?”

  “Ab
solutely that Miss Lianne could do anything and her mother, her brother, or Jenny Pollock would cover for her. She’s born mad, she’s been indulged since day one of breathing. Do you think murder could be far from her? They lock her up all day in that big house with only softy Jenny Pollock to keep her in check. Oh, aye, Miss Lianne is capable of murder.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I echoed, yet I challenged my own words. For what I’d seen that day in that child’s face confirmed my worst suspicions. Yes, a child could and would commit such a crime. Of course, such a crime must be proven.

  Mounting suspicion generated two separate wakes, one held at Padthaway and one at the Bastion cottage in the village. Knowing I’d hear all the news of the village gathering from Ewe in the morning, I chose to promenade amongst the society romp, a masterful affair filling the graceful inner courtyard at the splendid, dignified mansion.

  Mrs. Trehearn and Mr. Soames had outdone themselves, their prowess evident by the smooth running of the function, the correct choice of refreshment, and the singular attentiveness shown to guests.

  Fortunately, I knew none of this London set. The Hartleys must have mixed in different circles for I did not recognize one face. A good thing, for it suited my purpose. I wanted to observe and monitor the event.

  With Lianne disposed of chatting to two girls her own age, I pursed my lips and became the huntress. Scanning for adequate prey, I found an unassuming freckled male of thirty or so who grinned at my meandering approach.

  “Dreadful business, all this,” he said, shaking his auburn head. “Thought old Davie would’ve wed that American heiress, not a simple country lass. Family needs the money, y’know. Things haven’t traveled well since the old mad fellow shot himself. Some say family’s cursed.”

  I hadn’t expected such an easy victory. “Were you here when it happened, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Cameron. Bruce Cameron.” He bowed, taking my hand. “And you are?”

  I gave him my name.

  A flicker of recognition danced in his eyes. “Ah, I know your father, I believe.”

  “Yes, most do,” I smiled, turning back to the subject at hand. “You’ve known the family long, Mr. Cameron?”

  “For years,” he enthused, pausing to pick a pastry from a passing plate. “Davie and I were at Oxford together. I often came down here to spend the holidays. Grand, fun old days, they were.”

  “When the family had money,” I reminded, lowering my voice. “How did they lose it, if you don’t mind me asking? Lord David did mention something about his father’s gambling habits?”

  “Yes,” he flushed, “lost quite a bit. Eventually they had to sell off the town houses. It was either those or this house, the family home, and David would never give up Padthaway. Anyway, afterward, the family buried themselves down here, living quiet as monks. I suppose they had no choice.”

  “When did this happen?”

  Mr. Cameron hesitated and I realized I’d reached the point where one must share a little of themselves to garner assurance. Choosing honesty, I told him how I’d come down here for a quiet holiday and stumbled into this catastrophic event.

  He seemed to know about that. “The papers,” he grinned. “They mentioned a Miss Daphne du Maurier and a Miss Lianne Hartley had found the body. Tell me,” he said, and lowered his voice, “it must have been gruesome.”

  “It was,” I confirmed, shivering at the memory.

  Mr. Cameron now thought back, his former mistrust banished. “It was straight after the old fellow shot himself. Poor Davie. Had to deal with that and then take on the helm of the family responsibilities. Awfully tough for a sixteen- year- old. He’s done well, though I wonder—”

  “If he’s happy?”

  A shadow passed Mr. Cameron’s face, the expression of his eyes hidden behind his spectacles. “Hmm. He’s cut himself off, y’know. I worry about him. Good that you’re about in the neighborhood, Miss du Maurier, might liven things up a little. I hear Miss Lianne and Lady Hartley have taken a shine to you.”

  I colored deeply.

  “Oh, don’t let it unsettle you,” came the friendly advice. “Miss Lianne needs a friend and Lady Hartley, well, forgive me for saying so, Miss du Maurier, but you’d be a better candidate for mistress of this house than Victoria Bastion.”

  Something about the curl of his mouth suggested a negative reading of Victoria. I decided to test it. “You didn’t think she was the right girl for him?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Playing the innocent, I examined his face carefully. “What ever do you mean?”

  Fighting the instinct not to divulge but losing the battle, he leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Between you and I, Miss du Maurier, I saw his intended in London at a place I cannot call respectable. I never forget a face, especially one as beautiful as hers and . . .” Mr. Cameron then added significantly, “she wasn’t alone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY- TWO

  Ewe had never heard of a Mr. Cameron.

  “London folk,” she snorted. “Not good enough for the likes of us, and Missy Victoria mixed with that lot a good deal. Once she’d caught Lord David’s eye, she had to keep him, if you read me.”

  “I cannot read you all the time, Ewe. You are a lady of secrets.”

  Her plump cheeks brightened. “The Hartleys run with the London crowd. Not Lord David so much, mind. He’s a man of the land, the best landlord.”

  “Sir Edward’s landlord, too,” I pointed out. “Where is this Castle Mor? I am eager to see it.”

  “You won’t be seein’ it till after my lunch party. Oh, dear! How’s everything look, then?”

  I turned around to survey the organized lunch party paraphernalia. The napkins were folded, the cutlery and table setting dusted and placed, and the chairs arranged; Ewe’s tiny cottage gleamed from head to toe and I told her so. “You know my father never stopped talking about your pasties. He used to say: ‘Old Ewe Sinclaire makes the best Cornish pasty. If you ever meet her, Daph, you’ll love her. She’s a people watcher, too.’ ”

  “People watcher!” Huffing, Ewe steered me to the kitchen to show off her famous batch of newly baked pasties.

  “Everything looks perfect,” I assured her. “Do you wish me to check the table once more? And that the curtains are dusted?”

  “Yes, yes,” she nodded.

  I went to the window instead, making one cursory glance over table and curtains. “The prevailing question,” I muttered aloud, “is who killed Victoria and why?”

  I’d not forget my oath to Mrs. Bastion. I’d do my best to find her killer. I didn’t understand what stroke of fate had sent me to Cornwall at this time, to stumble upon a beautiful dead bride, to yearn to discover her secret life, but eventually, I would learn the cause of her death.

  Men like Sir Edward and his London associates looked upon solving murder as a business, and a business it was, to a certain extent. But then there was the human part of it; a life lost, a grieving family, a murderer on the loose.

  I reminded myself she may have taken her own life. “The business of death,” I whispered, slipping my fingers through Ewe’s fine lace curtains.

  “What did you say?” Ewe yelled from the other room. “Has anyone arrived yet?”

  “Not yet. Who makes you so nervous?”

  Tugging off her apron, she pressed down the rolled sides of her hair. “We’ve got new folk drivin’ down today.” Winking at me, she whipped up some kind of cream concoction. “Fancy ones to rival yesterday’s offerings.”

  I loved Ewe’s translation for the London crowd. Yesterday’s offerings. How charming.

  “Did you ever see such snobs! Pegasus noses, poked higher in the air than a kite. Poor Mrs. B had a hard time of it. She ain’t finished with ’em either. Plannin’ something. Maybe,” Ewe said, her eyes rounded to saucers, “a revenge killin’.”

  She was talking of the village “wake,” the one held at Mrs. Bastion’s cottage. I wished I could have gone to both. “And are you sure noth
ing else happened? Did Mrs. Bastion mention David or his mother?”

  Emerging from behind the kitchen stove, Ewe sported her new starched white- collared blue dress. “Do I look as I should?”

  I assured her she did.

  Appeased, she marched to the window. “Can you see to the flowers for me, Miss Snoopy Socks? Thanks, there’s a good girl. No, Mrs. B said no names. Connan held his tongue, too. Clip- lipped he was, but he was angry. Boilin’ beneath the skin.”

  “They do not lease the cottage through the Hartleys. They are independent, apart from Connan’s working for the shipping company. I am certain that Connan knows something if he was close to Victoria like Miss Perony said.”

  “Pregnant! Not that I’m surprised. She always had that look about ’er. Goin’ up to London so often. Probably snagged Lord Davie that way. Simple country lass can’t learn the tricks here. Had to go to town to do it. Oh yes, saw her drive back with Lord D one day. Grinning like a cat, she was, wearin’ that pink smock her mother made for Christmas. Can’t get past old Ewe. I says to myself that day: that girl’s trouble.”

  Trouble, yes, but deserving of death?

  “And now, pregnant! That explains the ‘quickie’ wedding. Did Lady Muck know about it?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Lady Hartley seems as shocked as the others, as far as I can find out. Obviously, Victoria’s mother didn’t know either?”

  Ewe shook her head. “Mrs. B didn’t know.”

  “Connan knew. I wonder if he’s told the police.” Seeing the dread on Ewe’s face, I followed her gaze. “What? What is it?”

  “They’re here. Our first guests.”

  “Oh. I’ll see to the door.”

  She nodded and fled to the kitchen, leaving me to watch the door. I loved watching the arrivals. I used to hide behind the curtain as a child when company arrived and never appeared to have grown out of the habit.

  This time, however, I was caught peeking behind the lace curtain by a pair of curious, darkly amused eyes, and I scuttled away.

  The eyes belonged to a man, a little older than me, of standard height and bearing wearing casual beige pants and a cream sweater roped around his neck. He looked as if he’d just come from his tennis club and I thought it very bad taste considering Ewe Sin-claire’s formal invitation.