“Daphne!” Ewe summoned. “Do get the door.”
Oh no, dread of dreads. It was bad enough to have been caught watching from the window, worse to have to answer the door and face the consequences.
Adopting a nonchalant approach, I opened the door, prepared to dismiss the incident.
A knowing smirk greeted me. “Brown. Thomas Brown. And you must be the lady at the curtain? Does the lady at the curtain have a name?”
I realized I’d unconsciously barred him from entering, standing there in the middle of the doorway. Something about his manner irked me as I replied, “Mr. Brown. Welcome. Have you just come from work?”
“Work?”
“At the tennis club.”
“Ah,” he smiled, removing the sweater around his neck. “Miss Sinclaire is fortunate to have such an insightful house keeper.”
“House keeper!” I stood back, incensed. “I am no house keeper.”
“And I am no tennis caddy. Shall we call a truce, then?”
Without waiting for a response, he cruised past me and I hoped Ewe hadn’t heard a word of this conversation. She’d be furious with my behavior, for I suspected he was one of her special guests and I hadn’t fulfilled my obligation as the welcomer. Trotting after Mr. Brown, I felt I ought to give him an apology and started to form the words when he laid his sweater over my arm.
“Can you see to this, Miss . . . ?”
“Du Maurier,” I seethed, seeking to fling his sweater somewhere on Ewe’s dusted and gleaming coat stand. I couldn’t say why he annoyed me; I’d only just met him. Perhaps the manner of his entry, yes, that was it. He was not conceited, but a peculiar blend of self- assurance enshrouded him.
The doorbell rang again, and happy to ignore the amiable Mr. Brown trying his charm on Ewe, I let in the remaining guests.
All in all there were three gentleman, although I hesitate to call Mr. Brown a gentleman considering his casual attire, and five ladies not counting myself and Ewe. I was delighted to see Miss Perony among the other ladies, two local unmarried girls in their late twenties who came accompanied by their parents. Thus Ewe had her perfect table of ten and since she’d gone to a great deal of effort, I put the smug Mr. Brown out of my mind to play a gracious guest.
Over luncheon, we spoke of little else but the death. “Mystery death” is what the papers were calling it, and for this sleepy Cornish town, the interest outdid the Germanic threat one to ten.
“It’s in every paper,” one of the girls gushed, fluttering her eyelashes again at Mr. Brown. “Can it be true what they say? Can it be murder?”
“Of course it can,” Ewe chimed, loving any kind of gossip, “the whole village is convinced of it. I know you folk are new here, so please feel free to ask any manner of questions. We’re not the sort to hide things, are we, my dear Daphne?”
“Certainly not,” I chorused, conscious of Mr. Brown’s intent gaze upon me.
Mr. Brown asked me to pass the salt. I did so grudgingly, since this was the third time he’d asked me to pass something to him. First, it was the potato dish; second, the meat tray; third, the salt. What was next?
“And the pepper, too, please.”
Groaning inside, I considered throwing the pepper at him, but I restrained myself, feeling Ewe’s sharp eye monitoring me serving her special guest. Like Mrs. Trehearn, she didn’t miss much, but whereas the former concealed, Ewe did the complete opposite.
Perhaps sensing the tension between us and determined to redirect it, one of the ladies attached herself to Mr. Brown.
“Oh, Mr. Brown, what are your thoughts on the whole affair?”
“A mother’s accusation is no proof.”
“But the secret baby! Mrs. Bastion is right to suspect the Hartleys. If they didn’t think her daughter good enough . . .”
“Social disparities are not motivation for murder,” Mr. Brown replied matter- of- factly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss du Maurier?”
Having run out of table items for me to pass to him, he now roped me into the debate. “Oh, I don’t know,” I accepted the challenge. “If one felt strongly about an issue, one might murder because of it.”
“Lord David or Lady Hartley?”
His dark- green eyes arrested mine.
Blazing at his deliberate baiting to try and make me look a fool, I simply shrugged my shoulders. “The verdict is the verdict.”
“What do you think, Miss du Maurier? You should have some idea, since you’re a regular guest at Padthaway.”
“You’re invited to go there?” cried the girl beside Mr. Brown.
“Yes, at Padthaway,” Ewe name- dropped, “as a guest. She even stayed the night.”
“That’s right,” the mother of the girls nodded. “They mentioned you in the paper. A Miss du Maurier found the body along with Miss Hartley.”
Now, he’d really goaded me. I had wanted to remain somewhat incognito at this luncheon, to gauge everybody’s thoughts and reactions, not to have to deliver my own. “The death is an odd one. I believe something or someone drove her from the house and out to the cliffs that night.”
“A man in a car could be something and someone,” Mr. Brown suggested.
Sending him a scathing look, I added, “If she was driven there, by vehicle or feet, where are her shoes?”
A short silence occupied the table.
“Excellent notion,” the fathers of the girls saluted.
“That’s me clever girl,” Ewe said proudly, letting herself ramble on about my accomplishments.
“Please,” I pleaded, “you embarrass me.”
The family, having learned of my father, now regarded me differently. Mr. Brown, I failed to read. Nothing showed in his face whilst listening to Ewe extolling the virtues of my existence. At the end of it, however, he exhibited a little yawn, which prompted Ewe to clear the table for coffee and cake.
The interim provided the perfect excuse to escape so I waved Ewe down, offering to do all the work.
“I shall help you,” Mr. Brown said, and having risen with plate in hand, gave me no opportunity to refuse.
At the kitchen sink, I took the serving dish from him. “There’s no need, Mr. Brown. Do sit down.”
“I have the distinct impression I’m not wanted around here,” Mr. Brown winked to Ewe. “Do you know what I think?”
“I am not interested in your observations, Mr. Brown.”
A mild smile assailed his lips. “I was actually speaking to Mrs. . . .”
“Mrs. Can’t Remember? Oh.”
I hurried away to save my pride as much as to collect the last of the plates.
“I think,” Mr. Brown said loudly enough for me to overhear, “our sleuth likes her shell.”
“I have no reason to hide,” I countered on my return.
“I inferred no reason. You did, Miss du Maurier.”
So I had and it appeared I had misjudged Mr. Brown. His level of intelligence rose far above my first assumption of him.
“Daphne likes to play tennis, too,” Ewe, wickedly enjoying the battle between us, said whilst strolling by with cake in hand. “Mr. Brown, please bring the cream. Daphne, the knife.”
With our assigned jobs, we returned to the table, where I met the hostile glare of the girl beside Mr. Brown. Understanding her frustration, for I’d distracted Mr. Brown even though I had no interest in him, I sent her a reassuring smile. I was tempted, however, to gush, “Oh, what a lovely couple you make” and see how Mr. Brown handled the situation.
“Speaking of shocks,” Ewe said, her eyes glittering at the cake in front of her, “did anyone see Soames at the funeral? He had no word for the papers and for an eagle like Soames, that’s curious.”
“Perhaps Lord David asked him not to speak to the papers?” Mr. Brown resumed his seat. “He has a right to, as his boss.”
“Lord David would never restrain his employees,” I said, meeting Mr. Brown’s gaze across the table.
“Well, Victoria was a gadabout,” Ewe
declared. “Often saw her drivin’ about and hardly ever alone. She had many a male friend, that one.”
How do you know you’re not the father of my child? The phrase leapt before me, followed by Mr. Cameron’s slow murmur I saw her at a place I cannot call respectable.
“She’s certainly a mystery, this Victoria,” Mr. Brown surmised, echoing my own silent thoughts.
Tea and cake ended Ewe’s fine luncheon in triumph, and eventually, we all collected our bags and coats and filed out the door. Mr. Brown lingered behind, much to the distress of the girl who promptly invited him for dinner. He politely declined, saying he had another important engagement.
“Another engagement?” I dared to ask, waving them off alongside a devilishly proud Ewe.
“Yes,” Mr. Brown smiled, taking his sweater and kissing Ewe’s hand in farewell, “an important fishing trip with my uncle.”
CHAPTER TWENTY- THREE
He kept walking and did not look back. “Who is he?” I felt myself say aloud. “What does he do?”
“Don’t know much about him,” Ewe confessed. “Out- of- towner, obviously. His uncle lives around here but was too sick to come, so Mr. Brown came in his place.”
“He just showed up then? How rude of him.”
“Oh, no,” Ewe corrected me, “he called by after the funeral.”
“He was at the funeral?”
“Yes, that’s where I met him.”
“He seemed to know all about me; like he knew I was staying here, with you?”
Ewe shrugged. “Well, I never mentioned you.”
I wondered about Mr. Brown on my way back to the house. He had an uncle here, he went to the funeral, but what was his business? I was not entirely sure of this Mr. Brown.
Tired from the day’s affairs, I thought I’d visit Padthaway instead of Castle Mor, to visit Miss Lianne and be a friend to her. Hadn’t Lord David himself asked this favor of me? And it was no chore. I was fond of the girl even if she proved a little spoiled, which was not entirely her fault. If she proved a little misplaced in the mind, one could put it down to the bad blood running through her veins.
I found Lianne alone at her Sunday afternoon siesta in the drawing room.
Mrs. Trehearn hovered in the background, asking if I wished a fresh pot of coffee.
“Yes, please,” I smiled. “That would be lovely.”
She departed, her blank expression disconcerting me. I yearned to learn of her experiences with Victoria, the kitchen maid who’d risen from the ranks to future mistress of the house, a woman with the power to fire Mrs. Trehearn if she so pleased.
Sensing Lianne in a good mood, I settled on asking her about Victoria’s last days at the house.
“She was snappy that last week. I should have pieced it together but I thought she was just being her usual self. Now some things begin to make sense.”
“What kind of things?” I asked.
“Oh, just little things like picking at the servants and ranting at poor Annie and Betsy when they accidentally dropped her dress box from London. She accused them of doing it deliberately.”
That sparked my interest. Victoria seemed convinced everybody was against her. “Was the wedding dress damaged?”
“No! It’s still hanging in her room. I’ll take you there when I can steal the key off Mrs. T. She only got it back this morning from Sir Edward.”
So there was only one key to Victoria’s room and Sir Edward had finished his investigation.
“That night, she was drinking more than usual. I remember David kept trying to take the bottle off her but she kept drinking.”
“Why? Was she upset?”
There was no time to answer.
Lady Hartley swept down the stairs on David’s arm and past where we were sitting. Both immaculately cloaked in austere black, they slid into the first humming polished Bentley waiting in the drive.
“Where are they going?” I whispered.
Lianne seemed as surprised as I. “I don’t know. They always shut me out. I’m just the ‘child.’ ”
“You’re not just a child,” I said in her defense. “You’re my friend. And I like having you as friend.”
Happiness gleamed in her face. “Thank you, Daphne. I really like you, too.”
“I love your dress,” I gushed.
She wore a pink lace dress, tied with a neat bow at the back.
“Jenny did it.” She glowed when I said how pretty she looked. “Jenny’s good with bows.”
“Is it a new dress? Did you ask your mother?”
Finding a spot for her little pink bag and gloves, Lianne faced me coyly. “I don’t need Mother’s permission. I’m a grown- up.
“It’s so awful,” Lianne whispered as we went outside to enjoy a spot of sunshine. “I knew she’d been sick one morning but I just thought she drank too much wine. Victoria liked her wine.”
“Not champagne?”
Lianne shook her head. “Mother prefers champagne. Victoria liked red wine. She drank lots of it. She said it ‘relaxed’ her.”
“Oh? Did she become merry and slur her words?”
Lianne reflected. “She got silly at times, but that’s odd. And yet, on the night she disappeared, she drank.”
“She drank what?” I insisted. “What?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lots, I suppose. Lots of what she shouldn’t have . . . if she was carrying a child.”
“Did her drinking affect your brother? What was his reaction?”
My question raised a serious brow of concern. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked such a question.
Mrs. Trehearn chose that moment to make her entry and inquire whether I required more coffee. I said “no” in a cool manner and Lianne quivered behind the chair. When she’d gone, I lifted a brow. “So, you’re scared of her, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not!” came the defensive answer.
“You aren’t but you are,” I revised, and nodded. “It’s understandable. I was scared of three of our house keepers. They’re scary creatures, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lianne laughed. “You scared, Daphne? But I thought nothing frightened you.”
“Oh, death without natural causes frightens me. Doesn’t it you?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s death with a murderous intent,” I explained. “It’s very unpleasant. And very cowardly.”
“Cowardly,” she mused, thoughtful. “Murder makes one strong, doesn’t it?”
Her question disturbed me. I stared unseeing at her for a time. Could she really have murdered Victoria? I wondered.
I walked to Rothmarten Abbey in the rain. It was foolish of me, considering it blew sideways, and by the time I reached the abbey grounds, my soaking skirt clung to my legs in a most unpleasant fashion. Windswept, I entered the abbey through a gust of rain. Not precisely the graceful entrance I wished in the shocking presence of David, Sir Edward, and the abbess.
The three of them gaped, eyebrows lifted in unison.
“You walked all that way in the rain, Miss du Maurier?” Lord David asked, concerned.
“Come in here,” the abbess cried. “You’ll catch a chill.”
I submitted, conscious that I’d interrupted a private meeting between the three of them. “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” I began, accepting a spare habit the abbess handed to me. Taking off my wet clothes, she helped me into it.
“We were only discussing abbey security.”
I suspected a very different subject occupied the three of them. “Did Victoria ever come here?”
“Once,” the abbess replied, guarded. “She came with Lord David.”
She turned and left, leaving me to finish dressing and emerge in my new attire. Sir Edward had gone, but I spied Lord David in a corner with Sister Agatha and his lips curled into a smile when he saw me.
“Is that comfortable?”
“Better than wet clothes,” I said, noting his pale, drawn face, no doubt suffering from many sleepless nights.
Returning to the section where I’d worked under Sister Agatha’s supervision, I commenced where I’d left off, not sure whether I should say something to Lord David or not. What did one say two days after the funeral?
The papers had not been kind, my father said, casting further doubt as to Sir Edward’s ability to investigate his own landlord. Sir Edward had looked grim and I wondered if he’d be replaced.
Lord David said nothing, keeping focused on the job at hand and this in itself helped with the grieving pro cess. I saw one or two nuns pause and shake their heads sympathetically. None of them showed the slightest doubt in his innocence.
Victoria , I petitioned the dusty pigeonholes. What secrets are you hiding?
“Poor laddie,” Sister Sonya crowed beside me. “Not fair if he should hang for that strumpet’s sake.”
The words had tumbled out and Sister Sonya, recognizing her mistake, covered her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me. I shall do penance, speaking ill of the dead.”
She tried to scuttle away but I pulled her back. “Why do you call her a strumpet?”
Her face reddened.
I pleaded with her again.
“Very well,” sighed she. “If ye must know, she’s the spawn of a strumpet. Mrs. Bastion were no Mrs. Bastion when she had her eldest two. Oh no, no. They are the spawn of her rich cousin; that’s why she leases the cottage from him. Mr. Bastion, he came along later. Just a plain old sailor and father of the little ones. But the eldest two . . .” She leaned over to whisper haltingly in my ear, “they are changelings . . . and dangerous ones. Oh, Saint Mary and Joseph!”
The abbess headed straight for us.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I pray Sister Sonya is not regaling you with any untrue tales, Miss Daphne,” the abbess addressed me, casting one mortifying glance in poor Sister Sonya’s direction.
“Oh, no, indeed,” I strived to dispel some of Sister Sonya’s dread. “Her concern was that I should leave Windemere Lane earlier than expected.”
Murder on the Cliffs Page 15
