Murder on the Cliffs

by Joanna Challis

  “A caller! Whoever can be calling at this hour?” Lady Hartley’s demand echoed through the house. “Sir Edward, you say! And he wants to see me.”

  “Yes, my lady. And Lord David.”

  “Show him here, then.”

  Returning to her guests, Lady Hartley shrugged. “I shall have to speak to Sir Edward about his gross sense of decorum. One does not call at this hour. What ever can he want?”

  Sir Edward arrived, two policemen behind him.

  “Forgive my intrusion, my lady, but I’ve come with a warrant.”

  “A warrant!” Lady Hartley shouted. “For who, pray? On what grounds?”

  “For you, Lady Hartley. On the grounds of circumstantial evidence in the murder of Victoria Bastion.”

  “Evidence,” she cried. “What evidence? If you need to arrest someone, arrest Soames. We all know there was something odd between him and Victoria. Imagine. The cook’s girlfriend lands the lord of the house! How that must rile the man’s pride and he’s plenty of it— you only have to ask at the village.”

  “But Mr. Soames was in London at the time—”

  “He planted it beforehand. He’s a cook and he prepared all of Victoria’s meals, probably slipped the solution taking up her morning tea. Oh, yes, he took tea to her sometimes, and I say on that last day he decided to avenge himself or, more accurately, his pride.”

  I glanced up at Lord David. He stood there, watching her, his eyes growing larger by the minute. “Mother, please.”

  “I will not be accused of anything for I am innocent. Of course, I didn’t like the girl— she wasn’t good enough for my son— but I certainly did not poison her.”

  “Ah!” Sir Edward tapped his brow. “There is only one murderer in this room and it is you, my lady.”

  “Preposterous! How do you suppose I killed her? What proof do you have?”

  “Proof of the poison ricin found in a perfume bottle you yourself gave to Victoria Bastion. Proof of Victoria’s own words in her diary naming you as the giver of the gift and, more important, her fear of you. Fear that she would die. Fear that she would never become Lady Hartley because you didn’t want her to be!”

  I’d never seen Lady Hartley silenced before.

  “I suggest, my lady,” Sir Edward said, calm, but firm, “that you come with me now.”

  Staring at her empty champagne glass, she smiled. “The perfume bottle . . .”

  Her tone sounded odd, whimsical.

  “The perfume bottle,” she murmured again.

  “Traces of ricin were found inside that bottle,” Sir Edward reiterated. “Who do you suppose put it there if not you, my lady?”

  Bewildered, she looked at Lianne, me, and David. I could see her mind ticking, wondering who had found the perfume bottle. Lianne? Me? David? Trehearn? Annie? Betsy? Who had thought to turn it into the police?

  Her gaze arrested me. She knew I’d done it. Her great spidery eyes stayed focused on me as she slowly left her chair and followed Sir Edward out of the door, keeping every ounce of her royal hauteur intact.

  Lord David, pacing in the courtyard during Sir Edward’s spiel, looked solemn, shocked, and pensive. Perhaps he, like the rest of us, thought Lady Hartley invincible and above the law.

  Rubbing her eyes, Lianne went to David. “Where are they taking her?”

  David drew Lianne to him. He said nothing, and she didn’t ask again but instead looked at me. She knew I’d taken the perfume puffer, as I had given Sir Edward the diary.

  She feared the future, as many in the district would, without Lady Hartley’s rule.

  “Don’t worry,” David said, “she’ll be back.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY- FIVE

  “Who are you, anyway? Clearly not just a major.”

  Grinning across at me in the car, Major Browning changed the gears. “Because you gave the perfume puffer to me, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I work undercover, for Scotland Yard. ‘When not at sea . . .’ ”

  “You?!”

  Now everything began to make sense. His coming to the area, his interest in the case, and his involvement in all of its details.

  “The knights of justice thought Sir Edward needed a little help,” he went on, amused at my continuing disbelief.

  I recalled the possibility of another investigator looking into the case.

  “I am still a major,” he enforced.

  “And a gentleman, no doubt. I suppose there is no ‘uncle,’ is there?”

  “No,” he laughed, “but if anyone’s asking, George Filligan will say he is. I am, quite truthfully, staying at his humble abode by the sea.”

  I turned to him as we drove through the open gates of Padthaway. “You planned it, didn’t you? You and Sir Edward.”

  He stopped the car and turned to me. “I am going to do something I never do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Trust a woman.”

  He switched off the engine.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “On a case.”

  “And I am the exception?”

  “You are, Miss du Maurier. Without you, Lady Hartley would never have come with us.”

  “You still can’t convict her, can you?”

  “The fact will occur to her in the morning, and no, you are not completely right. We still might be able to convict her without a confession.”

  “If you’re hoping she will give one, she will not.”

  “We will see.”

  He sounded mysterious. “You have a strategy in mind to catch her out, don’t you?”

  “How astute you are.” He started up the engine again. “You had better be getting to bed, Miss du Maurier. Seen out in a parked car with a man of my reputation cannot be good, even though I know you love driving with me.”

  He laughed at my ashen face.

  “Or is our erstwhile Lord David your favorite?”

  My chat with David rose afresh in my mind.

  “The man could not protect his own fiancée from his mother. He’s weak.”

  “He is not weak,” I defended. “He didn’t know . . .”

  “But he suspected. Is that what he told you? I know he’s spoken to you. I can read your face like a book.”

  I sighed as we reached the village and he turned the lights down low on the car. “Yes, he told me everything.”

  “As he should if he is to start courting a new wife.”

  I glared at him. “How could you be so callous?”

  “Because it’s the truth, isn’t it? He’s kissed you, hasn’t he?”

  “No . . .”

  “Word of advice. Don’t lie. Your face is redder than Ewe’s red roses.”

  Drat him. He was far too shrewd for my liking.

  “What did he say? Your loverboy?”

  “He is not my loverboy and I am far more interested in the mystery than men, thank you very much. How shallow do you think I am? If I wanted to protect him and his family, why would I have bothered to hand in the perfume puffer? The diary? The beads?”

  “What beads? Did you find beads as well? What other evidence are you keeping from us?”

  I realized then only Lianne, Ewe, and I knew about the beads. “ ‘To V, Love MSR,’ it said. I asked everyone if they know who MSR is but nobody seems to know.”

  “MSR,” he repeated. “How about Mostyn Summerville Ridge-way, also known as Soames, Ridgeway Soames.”

  “Cousins . . . yes,” I said. Now her words began to make sense. Her fear of Soames alluded to a greater connection than a soured love affair. She feared his jealousy, his need to avenge his pride or, perhaps, her reversal of their “plan.” The plan for her to marry Lord David, give birth to an heir, and steal Padthaway . . . “Cousins . . . it explains how Victoria got the job, and the picture in the paper— the likeness between the younger Bastion boy and Soames . . . I was right.”

  The major was amused. “You should work for us. You have a great mind, if a little . . . imaginative. We’ve interviewed Soames many times. V
ictoria always promised to marry him, since they were children. They kept their relationship secret because of his affair with Lady Hartley.”

  “They can’t have been lovers. She said she kept herself for Lord David in the diary.”

  “Yes, I know. I read that entry, too.”

  “What does Soames say?”

  “He says they had a romance but it never went beyond kissing. Victoria lost interest and both cousins wanted something better.”

  “You mean richer?”

  “Exactly so. So one planned for Lady Hartley and the other—”

  “Lord David,” I whispered. “So Lady Hartley was correct— correct about Victoria. She was an adventuress. Yet her diary paints a very different picture.”

  “She may have had that original plan,” the major concluded. “To marry a rich man, never expecting to fall in love with Lord David and that he would marry her. In saying as much, he wouldn’t have married her without the baby.”

  “No, I don’t think he would have either.”

  “Braving the mother’s disapproval, Victoria knew she’d have to fight for her reputation. Everything was against her, unfortunately, and she made some unwise choices, choices that led to her death.”

  “What unwise choices? Do you mean the secret London visits? What ever she was keeping from Lord David?”

  He nodded. “One shouldn’t keep secrets from one’s fiancé. Not a good start to any marriage.”

  “I think someone was bribing her and she feared losing David over it— a man in her past, perhaps?”

  He smiled. “I do think I’ll recommend you for the service. She was very cautious in her London visits for I cannot track her beyond a hotel.”

  “Does ‘Crow’ or ‘Crowleys’ mean anything to you?”

  “Crowleys? Yes, yes it does. It’s a club, not a club for reputable ladies.”

  “Reputable,” I murmured. “The last time I heard that word was from Bruce Cameron’s lips at the wake. He said he saw Victoria at such a place. He must have meant Crowleys, too.”

  Amazed, he looked across at me. “Where did you hear of Crow-leys?”

  “From Connan Bastion,” I said, proud.

  “The devil . . .”

  “Some people prefer talking to a woman. Perhaps I asked Connan the right questions.”

  “Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from you,” the major conceded, and I left him feeling good.

  A note arrived in the morning.

  Ewe placed it under my door.

  It was from the major.

  Going to London today.

  Meet me at the crossroads at nine.

  I glanced at the time. Eight- thirty. I had half an hour to dress and reach the gate.

  Abandoning any thought of breakfast, I readied myself, Ewe watching me with oversized owl eyes.

  “Sir Edward did it! He really took her and she went with them? I thought they’d have to drag her out.”

  Lady Hartley being dragged anywhere did not fit into the scope of the probable. “They’ll hold her for questions until she confesses.”

  “She won’t confess,” Ewe huffed. “Ain’t the evidence enough?”

  “The only fingerprints on the bottle belong to Victoria.”

  “She were clever then. I bet Trehearn mixed it up.”

  “So do I,” I said. “But they won’t speak. It’s the wall of silence.”

  “No point protecting her now. They’ve got her.”

  Relieved to have achieved the near impossible, leaving Ewe who talked and talked and followed me halfway up the lane, I waited at the crossroads and at a quarter past nine, Major Browning’s motorcar came speeding to a halt. Climbing in, I said, “Ewe thinks Mrs. Trehearn prepared the poison.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” the major laughed, perusing my dismal morning outfit. “No time to dress? When I made such an effort?”

  He had, too, shining there, newly shaven and smelling of cologne, his hair perfect and attired in a smart silver gray suit. “What? Too formal?”

  “Are we going to dine with the Queen?” Groaning at my ordinary day pants and black sweater, I started to smooth back my hair.

  “No point. The wind’ll blow it.”

  He was right, curse him. The only saving grace I possessed was the foresight to have brought along a comb in my handbag. And an umbrella. I’d been caught too many times in the rain recently.

  “Mrs. Trehearn is the strangest creature I have ever encountered,” the major began, grinning at the passing countryside. “Oh, Cornwall. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “We could have caught the train.”

  “Too rattly and there’s nothing better than a long drive when such enchanting company is to be had.”

  He smiled across at me and I suggested he watch the road. “Mrs. Trehearn?”

  “I tried my hardest to wrest a smile from her. A frown, anything, but she has what I never thought I’d find. A genuine stone face.”

  “Therefore she’d make a perfect liar. If the poison can’t be traced and you have no fingerprints, Lady Hartley’s lawyers will dismiss it.”

  “Victoria’s diary is our greatest weapon, along with the housemaids’ testimony. They all knew Victoria received the perfume from Lady Hartley.”

  “What is Lady Hartley saying?”

  “Nothing. She refuses to speak to us without the presence of her lawyer, who, I understand, will be traveling down to Cornwall today from London as we are driving up.”

  I expected as much from Lady Hartley. “Why did she go so calmly last night?”

  “There’s a reason for it,” the major replied elusively.

  He refused to say more and, struggling to hold hair out of my mouth, I intercepted his little smirk. He loved to inspire defiance in me as much as he loved to drive fast, exhibiting his prowess at every bend and hill.

  “You were very secretive about the diary, Daphne. Are you keeping abbey secrets from me, too? Or have you lost interest there?”

  “The Victoria mystery is better. We have to find out who she met that day— the Wednesday she went to London— and if he’s the same man she planned to meet the following week.”

  “The man of the diary?”

  “ ‘Saw him. Went better than expected.’ What do you suppose that means?”

  “I don’t know,” the major replied, “but we will soon find out.”

  Skillfully navigating through the city traffic, he turned down several streets before parking the motorcar at the base of an old gray building boasting long glazed windows, green shutters, and antique balconies.

  “It’s a place where many clandestine events transpire. No place for a lady like you,” he said, getting out the car.

  “No place for a true gentleman either, I suspect.”

  “I never said I was a gentleman,” he replied.

  The club existed on the fifth floor, up a flight of narrow, winding stairs so steep I wondered how the inhabitants managed to climb down after their indulgences. A red carpet guided the last flight, leading up to a pair of double wooden doors bearing great lion- head handles and a stern- faced guardian. “Not open till twelve . . .”

  The major slipped him a card and the white- suited man stood aside.

  “Welcome to Crowley’s,” the major invited. “Try the barman. My attempts have failed so it’s up to you.”

  I entered the club to the sound of a record playing, an Italian operetta, the cleaners looking up at our unexpected approach.

  Spying the barman sprucing crystal glasses, a wizened old man well acquainted with life and its foibles, I sat down on a bar stool, a timid, lost smile on my face. “Hello, I know you’re not open yet, but I’m wondering if you can help me. A lady used to come here . . . a tall, beautiful girl, dark hair, violet eyes—”

  “Victoria Bastion. The murdered girl.”

  The curt directness put me off guard. “Why, y-yes . . . I am a friend of hers . . . she used to meet somebody here and I need to contact him. It’s very important.�
��

  The wily old fellow smirked, his keen gaze monitoring a whistling Major Browning’s casual forage about the room. Recognition sparked and caution set in, reflected by sharpening eyes and a gruff sneer.

  “Oh, please, sir.” I tried my damsel in distress appeal. “It’s urgent I find this man. I have something of Victoria’s to give to him.”

  My act must have succeeded for his eyes softened a little.

  “The fellow you’re after usually comes here at three . . . for his whiskey. Want to wait?” He pointed to a curved lounge area.

  “No, but we’ll be back. Thank you so very much.” I patted his hand. “You’re a very kind man.”

  “Well done.” The major whistled once outside the door. “Your tactics do have their charm.”

  He was treating me as one would treat a partner. I liked the treatment, for it opened a new world for me, a world of research I could use in my writing.

  “Have you thought of where to stay for the night yet?” Starting up the engine, he drove out of the building with a grin. “You can always stay with me.”

  “I’ll stay with my family.”

  “What’s your excuse for rushing to London for one night?”

  “To collect my typewriter,” I said. “My father bought me a new one.”

  He nodded, pleased. “Good. You can tell me what you plan to do with this typewriter on the way to lunch.”

  “Lunch!”

  “Naturally, one has to eat.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY- SIX

  The scarlet letters of Crowley’s loomed before me.

  Tucking a wisp of hair behind my ear, I paused on the landing and imagined Victoria’s entrance to the infamous club.

  Unlike my plodding arrival, I fancied I heard her quick, light step running up the stairs full of purpose and gaiety. On the landing, she stood still, her poise perfect, her figure a dream in her little red suit, a diamond- shaped feather hat and string of lavender beads gracing her beauty. Dancing off her wrist was a lady’s purse, red and beaded, with a mirror and a tube of lipstick inside.

  The doors to Crowley’s swung open, the rigid- faced guardian charmed by her, all eyes drawn to this mysterious beauty traversing through the dimly lit private lounges. She drifted past the bar, bestowing a gracious smile to one admirer, and sailed toward the far back where a man waited under the shade of a greenish lamp.