Murder on the Cliffs (18 page)

“He was
given
the car by her ladyship. Oh, yes, oh, yes.”

I blinked at Ewe Sinclaire’s saucer eyes. “I trust you had a nice day, too?”

“Don’t ye give me your smart lip, miss. I’ve a mind, and I nearly did trot to the post office to call ye father today.”

Dropping my things in my room, I faced her with a weary turn. “And what stopped you?”

“I found out our Soames was
given
that fancy car he drives by Lady Hartley— a bonus. For what service, one can only imagine, for Lady H, I hear, gives him
private
menu instructions every morning in the drawing room. Have ye seen anything while ye’ve been up there? That Soames is worth investigatin’, if ye ask me.
He
hired Victoria, remember.
He,
Lady H’s lover, the cook!”

Something in her rambled speech made perfect sense. “Of course,” I mouthed. “Of course!”

“Of course what?”

Stirring what ever concoction she was making on the stove, Ewe waited for the revelation, one arm poised on her generous hip. “What’s the plan next, then?”

“I’ll go to Padthaway. I’ll find
some
reason to go to the kitchen, to talk to Soames. Ridgeway Soames,” I mused, “such an
odd
name for a Cornishman. Who is his family?”

“No idea.” Ewe shrugged. “A cagey one, that Soames. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he and Victoria were, ye know . . .”

“Having an affair?” I pondered aloud. “Ewe.” I rang up to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re amazing! Of course, yes, of course, there was something between him and Victoria. Why else would he hire her?”

“Hmm.” Ewe rolled her eyes. “A pretty face didn’t strike ye smarty mind, did it?”

“I’m not clever in the least,” I defended myself. “But you’re right, Ewe. A pretty face is not the only answer. And if it began as the only answer, it ended up quite differently. I need to speak to Connan.”

“Connan Bastion?”

I nodded, still deep in thought. “Where does he work? Do you know, Ewe?”

She confessed she knew the name and location of the shipping company Connan Bastion worked for, and owned by the Hartleys.

“It’s a fair distance, though,” she warned. “Can’t get there by foot.”

I was grabbing my coat and bag.

“Neither by train,” Ewe’s shout assailed me, “for there is none. The boys go there by company boat.”

Defeated, I collapsed on my bed with a sigh. Trust the lack of local transport to thwart my investigative efforts!

“Any ideas on how to get there?” I called out.

“Well.” Ewe rounded the corner, wide- eyed, and saucy wooden spoon in hand. “Ye could ask Mr. Brown. He has a car, y’know. And he’s only a telephone call away.”

“I’ll not ask him,” I said proudly. “What is he, anyway? Has he any profession?”

“I think he’s a gentleman,” Ewe sighed romantically, “or in the army. I don’t know which, but he don’t
work
for a living. He has means. I know that much. And a much better catch, I might add, than your fancy Lord David.

“I mean,” Ewe continued, “if ye really serious about this murder and all that, a little phone call ain’t goin’ to do any harm, is it?”

So I called Mr. Brown, against my better judgment.

And he came, right on cue.

“Are you certain,” he asked, driving his little nondescript motorcar, so unlike the polished numbers belonging to the Hartleys, “someone isn’t paying you to investigate this sordid affair?”

“Sordid affair? Mr. Brown, the only sordid part in this whole affair is the lack of an answer.”

“An answer?”

“An answer to the eternal question: Who killed Victoria and why?”

“So you believe she was murdered?”

“I don’t know. She was a girl of many secrets.”

“Yes, I know,” he murmured. “Your Mr. Cameron, who said he spoke to you at the funeral, inferred he’d seen her at a few clubs in London. Not the kind of clubs respected ladies frequent.”

“Was she hunting Lord David, do you think?” I couldn’t believe I was asking this arrogant stranger a question so close to my heart.

“Possibly” came the expected reply. “She must have had a job there at one point.”

“In London, do you mean?”

He nodded, nosing his noisy little motorcar into the docks where Connan Bastion worked.

“What do you intend on asking Victoria’s brother? Do you want me to wait?”

“Yes, please,” I said, sending him a grateful smile. “Connan is comfortable with me.”

“Of course he is,” Mr. Brown said under his breath. “You’re a beautiful girl, or don’t you realize?”

Blushing, I left the car in search of Connan. Despite the favor of a drive, I still disliked Mr. Brown and hated to have no choice but to rely upon him. And I did not appreciate the implication of his tone.

A series of whistles led me to the waiting ship. Aboard, Connan detected me and promptly deserted his position.

“What are ye doin’ here?”

A good question and I had no intention of wasting his time. “I was up all night thinking. Please, Connan, tell me, did Victoria often go to London? Did she work there? Did she know any gentleman fellow? A Mr. Cameron or another? Did she speak of any?”

And then in a hushed tone I told him about the letter.

“You see, for her to write about such doubts that could break up a wedding, there must have been another suitor around. A friend of Victoria’s, mayhap? Why would Lord David be concerned he might not be the father of her child?”

Biting his lips, Connan shifted his feet from one side to the other.

“You
do
know of someone, some other man,” I persisted.

He still shifted his feet. “I knew she was going to town, but she never told me anything.”

“This other man might have killed her, Connan. Out of spite or revenge.”

Hugging his head between his hands, he cried angry tears, the tears glistening on the edges of his magnificent violet eyes that were so much like Victoria’s.

“She were worried someone wanted to kill her. She told me so, the day before, a week before.”

“Who she was scared of? Lady Hartley? Lord David? Some other man?”

“She said: ‘Someone doesn’t want me to be mistress of Padthaway and I’m not sure I want to be either. It’s too dangerous.’ ”

“She said that? It’s too dangerous?” I paused to think. “Dangerous because she could be bribed? As a rich man’s wife?”

Connan colored. “It weren’t me! I did ask for a bit here and there, but nothin’ but pocket change to a man like Lord David.”

“And then he refused you, didn’t he? Did Victoria know?”

“I told her.”

“What was her reaction?”

“Angry. She said she’d speak to him, and that he was only trying to protect her. Protect her! Protect her from her own
brother,
I say! Well, in the end, he couldn’t do that, could he? Protect her. She’s dead and she won’t come back no more.”

Something about that last phrase caught at me.
She won’t come back no more.
I was reminded of mad old Ben, the gardener at Padthaway, with those strange rounded, vacant eyes.

A horn sounded from the dock.

“That’s me foreman. I’ve got to get back to work.”

I joined him a little of the way.

“How’d ye get here then?”

I read the suspicion in his eyes. “A Mr. Brown drove me. Do you know him? He comes to Windemere to visit his uncle.”

“Yeah, I know him. I don’t want him knowin’ my business tho’. Already got me in enough trouble with work.”

“I assure you I won’t say a word.
Our
talks remain private, and if you think of anyone Victoria may have been afraid of, even if it’s the
smallest
thing that comes to mind, a clue perhaps, you will come and see me, won’t you?”

“Yeah, all right, Miss Daphne.”

“How did you find him? Helpful?”

I avoided the question.

Mr. Brown stopped the car.

“We had an agreement, Mr. Brown,” I said. “You agreed to drive me. No questions asked.”

I watched the muscle in his lower jaw contract. “I promised Connan and if I can’t keep to my word, I fear he might run away and never tell a soul.”

We spent the remainder of the drive home discussing the prize if one of us should prove to be right about our suspicions. I regretted the loss of my independence, but I thanked Mr. Brown, trusting my cordial tone sounded genuine.

“If you ever need me again,” he grinned, “on Sir Edward’s case or at the abbey, let me know.”

He drove off and I wondered if he was one of those treasure hunters the abbess warned me of. I worried he stalked the abbey at night, looking for a way inside, intending to steal the scrolls and sell them to one of the museums who wanted them so desperately. Since the abbey and the Hartley family only fulfilled the role as “keepers” and not owners, they could do nothing once the scrolls passed out of their hands.

I thought I had better warn Lord David of Mr. Brown. If I experienced the slightest tinge of guilt in doing so, I suppressed it. Mr. Brown had merely done me a favor. I owed him nothing, and the Hartleys came first.

Betsy answered the door. “Oh, miss! I don’t know where Miss Lianne is, or Lord David. I
do
know Lady H is headin’ to the greenhouse. I saw her, and if you go through there, ye’ll catch her in time.”

I hurried in the direction she pointed. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. I was finally going to see the green house where Mrs. Trehearn made her infamous tonics.

“Lady Florence,” I called out, and her ladyship paused.

“Daphne,
darling
. How nice of you to visit.”

I gestured to the small plant tucked under her arm. “May I join you? I’d love to see the green house.”

“It’d be a plea sure, Daphne.”

We meandered through the lush maze of the hot house, the entrance lurking under a wisteria- laden porch at the rear of the house. Partially attached to the southern end of the conservatory and surrounded by green wilderness, I loved the feeling inside, the light, the spasms of color, the reflection from the clean white glass windows and the aromas, sweet, pungent, and deadly.

Ricin came from the castor bean, and I glimpsed no evidence of anything remotely connected to the poison that killed Victoria as I sniffed around, following Lady Hartley through the labyrinth.

“I’m very happy you decided to visit Windemere Lane, Daphne. It is so nice to have someone of quality, someone who
understands
our ways.”

Our ways or your ways, Lady Hartley?
I said silently.

Reflecting on her own words, she smirked, her spidery eyes whimsical. “I suppose you think me heartless . . . like the wicked witch, I daresay, but I don’t hide what I am. I never thought Victoria right for my son and time will prove it.”

“Prove what, my lady?”

She stopped by a willowy orchid. “Prove I was right about that girl. She set out to entrap David— to elevate herself above her wretched beginnings. Probably planned it with her mother— despite what they say, all these commoners just desire one thing.”

“And what is that?”

She looked surprised. “Why, to be one of us, of course. I have it in mind to ask you a great favor, Daphne. It is a small trifle, perhaps, but one that will satisfy my little problem.”

I lifted a caustic brow.

“You see, I’m afraid Lianne’s education has been somewhat neglected and Jenny said you offered to teach her a thing or two while you’re here on holiday. She would benefit greatly from someone of your
caliber
and I would be eternally grateful.”

“I should love to do so, Lady Florence.”

“Good.” She rubbed her hands as though rid of an irritant. “I know the done thing is to send the child away to school, as you were, but Lianne has that little problem.”

I might have seized the opportunity to ask more of Lianne’s problems inherited from her ill- fated father and Lady Hartley’s dead husband had not Mrs. Trehearn chosen then to invade the peace.

I shivered. The woman put one immediately on guard, and I thought she’d make a splendid sinister character for a book one day. A creepy house keeper, unsmiling, her black gown tracing the darkened corridors of the house.

I made an effort to be civil to Mrs. Trehearn. Her wintry face looked frightening as she snipped away at her plant, her black eyes intense on the unsuspecting floral victim.

“The sleeping tonic you make for me,” Lady Hartley prompted, “I wish you to make for dear Daphne’s father. Such a busy man— I am sure he will appreciate it.”

Dear Daphne.
Another elevation for me. Dare I concede to vanity and revel in it?

Lady Hartley was still prattling on about me. “I
do
so want Daphne to invite her family down . . . do you know her father
dines
with the prime minister? Yes,
dines,
Trehearn. Incredible, isn’t it?”

Not required to answer, Mrs. Trehearn continued to snip her little plant while I took another turn about the room, sneezing at the odd plant.

“Hot houses are dangerous to some,” Mrs. Trehearn said, handing me a handkerchief. “You ought to be careful, Miss du Maurier.”

Her black eyes intensified.

Did she mean to warn me, I wondered?

For my first lesson with Lianne, I suggested a picnic and invited Jenny Pollock to come along with us.

Jenny was overjoyed.

“Ye want an old thing like me hangin’ about?” Her plump cheeks blossomed. “I ain’t done a picnic in years!”

I liked Jenny and I had a double motive for inviting her. I wanted to learn more about David and Lianne’s father.

We went down to see Soames about the food. While Lianne chattered on excitedly, he followed my instructions and I thought this natural, relaxed environment the ideal time to ask how he became cook at Padthaway.

His smug expression told me more than I wanted to know. “Lady Hartley purloined me from Sir Edmund Hillary.”

I cringed at the emphasis on “purloin.”

“Is there anything else you wanted to ask me, Miss Daphne?”

I didn’t like the way his eyes challenged mine, judging my motive for coming to Padthaway.

“Do you want to ask me about Victoria?”

My sideways glance went to Lianne but she’d already left, carrying our basket of goods and calling for me to hurry.

“This case is in no hurry, is it? We all know Sir Edward won’t arrest Lord David. He hasn’t the gumption.”

Another spur on Sir Edward’s reputation. “Did you know any of her family? Victoria’s? Is that how she came to work here?”

Crossing his arms, Soames grinned. “You’re a plucky one, aren’t you? Do you think finding the body gives you special license to conduct your own investigation?”

“Well, yes,” I said simply. “I believe it does.” And repeated my question.

“No, I knew none of her family,” he quickly replied, and turning his back on me, resumed stacking plates in the kitchen.

“Good- day then, Mr. Soames.” I walked out, raising an eyebrow for his rapid reaction, indicating that maybe he did know her family, for how else had she gone to work at Padthaway? I wondered if Sir Edward had had any more success with Soames. He was a cagey fellow, Lady Hartley’s Friday man, her personal driver, chef, and lover. The description gave him power here at Padthaway, but did he have the power to murder? He might have been a jealous ex- lover of Victoria’s or just a man interested in her and spurned for the rich Lord David.

It was difficult to concentrate on the lesson I’d planned for Lianne. Outdoors, when the precious sunshine beckoned, I almost wished that I’d come out here alone to lay on my blanket on the grass and curl up with a good book.

A good book I did have, and settling on a grassy pasture overlooking the sea, I drew out the book while Jenny spread the blanket. “As your newly ordained governess,” I teased Lianne in my best schoolmistress tone, “I wish you to read the first chapter, please.”

She stared at me in horror. “I . . . I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

Her frightful glance went to Jenny before she stormed off, once again the moody teenager.

Jenny stopped twirling the wildflower in her hand. “She ain’t no reader, my Lee Lee. Trehearn tried to force her once, so did Miss Perony, but the words get muddled in her brain. Didn’t Lady Muck mention the readin’ problem to ye?”

“No, but I suppose she alluded to it, now that I think of it.”

Jenny nodded, resuming her seat on the blanket. I followed suit, dismayed by this revelation. “Does she need glasses?”

“They tried that. She stomped on the three pairs, sayin’ it weren’t her eyesight.” Jenny sighed. “I really don’t know. The poor child’s been through so much . . .”

I asked about Lianne’s father.

“Lady Hartley had a fancy doctor down from London once— it were after his lordship shot himself. The silly doc said the child were mentally ill like her father because she lied about seein’ him puttin’ the gun to his head. Lady H washed her hands of it and Lee Lee became what they branded her.”

A consummate liar, like her father.
Sensing Jenny’s strong disapproval of Lady Hartley’s lack of maternal instinct, I smiled. “Poor Lianne. She’s lucky to have you.”

A softness shaded Jenny’s eyes. “I’m just a hanger- on, as they say. But I couldn’t bear to leave this place . . . or my two kittens.”

The hanger- on nurse. She lived for her “children” and received board as payment, forever guaranteed a place because she could handle Lianne. “So was Lianne’s father mad?”

Jenny fiercely shook her head. “He weren’t mad, or if he were, it was
she
that sent him that way. As if
that
woman ever cared for anyone but herself.”

That woman.
Lady Hartley had used a similar term to describe Victoria. I mulled over the women of the house. Lady Hartley and Victoria. Jenny and Lady Hartley. Lady Hartley and Mrs. Trehearn. They all seemed to dislike one another and yet they cohabited. Jenny because of Lianne, Mrs. Trehearn because she served a function other than house keeping, and Victoria . . . Victoria . . .

Lianne returned, breathless. “I went to the cove.”

Her eyes were unusually bright and I shivered while Jenny starting arranging the lunch.

“Are you cold, Daph?”

She gazed at me like a little girl now, innocent incredulity. “I have a wrap. Do you want it?”

“No, I’m fine,” I smiled. “You didn’t happen to see any shoes down there, did you?”

“Shoes?” A scowl deepened her brow. “Whose shoes?”

“Victoria’s.” I glanced out at the sea, thoughtful. “It makes some sense that if she went midnight walking, even in her nightgown, she must have had shoes. Or at least taken them with her.”

I had opened the subject and ignored Jenny’s disapproving eye.

I saw Lianne’s contemplating the thought. “You’re clever to think of shoes, Daphne. Sir Edward hadn’t thought of them, I’m sure. Isn’t Daphne clever, Jenny?”

Jenny stiffened. “We’ll not be discussin’ this. It bodes no good.”

Who for? I wanted to argue. Why not discuss the mystery openly like everyone else? What did these people at Padthaway have to hide? Who were they trying to protect?

I don’t think I really wanted the answers to my own questions.

After lunch, which passed pleasantly for the sun held and the wind kept at bay, Lianne agreed to try the book.

“I’ll
try
reading with you, Daphne. It’s just Mrs. T I can’t stand. I
hate
her.”

“Lee Lee!” Jenny cried.

An unrepentant Lianne shrugged. “Why should I hide the truth? I’ve always hated her.”

“Miss Daphne,” Jenny prodded me, “don’t let her speak that way.”

“I understand it though, for we’ve had our share of bad governesses. My sister Angela and I made up names for them. We had Cross Nurse Rush; Grumpy H’m H’m, who hummed everywhere she went; Nurse Bun, who was fat and loved food; and Miss Torrance, who wasn’t a bad governess on reflection but restricted our freedom.”

“You see, Jenny!” Lianne cheered. “At last,
someone
understands me! But I’m afraid Daph is far too clever for me . . .”

I shook my head. “Do you know, when I arrived at the finishing school in France, they had the audacity to place me in the
lower
class. Yes, it’s true. They had four classes. The
première
for the elitist, bright Frenchies, as I used to call them; the
deuxième A
, who were able but not brilliant;
deuxième B
, who were somewhat inferior; and lastly, the
troisième
, the dud class. And,” I went on dramatically, “after a test, my friend Dodie and I were put in
deux-ième B
. I took some comfort I wasn’t with the duds, or toads as Dodie and I called them, but it was
extremely
mortifying.”

Listening, Lianne still looked doubtful. “I’d be with the toads.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “Now, here is your first lesson, Miss Lianne Hartley, and remember it well for I shan’t give it again.”

She braced herself, a whimsical smile playing on her lips.

“Classes don’t matter. What matters is
choice
. You have the choice to progress or to give up. Those who give up are the toads.”

Thin brows breeding defiance lifted.

“
Cowards,
” I emphasized.

The defiance sharpened and she caught the book I threw at her. “Now start practicing. Concentrate on the story, not the words, and put yourself in Robinson Crusoe’s shoes. I know I do.”

The novelty of being a male embarking on a great adventure swept away all of Lianne’s inhibitions and we settled down to an entertaining afternoon.

However, my feet remained not with Robinson Crusoe but with Victoria and her missing shoes.

The desire to see Victoria’s room grew within me to a wild urge, beckoning, unrelenting, drawing me to that part of the house time and time again.

“The trouble is,” Lianne whispered to me on the way back from our picnic, “Trehearn’s got the key with her all the time. She doesn’t carry other keys around with her. Interesting, isn’t it?”

Very much so. Why cordon off the room? Why carry
that
key and not the others? Had Lady Hartley or David ordered it locked?

I could understand the emotional aspect from David’s point of view. If he truly loved her it would be terribly romantic to keep a room exactly the way it was the day she left it. However, from a murderer’s point of view, how clever to keep it shut from prying eyes.

Sir Edward had finished with the room, supposedly not finding anything of interest there. Perhaps he’d overlooked something.

“Come on,” Lianne nudged me, her whisper conspiratorial and full of mischief, “I’ll take you to the
forbidden
room.”

“Did Victoria choose this room or did your mother choose it for her?”

“Mother suggested it,” Lianne grinned. “I think Victoria wanted Mother’s room and asked David. Davie sorted it out.”

I imagined the scene: a man caught between two women, both wanting the best room in the house. From Victoria’s standpoint, she thought herself entitled to it as David’s bride, while the room had belonged to Lady Hartley for years.

Heading along the breezy corridor, I put myself in Victoria’s place. If I were a young bride I’d want Lady Hartley’s room, too. I felt sure Victoria felt the same way, her purpose in moving here a step toward the end goal as mistress of the house. How this must have enraged Lady Hartley.

“Davie said Victoria could have this room instead. The King’s Chamber. It’s the best room after Mummy’s.”

I stared at the old oak door, alive with a history of its own. Elusively locked, I suspected the key matched those of the era, heavy and ornate. I wanted it. I wanted to see
her
room.

Mrs. Trehearn proved a cagey guardian, catching us standing there, her black eyes taunting me.
You want to see the room, don’t you, Miss Daphne? You’ve always wanted to see it.
They were never voiced, but I saw the words there as she pointed her little chin downward and rattled the key before me.

“Well, then, do you want to see it?”

“Are we allowed to? Will Sir Edward mind?” I asked, shocked.

Mrs. Trehearn’s answer was to open the door.

My heart beat faster and faster. There had to be some clue inside here, some clue the police had missed, some clue as to what had happened that tragic night.

Lianne pushed in ahead. “Come on, Daphne. Come and see.”

The King’s Chamber was a masculine room, owing to its name, with a heavy canopied four- poster bed dominating the expanse, cavalier tapestries and paintings adorning the walls, the thick Turkish rugs below one’s feet, and a Georgian lady’s dresser gracing the back wall, bearing eerie remnants of its dead owner.

Other remnants of Victoria’s presence remained, including a wardrobe full of clothes and accessories, shoes, and a coat slung over the coat stand. Innately curious, I touched each item as I explored, caressing the fine silk sheets of her bed, her underclothes; the satins, the laces; admiring the subtle elegance reflected everywhere.

Victoria had a keen sense of taste and style, most of it neat and orderly; however, there was an impression of haste that disturbed the peace of the room.

Returning to the front door where Mrs. Trehearn still stood guard, her blank face squashing any attempt at conversation I may have made, I envisaged Victoria on the night of her death. What had happened? The row with Lord David, heard by Betsy and Annie, the disturbance at the dinner table, her drinking . . . then she runs back to her room in an emotional state, flings off her coat and shoes, dumps her purse on the dresser before storming to her wardrobe. Tearing off her evening dress, she changes into her nightgown.

Her nightgown. If she was upset and angry and planned to go for a walk, why get into her nightgown?

Even in an enraged, erratic moment, surely one could manage to take a pair of shoes? I thought of the rocky part on the cliffs, not exactly pleasant for bare feet.

“Has your brother ever been back here, Lianne?” I whispered out of Mrs. Trehearn’s earshot.

Flicking through a magazine left by the sleek bedside table, Lianne didn’t hear me.

It was a bridal magazine and I drew closer, observing the queer look on her face. Did I imagine it or did Lianne smile?

“Here it is,” she found the page she was looking for. “Victoria wanted this wedding gown but some Italian opera singer snapped it up. She got into an awful rage about it. I don’t know why. The wedding dress she ordered as second best is beautiful. Did you see it?”

I stared at her, dismayed. She spoke so heartlessly of the woman who had carried her brother’s child and was to become his wife. “You hated her, didn’t you?”

Shrugging, Lianne led me to the wardrobe to see the wedding dress. “She didn’t love Davie. She trapped him with the baby just like Mummy says. And she wanted his money. His money and his title.”

“Did she ever try to talk to you about her love for David?”

Lianne shook her head, hunting through the very back of the closet to find the dress, hanging there eerily white and shining with a myriad of pearls and beads and crystals, a lovely dress fit for a princess.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Lianne sniffed. “They had to alter it and there was something wrong with it, that’s why she went up to London on the Wednesday. Or so she said.”