Murder on the Cliffs (9 page)

A scrappy note awaited me at Ewe’s cottage.

Daphne Dearest!

Imagine! Poison! Ooh, it’s getting very interesting ,

isn’t it? I must peddle the news about.

Oh, and, can you be a dear and wash the dishes?

See you soon.

E

Wash the dishes? I hadn’t performed such a menial task in years. Raising my eyebrows, I pulled up my sleeves and imagined how it might be done. I thought of the brief moments I’d seen the servants in the kitchen at our houses. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult?

Water on the boil, I stacked the dirty assortment into the sink and located the plug. Rummaging through Ewe’s messy, disorganized cupboards below, I found “washing powder” of a kind, shrugged, and sprinkled it in the water. It foamed and bubbled and seemed the right thing to use. Adding a scrubbing utensil and scourer to the mix, I successfully, and I must admit, rather cheerfully, finished the job as I analyzed this latest development.

Poison! Now the verdict had to change to murder or suicide.

Although it did not seem that Victoria had reason to take her own life, what did one truly know of another’s private pressures, struggles, and secrets?

“Lo!” Ewe’s stormy entrance was full of her usual penchant for drama. “It’s poison! Murder!”

Removing her hat, scarf, and gloves, she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “This is certain to topple her ladyship from her throne, mark my words. We all know one of them at the house killed the girl. Sly of them, mixing poison in her food—”

“
Was
it in her food?”

“They found doses of ricin in her. Comes from the castor bean, you know. Clever of them to use it. And how else do you think it got there if she didn’t eat it?”

“It could be accidental poisoning,” I pointed out. “It has happened before . . . remember that young mother in Devon? I forget what the plant was, just a common one, and she had it by her bed in her room and during the night, couldn’t breathe, and the next morning she was found dead.”

“But wait.” Halting her breath, Ewe placed a hand over her heart. “You haven’t heard the worst.”

She paused, as was her annoying custom, and blinked. “Bet the abbess said nothin’ though she would’ve known.”

My patience had run out. “Known what, Ewe?”

“Victoria was three months pregnant.”

“A baby!”

“Oh yes, a baby,” Ewe said, nodding. “Want to keep it all hush-hush. More fools them. Worse, how it’s now come out. I suppose they’d have the weddin’ and then the baby comes along early. Ay, it’s all about hushin’ up a scandal, if ye ask me.”

I gaped at Ewe, thunderstruck.

“Now
there’s
a good reason for murder. Lord Davie thinkin’ the child’s his and he finds out it isn’t and kills her.”

I slowly digested her summary. “Wouldn’t it be easier to call off the wedding if he found out the child isn’t his? Why kill her?”

“Not if she threatened blackmail.”

“Blackmail? What elaborate scheme are you conjuring up now?”

“No elaborate scheme,” Ewe whispered. “But I can tell you, my dear girl, that those Hartleys have long been immersed in nefarious affairs.”

“What kind of affairs?”

Suddenly coy, she briefly closed her eyes. “I don’t like to say. But since you’re practically
family,
I’ll mention a few. Smuggling, for one.”

A long pause ensued.

“Extortion. Fraud. Hmm, and that old Lord Hartley was a very bad fellow. And Lady Muck, humph! She’s the devil’s apprentice.”

“Devil’s apprentice,” I mused to myself afterward. Would Lady Hartley, robbed of her position of power and prestige, have murdered her pregnant daughter- in- law and made the crime look like suicide?

I shuddered, thinking of Victoria, scrambling for life. It had been a full tide that evening and the tide has been known to catch even the most stalwart sailors unaware.

As I mulled over the facts of the case, the next invitation to Hartley House arrived in the childish hand of Lianne Hartley.

Dafne

I hope thats how you spell your name?

I and my brother want to invite you to high tea at our house.

Please come at 3.

Lianne Hartley

“There you have it,” Ewe remarked before I left the cottage. “You don’t see the Bastion’s puttin’ up any visitors, do ye? Havin’ high teas, and the like? Does that mean they’re guilty?”

I pulled on my gloves. “Or numbed by the . . .” The what? I couldn’t even find a word to describe it. The horror? The tragedy? The . . . murder?

Plain and simple, and yet, as far as I’d heard, the verdict had not been changed and nobody had been charged with the supposed crime.

Ewe followed me to the door, down the garden path, to the cottage gate, and further down the lane. “Well, be careful, then. Folk go missin’ up there and that Mrs. T, Trehearn, none of us like her or trust her. Used to be one of us. Now she thinks herself too good to associate down here.”

“I will be careful,” I promised, and kissed her cheek and set off on my merry way. “Lianne Hartley needs a friend and since I am involved in this affair whether I wished it or not, I shall go.”

The walk to Padthaway filled me with a nervous apprehension.

The house ached to yield its secrets. It yearned for a friend, someone who understood it.

I liked to think I understood such ancient houses. I liked to think I knew a great deal about life, about people and their emotions, but really I was an innocent. I sensed this time in Windemere Lane would teach me a vast thing or two.

I smiled, enjoying the glorious Cornish coastline. I’d opted to take the walk through the woods down to the sea to breathe its fresh salty air and ripened sense of danger. The ocean had always been a changeling; no one could ever read it, not even the greatest fisherman or sailing captain. Changeable and unreadable, the sea was like Victoria Bastion, a simple country girl who’d transcended into a complex victim.

Victim. Perhaps I was wrong to call her that, for she had lived large and hard, climbing from class to class, embracing new friends and exploring new boundaries.

I turned up the road to Padthaway and wondered what kind of reception awaited me.

The great house dawned and I stepped up to its austere, imposing silence and boldly rang the bell.

“Ah, Miss du Maurier,” Mrs. Trehearn greeted. “Her ladyship will see you now. Leave your coat here, if you please.”

Summoned to Lady Hartley on arrival. Did the summoning entail some unpleasantness? What ever the case, I dreaded the moment I would be left alone in Lady Hartley’s presence.

“Her ladyship’s rooms are in the west wing,” Mrs. Trehearn informed.

I followed her along the eerily quiet and sunny paneled corridor leading toward the sea.

“This is the oldest part of the house,” Mrs. Trehearn said. “The eastern wing suffered a fire during the civil war, but the fire never reached the west. It remains largely untouched, as it was in 1558.”

“What of the tower?” I asked, pausing to admire the view from one of the graceful arched windows.

“The tower is a ruin.” Mrs. Trehearn made the sign of the cross over her breast. “A
cursed
ruin. This way now.”

We climbed up a wide stairway leading to two magnificent bronze doors. At least two times my height, they reached up to the cathedral groin vaulted ceilings above, decorated by an impressive fresco of biblical design, the doors sporting a huge pair of lion-head golden handles to finish the picture.

Mrs. Trehearn’s long bony fingers sprawled across the handle of the door. “They are Moorish—”

“Thank you, Mrs. T. I’ll take over from here.” Lord David stood in the darkened corridor opposite, casually observing us. There was something about his approach that suggested he’d been waiting for our arrival.

I could have wept with relief.

A startled Mrs. Trehearn frowned. “My lord! But her ladyship said—”

“
I
am master here” was the cool response.

Mrs. Trehearn nodded deftly and left.

“I apologize for the intrusion, Miss du Maurier,” Lord David smiled, “but I wish to speak with you.”

Wish to speak with me?
My heart thundered inside my chest. He had a magnetism about him that I found irresistibly charming. He knew he possessed it, too, I ascertained by the look in his eyes and the way he spoke, so cultured and refined, even in grief. I found myself studying the sleepless shadows around his eyes.

An elusive smile tempered his lips. “Will you allow me to give you a quick tour of the house, Daphne?”

“I’d be delighted,” I replied, and accepted his arm.

Drawing me away from the Moorish doors, he guided me slowly down the southern passageway. His proximity, his very
alive
proximity, and the fact that he might very well be a murderer, tripled my senses and warning bells endlessly tolled inside my head.

“I wanted to show you the library,” he began, his voice low and resonant in the silence.

I managed a nod.

“We can talk alone there.”

Talk alone? What about?
Respecting his need for privacy, I endeavored to keep my curiosity at bay. I thought of Mrs. Trehearn, rushing away to report to Lady Hartley.

Entering a large room boasting splendid paintings, Lord David grimaced. “You recognize the Gainsborough?”

“Yes,” I whispered, unable to resist being besotted with the painting. “Who is she?”

“The
Beneficent Bride,
we call her. My father won her at a gaming table in Monte Carlo. She came from a wealthy Italian count . . . she must have been an ancestress.”

“She’s magnificent,” I breathed. “See how the light holds her in the garden swing? It’s a beautiful picture, my lord.” I swallowed, intensely uncomfortable in his company.

“Please call me David.” Stepping away from me, he gestured we head to the next room.

I held in a breath, and nodded.

“These chambers traditionally belong to the master of the house—”

“So this is your wing, my lord?”

“I hope, one day. The other parts are closed off, awaiting restoration. The library is the last room my father restored.”

I understood why he was proud of his library. Like entering a secret garden, the modest double doors opened to reveal a circular room of dynamic wonder. Tall ceilings, three levels of books, a wrought- iron spiraled staircase leading to the upper rows, reading nooks by stain- glassed windows of Camelot style, medieval furnishings, and one huge stuffed tiger.

I recoiled in horror. “Is that real?”

“Another of my father’s gambling wins.” Indicating we should sit at the grand walnut desk stacked with books and papers, he faced me directly. “You’ll be wondering why I wanted to see you before my mother. I don’t know what she’s planning, but she’s up to something concerning you.”

“Me?”

“My mother instructed Lianne to invite you today. She is never interested in people without a reason, and you are from a notable family. Will you heed my advice and be on guard?”

“Er, yes I will, my lord.”

“It’s David,” he smiled, “and I’m glad you accepted our invitation. Lianne needs a friend.”

“Is she . . . ?”

“Mad?” A faint laugh left his lips and I was captivated by the languid allure of his voice. “I don’t think so. A little strange perhaps, but we all have our strange moments, don’t you agree?”

I did agree.

“Please consider this house your own. You are free to go anywhere you wish, but do be careful through these parts. Accidents have occurred before.”

Sensing it was time for me to go, I asked him if he wanted to talk to me about anything else, but he shook his head. However, when I stood to leave, I saw his hand move ever so slightly.

“There is another thing . . . thank you for what you did at the beach. I couldn’t bear the thought of the sea claiming her. You rescued her and led her to safety. Thank you . . . Daphne.”

He turned around to hide his emotion and I quickly scrambled back to Lady Hartley’s room. My heart beat wildly. I loved this house . . . the mystery . . . the people, even the air of tragedy. I didn’t want to leave it.

Levering open the Moorish doors, I entered perhaps the loveliest chamber I’d ever seen. Full- size windows facing west encased by cascading sheer white curtains looked over the sea. A lively breeze rustled the swirling curtains, lapping against wooden floorboards where two multicolored Turkish rugs lay. A massive canopied four-poster dominated the room, also draped in sheer white, while two decorative archways formed doorways to other rooms. Out of one of these strolled Lady Hartley.

“Ah, there you are. Come with me.”

Taken through the right archway, I found myself in a cozy antechamber. Beyond the armchairs and fireplace existed yet another door.

“Do sit down” was the command issued.

Still clutching my handbag, I obeyed, observing an open fashion magazine advertising a bridal gown on the circular marble coffee table.

“Won’t be needing that now.” Lady Hartley shut the magazine, relaxing into one of the armchairs. “So you’re Gerald’s girl . . . how interesting. What is your father up to these days?”

Expecting this, I gave her a brief account of his affairs. Lord David was right. She had a plan concerning me. Or rather, she had a plan involving my father, his fame, and his connections. I’d met many people like her before and saw the speculative glimmer flashing through her eyes.

“Care for a cup of tea? Will your family, your father, join you down here, do you think?”

I declined the tea. “I couldn’t say, your ladyship. My father does all things unexpectedly. It’s how he lives.”

“Fascinating, fascinating.” Gazing about the room, a sadness reflected in her face. “We don’t receive many visitors down here. And now, with this present gloom surrounding us, I fear we shall became outcasts.”

“Outcasts, my lady?”

“Oh, do call me Florence, or Flo if you wish, or Lady Flo if that’s more comfortable. Yes, outcasts. We are too often alone. It is sad. Money is needed, you see, for the restoration. David is adamant. But sometimes I do so long for lively company— any company, in fact.” Her eyes searched mine. “My daughter has taken a shine to you. She hardly ever takes a shine to anyone. Perhaps I can ask a favor of you? Would you invite your family down for a while? Any member is welcome here and the house is large enough. . . .We used to have so many parties, perhaps they can be persuaded for a weekend affair?”