Murder on the Cliffs by Joanna Challis

smiled, and he delivered the order to a stone-faced Mrs. Trehearn.
    “I met Daphne on my walk this morning.” Lianne began the conversation, leading me to the bread basket.
    “You rise early, Miss Daphne?”
    “Please, just Daphne, my lord—”
    “Then, please, just David, Daphne . . .”
    We shared a look.
    “Yes,” I went on with a smile, “I am very fond of walking, and like your sister, I rise early as a rule.”
    “A rule?” he questioned.
    “It’s just my routine. I love to be up early with the birds . . . and the sunrise. There’s something sacred about the mornings.”
    “I couldn’t agree more with you.”
    His solemn, reflective response warmed me to him. It was diffi cult to think him a murderer. I detected pain and grief etched in the taut lines of his face, and hoped that he’d loved and adored Victoria.
    David’s words repeated in my head.
I couldn’t agree with you more.
    “You’re frowning? Coffee not good?”
    “Oh.” I stopped stirring the milk in my coffee. “Forgive me. I silently correct grammar in my head sometimes. I’m afraid it’s a very bad habit.”
    He laughed. “You sound like my old English teacher at Eton, Professor Brasic. Devilishly strict on the grammar. Were your teachers the same?”
    A friendly tête-à- tête on our education and experiences commenced, with Lianne listening and asking dozens of questions. Although going away to school was not for her, she wanted to hear everything her brother and I had to say on the matter.
    “I met Miss Perony, your local schoolteacher,” I said at the end. “She’s a very interesting character.”
    Lord David choked on his coffee.
    “Oh, she doesn’t like us,” Lianne scoffed. “Mummy says she’s a bluestocking.”
    The straight and direct Miss Perony
would
seem like a bluestocking to Lady Hartley. What didn’t she like? That Miss Perony had the ability to address them as an equal? That she did not fear the loss of her post, despite the Hartley influence?
    “Miss Perony,” David coughed, “is very knowledgeable, and her cousin, I believe, is at the abbey. Perhaps she mentioned it?”
    “Yes, she did. I am to meet her tomorrow.”
    “But Davie is a better guide,” Lianne said sweetly, smiling at her brother. She looked at me eagerly. “We can make a day of it, can’t we, Davie? Take Daphne to the abbey and you can show her the records. Old Quinlain can’t refuse you.”
    Lord David considered the idea.
    “Very well,” he smiled, “shall I pick you up at ten, Miss du Mau-rier?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    The official verdict was diligently peddled about the village by Ewe Sinclaire and others.
    “Death
accidental,
” I heard the old gossipmongers reporting. “Oh
yes.
And we all know who got away with it, don’t we?
Them Hartleys.
Don’t know which one of ’em did it. I’d ’ave me money on her ladyship, but ye never know. There’s that odd sister, Miss Lianne, she could ’ave pushed poor Vicky over the cliffs to her death. . . . ”
    Ready to make the most of wagging tongues, I placed myself in a strategic position outside the bakery and sighed, “Oh, it’s all too
horrid
. I shan’t cope!”
    I strode off and one of the village ladies pursued me, as I’d intended.
    “Oh, miss, wait, would ye?”
    I waited . . . with a huff, feigning reluctance.
    “I heard ye. Yes, it’s horrid. It’s
all
horrid. And I know what ye feelin’. Dear Vicky. I knew her as a babe and I knew Lord David, too. I were his former nurse before Jenny stepped in, y’know, so I know them both. It’s an
awful
tragedy. But I can’t think my David guilty, not for one bit. For Vicky, well, she were a secret child. She kept lots of secrets from her parents and such. I often wonder . . .”
    I stared at this creature in absolute wonderment. “What is your name?” I heard myself asking.
    “Rebecca Shaw” came the reply. “
Mrs.
Rebecca Shaw. I gave up nursin’ a long time ago.”
    “And you live here now?