shake things up and solve the mystery of Victoria Bastion’s death.
It had become my mission.
And nobody could stop me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Exhausted by the morning’s events, I retired to my room.
During my first few days, I had seen a dead body, visited a house that lingered like an elusive lover in my soul, and made a rather bizarre acquaintance or two.
Inspired, I lay on my bed to daydream and record what ever re-flections came to mind.
I conjured up a grand production just as I’d seen countless times at the theater— a dramatic death, a murder, a house— a man, a woman, a mystery.
“Come on, sleepy head!”
Ewe poked her ample face right in the middle of my daydream.
“We’re goin’ to call upon Perony Osborn, the schoolteacher.”
“What?” I blinked. “Schoolteacher?” I vaguely recalled seeing a school madam march down the lane. “Why do I have to go? Is she a friend of yours?”
“No,” Ewe smarted. “But she’s been here for nigh on twenty years and she’s
full
of information. Might be worth it.”
I couldn’t deny it, or Ewe’s conspiratorial winking eye. Rousing myself, I washed and tidied my hair and in little less than half an hour, Ewe and I crossed the green. I had intended to rest the entire afternoon before I was due to dress for the evening at Padthaway but Ewe’s enthusiasm prevailed. She was as interested as I in this murder case, and was adamant that we explore every avenue available to us.
“How do you know Miss Osborn?” I asked, a hair’s breath before we reached the unobtrusive tiny little town house cottage.
“We went to school together. Mind your
p
’s and
q
’s. She’s a terrible snob with the English language. She attended a
grand finish-ing school in Switzerland
. Not like me. I finished me schoolin’ and straight into the nanny business. Perony, after serving a family or two abroad, came back here to take up the post as local schoolteacher. She’s always been a
local
girl so the role suits her. She’s been here so long nobody can budge her.
And,
” Ewe grimaced before we knocked on the door, “she
taught
Victoria Bastion. I hear she even tutored the girl after hours with her English and the like.”
The knock resounded.
A razor- sharp face belonging to one Miss Perony Osborn came to the door. She seemed annoyed to have been interrupted, from what, I could only wonder.
“Oh, Ewe, I wasn’t expecting anybody.”
“Well,” Ewe said as she bustled her way inside, “I brought freshly baked muffins, so put on the tea, there’s a good girl.”
Poor Miss Perony Osborn had no choice. I watched her rushing about her tiny little house, setting everything to right, chairs, cushions, kettle . . .
“And this is Miss Daphne du Maurier,” Ewe announced in grandiose manner. “She’s the daughter of
Sir
Gerald du Maurier, yes,
Sir Gerald du Maurier,
who has a theater business in London. Perhaps you’ve heard of
Peter Pan
and such?”
Now Perony Osborn began to take an interest in me. Her absurdly thin eyebrows raised a fraction and her thin lips pulsed.
“Miss du Maurier, please do take a seat. I shall bring round the tea.”
She appeared unused to visitors and I raised my eyebrows to Ewe, and Ewe winked in return. I trusted her superior wisdom.
Unexpected guests, we waited and I examined the small living parlor of Miss Perony Osborn. Devoid of family photographs, nothing betrayed the personality but for a selection of books set on high reverence within the china cabinet.
“Oh, Alexandre Dumas,” I cried in delight when she came forth, bearing the tea tray. “I do so love
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Is that one of your favorites?”
“
The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire
is my favorite,” Miss Osborn replied, dour, while correctly transporting the tea tray to its “correct” position.
There were too many things “correct” about Miss Perony Osborn, I decided. “But surely,” I enthused, “
The Count of Monte Cristo
far surpasses
It had become my mission.
And nobody could stop me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Exhausted by the morning’s events, I retired to my room.
During my first few days, I had seen a dead body, visited a house that lingered like an elusive lover in my soul, and made a rather bizarre acquaintance or two.
Inspired, I lay on my bed to daydream and record what ever re-flections came to mind.
I conjured up a grand production just as I’d seen countless times at the theater— a dramatic death, a murder, a house— a man, a woman, a mystery.
“Come on, sleepy head!”
Ewe poked her ample face right in the middle of my daydream.
“We’re goin’ to call upon Perony Osborn, the schoolteacher.”
“What?” I blinked. “Schoolteacher?” I vaguely recalled seeing a school madam march down the lane. “Why do I have to go? Is she a friend of yours?”
“No,” Ewe smarted. “But she’s been here for nigh on twenty years and she’s
full
of information. Might be worth it.”
I couldn’t deny it, or Ewe’s conspiratorial winking eye. Rousing myself, I washed and tidied my hair and in little less than half an hour, Ewe and I crossed the green. I had intended to rest the entire afternoon before I was due to dress for the evening at Padthaway but Ewe’s enthusiasm prevailed. She was as interested as I in this murder case, and was adamant that we explore every avenue available to us.
“How do you know Miss Osborn?” I asked, a hair’s breath before we reached the unobtrusive tiny little town house cottage.
“We went to school together. Mind your
p
’s and
q
’s. She’s a terrible snob with the English language. She attended a
grand finish-ing school in Switzerland
. Not like me. I finished me schoolin’ and straight into the nanny business. Perony, after serving a family or two abroad, came back here to take up the post as local schoolteacher. She’s always been a
local
girl so the role suits her. She’s been here so long nobody can budge her.
And,
” Ewe grimaced before we knocked on the door, “she
taught
Victoria Bastion. I hear she even tutored the girl after hours with her English and the like.”
The knock resounded.
A razor- sharp face belonging to one Miss Perony Osborn came to the door. She seemed annoyed to have been interrupted, from what, I could only wonder.
“Oh, Ewe, I wasn’t expecting anybody.”
“Well,” Ewe said as she bustled her way inside, “I brought freshly baked muffins, so put on the tea, there’s a good girl.”
Poor Miss Perony Osborn had no choice. I watched her rushing about her tiny little house, setting everything to right, chairs, cushions, kettle . . .
“And this is Miss Daphne du Maurier,” Ewe announced in grandiose manner. “She’s the daughter of
Sir
Gerald du Maurier, yes,
Sir Gerald du Maurier,
who has a theater business in London. Perhaps you’ve heard of
Peter Pan
and such?”
Now Perony Osborn began to take an interest in me. Her absurdly thin eyebrows raised a fraction and her thin lips pulsed.
“Miss du Maurier, please do take a seat. I shall bring round the tea.”
She appeared unused to visitors and I raised my eyebrows to Ewe, and Ewe winked in return. I trusted her superior wisdom.
Unexpected guests, we waited and I examined the small living parlor of Miss Perony Osborn. Devoid of family photographs, nothing betrayed the personality but for a selection of books set on high reverence within the china cabinet.
“Oh, Alexandre Dumas,” I cried in delight when she came forth, bearing the tea tray. “I do so love
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Is that one of your favorites?”
“
The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire
is my favorite,” Miss Osborn replied, dour, while correctly transporting the tea tray to its “correct” position.
There were too many things “correct” about Miss Perony Osborn, I decided. “But surely,” I enthused, “
The Count of Monte Cristo
far surpasses
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