any depressing thesis on the Roman Empire. The Roman Empire, while intensely fascinating, is
dead
. Whereas, Dumas lives in all of us.
The Count of Monte Cristo
is an epic saga and a love story. And such stories abound to eternity.”
“There you have the soul and heart of a romantic storyteller,” Ewe declared. “Miss Daphne likes to write, you know, Perony, tales of love and woe. She came here to Windemere to research the abbey records. Why ever such a young pretty girl should
bother
is beyond me!
Charlemagne
. . . I mean, he’s been dead for centuries!”
“Perhaps, Miss Sinclaire,” Miss Osborn replied “correctly,” “you underestimate the power of Charlemagne and his legacy.”
“Miss Perony,” I piped in, “have you yourself explored the abbey records? That’s really why I’ve come to Windemere. I read the article in
The Times
and I’ve been interested ever since. My mother’s nurse lived here,” I smiled fondly at Ewe, “so here I am, and unfortunately, I’ve found myself in the midst of another great travesty.”
“Oh?” said Miss Perony. “You mean the murder?”
So, she’d heard, as I expected she might. News traveled fast in a small town. Especially news of this nature. “So, do you really think it’s a murder?” I asked, wide- eyed and all innocent.
“You had her at the school, didn’t ye?” Ewe launched ahead. “Oh, Vicky Bastion,” she crooned, “never a prettier girl were seen.”
“Was she pretty, Miss Osborn?” I blushed. “Forgive me for being candid. I only saw her out there . . . on the beach. It was awful. I cannot describe it, and I cannot help feeling sad for the girl and her family. Do you know her family well?”
“Very well.”
Having effectively drawn out Miss Osborn by my admission, she began a confidence. Not a woman, I suspected, who easily gave out information to those of unfamiliar acquaintance. Even her good friends, I imagined, benefited little from her fierce privacy. A guarded creature, our Miss Perony Osborn, and one requiring time to thaw out to complete fruition.
“Mrs. B suffers cruelly. I saw her on the street after she had to identify Victoria. Connan went with her. Connan is Victoria’s brother, Miss du Maurier.”
“Oh please, call me Daphne,” I insisted.
She smiled in turn. “It’s a good thing Mrs. Bastion has Connan, Daphne.”
“I’ll say,” Ewe supported. “Such a
good-looking
lad . . . and resourceful. He keeps the family goin’ since their pa died.”
“Mr. Bastion died several years ago,” Miss Osborn relayed. “In the shipping trade, as many of us are. You’d understand that, coming from Fowey?”
I see Ewe Sinclaire had divulged my circumstances to the entire village community.
“My family have a house in Fowey and in London.”
“They’re gypsies!” Ewe nudged me, helping herself to another piece of lime cake. “Gad about from here to there. And now she don’t want her family knowin’ she’s got herself into this mess.”
“No,” I pleaded to Miss Osborn. “I intend to remain here and complete what I started. I only managed to see a
glimpse
of the abbey records. It’ll take
months
to get through them all.”
“You should offer to help catalog them,” Miss Perony suggested. “I know Sister Agatha. She’s a cousin of mine. I could ask her . . . ?”
“That is
so
kind of you, Miss Perony! I confess I felt awkward poking into those pigeonholes with the dagger eyes of . . . is it Sister Theodora? . . . watching my every move. Sister Sonya is lovely . . . very learned.”
“Oh, dear,” Ewe chimed, “is that the time? We’ll have to leave shortly, for she’s to dine at Padthaway this night.”
The news unsettled Miss Perony Osborn.
A crisp pallor crept into her cheeks. Was it concern?
“The Bastions are convinced Victoria was murdered, aren’t they?” I whispered. “I want to ask you, Miss Perony, for I found the body with Lianne Hartley and the girl has taken a
dead
. Whereas, Dumas lives in all of us.
The Count of Monte Cristo
is an epic saga and a love story. And such stories abound to eternity.”
“There you have the soul and heart of a romantic storyteller,” Ewe declared. “Miss Daphne likes to write, you know, Perony, tales of love and woe. She came here to Windemere to research the abbey records. Why ever such a young pretty girl should
bother
is beyond me!
Charlemagne
. . . I mean, he’s been dead for centuries!”
“Perhaps, Miss Sinclaire,” Miss Osborn replied “correctly,” “you underestimate the power of Charlemagne and his legacy.”
“Miss Perony,” I piped in, “have you yourself explored the abbey records? That’s really why I’ve come to Windemere. I read the article in
The Times
and I’ve been interested ever since. My mother’s nurse lived here,” I smiled fondly at Ewe, “so here I am, and unfortunately, I’ve found myself in the midst of another great travesty.”
“Oh?” said Miss Perony. “You mean the murder?”
So, she’d heard, as I expected she might. News traveled fast in a small town. Especially news of this nature. “So, do you really think it’s a murder?” I asked, wide- eyed and all innocent.
“You had her at the school, didn’t ye?” Ewe launched ahead. “Oh, Vicky Bastion,” she crooned, “never a prettier girl were seen.”
“Was she pretty, Miss Osborn?” I blushed. “Forgive me for being candid. I only saw her out there . . . on the beach. It was awful. I cannot describe it, and I cannot help feeling sad for the girl and her family. Do you know her family well?”
“Very well.”
Having effectively drawn out Miss Osborn by my admission, she began a confidence. Not a woman, I suspected, who easily gave out information to those of unfamiliar acquaintance. Even her good friends, I imagined, benefited little from her fierce privacy. A guarded creature, our Miss Perony Osborn, and one requiring time to thaw out to complete fruition.
“Mrs. B suffers cruelly. I saw her on the street after she had to identify Victoria. Connan went with her. Connan is Victoria’s brother, Miss du Maurier.”
“Oh please, call me Daphne,” I insisted.
She smiled in turn. “It’s a good thing Mrs. Bastion has Connan, Daphne.”
“I’ll say,” Ewe supported. “Such a
good-looking
lad . . . and resourceful. He keeps the family goin’ since their pa died.”
“Mr. Bastion died several years ago,” Miss Osborn relayed. “In the shipping trade, as many of us are. You’d understand that, coming from Fowey?”
I see Ewe Sinclaire had divulged my circumstances to the entire village community.
“My family have a house in Fowey and in London.”
“They’re gypsies!” Ewe nudged me, helping herself to another piece of lime cake. “Gad about from here to there. And now she don’t want her family knowin’ she’s got herself into this mess.”
“No,” I pleaded to Miss Osborn. “I intend to remain here and complete what I started. I only managed to see a
glimpse
of the abbey records. It’ll take
months
to get through them all.”
“You should offer to help catalog them,” Miss Perony suggested. “I know Sister Agatha. She’s a cousin of mine. I could ask her . . . ?”
“That is
so
kind of you, Miss Perony! I confess I felt awkward poking into those pigeonholes with the dagger eyes of . . . is it Sister Theodora? . . . watching my every move. Sister Sonya is lovely . . . very learned.”
“Oh, dear,” Ewe chimed, “is that the time? We’ll have to leave shortly, for she’s to dine at Padthaway this night.”
The news unsettled Miss Perony Osborn.
A crisp pallor crept into her cheeks. Was it concern?
“The Bastions are convinced Victoria was murdered, aren’t they?” I whispered. “I want to ask you, Miss Perony, for I found the body with Lianne Hartley and the girl has taken a
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