He glanced up at me and shook his head, smiling. “I can see you’re not going to adapt easily to tea parties.” Then he looked down again and started tapping the top of his boiled egg, took a bite and gave a sigh of contentment. “This is just what I needed. To tell you the truth I was feeling completely washed out as we walked across that lawn. I felt as if I might keel over at any moment. This wretched cold. I am so angry with myself.”
“Don’t be silly. You can’t help catching a chill. We were both frozen to the marrow that night and you gave me your dry clothes. It is I who should feel guilty.”
“But I feel that I’ve spoiled our honeymoon. I wanted it to be a special time for both of us and now you’re having to look after an invalid.”
“Get on with that egg and hush up now.” I patted his shoulder. “I’ll be up again with the linctus for that cough and the mustard plaster for your chest. And then you should take a little nap.”
“It sounds delightful,” he said dryly. I grinned as I left the room.
Outside the front door I heard the sound of horses’ hooves and raised men’s voices. I went to the sitting-room window and saw a bevy of policemen loading what was obviously the body, now on a stretcher under a tarpaulin, into the back of a police wagon. Chief Prescott was nowhere to be seen and the job was not going smoothly. At last the back door was closed and the wagon took off at a lively gallop. I was thankful the corpse was already dead—otherwise he certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed that ride. I sat down to eat my own breakfast and then did the washing up.
When I went to clear away Daniel’s breakfast things, he had fallen asleep, half sitting propped on the pillows. I pulled the coverlets over him and tiptoed downstairs again. Now that he was asleep, I was going to go for a morning stroll and take the sea air. And if I happened to have a look around the crime scene at the same time, then I was just being a typical woman, indulging her curiosity. I put on my hat and cape, securing the former well with any number of hatpins, because the wind was sharp and blustery, and went out.
Clouds were racing across the sky and the air was full of twirling leaves. The moan of the wind through the pines and around that house competed with the thump of the waves onto the sea shore. Seagulls hung in the air, being tossed around like scraps of paper. I wondered if this heralded the arrival of another storm and whether we would still be here when it hit. It wouldn’t take long for Chief Prescott to receive a reply to his telegram, confirming that Daniel was who he said he was. And then for sure the chief would want us out of the cottage and out of his hair as quickly as possible. So it was likely that we’d be back in our own house by nightfall, Daniel probably chafing because he wasn’t able to help at the scene of the crime—if it was a crime. I really didn’t want to go, being as curious as Daniel was and enjoying this delightful setting, but I reasoned that he’d make a better recovery in his own bed at home.
I crossed the lawn without seeing anyone. A smart new automobile was standing outside the house, presumably belonging to Chief Prescott as I had seen no auto the evening before. But of the chief himself there was still no evidence. As I came toward the clifftop, the wind picked up in force, almost snatching the hat from my head, and I could taste the salt of sea spray on my lips. The ocean was angry today, slapping in over rocks and sending up sheets of spray. If there had been any clues to what happened to Brian Hannan, then they would have been surely destroyed or washed away by now. I looked down at the shore below. The body was gone and the police with it. There was no indication as to where it had been lying. Rocks, seaweed, tide pools glinted in the morning sunlight.
I continued along the edge, taking care that I was not close enough that a sudden swirling gust of wind could send me over too. As I walked I checked the ground at my feet. It was all manicured lawn, right up to where it dropped away and I wondered how the gardeners managed to maneuver their lawn mowers in a spot like this. Perhaps they clipped the very edge by hand. Disappointingly there were no muddy patches revealing a clear, condemning footprint. Nor was there any sign of the turf being disturbed in a struggle, nor of the cliff edge having recently collapsed, thus sending Brian Hannan hurtling to his death. In fact the whole scene was peaceful and serene—a gentleman’s manicured country estate as one might see in a picture postcard.
I thought about the man I had seen leaving through the French doors the evening before and striding out into the darkness. If that person had been Terrence, and it certainly was someone of his build and height, then where could he have been going in this direction, away from the main gate and the bright lights of the bars in town. I looked around the grounds. On this side of the house were the formal gardens—the fountain and the tennis court. Among the trees I caught a glimpse of a gazebo and then the estate became a wilderness of shrubs and bushes. Nothing to entice a young buck like Terrence Hannan. I wondered if I’d be reckless enough to ask him about it, if I got the chance.