Free Murder on the Cliffs by Joanna Challis Page B

admit to a reading problem. She felt comfortable asking
me
questions, but when the reverse occurred, she stiffened. “Is your family rich?”
    “We are . . . comfortable.”
    “Maybe that’s why Mummy likes you. Now David’s free, Mummy wants
you
to marry him.”
    It was all so simple and conclusive in her mind. I stared at her, mouth agape. How could she dismiss Victoria with so little remorse? Had she no finesse, no moral sense?
    No wonder her mother kept her on a tight leash. “If that is your mother’s reason for her interest in me, I shall not visit. It’s not right to be even
thinking
. . .”
    “Right or wrong,” taunted Lianne as she rearranged a few pieces in her doll house, inviting me to help.
    “This dollhouse was made in the Elizabethan era,” she said, proudly giving me the “tour.”
    “I had a doll house once,” I said, amazed by the particular care she took in placing everything “just so.”
    “Did you play with it with your sisters?”
    I nodded.
    “I wish I had a sister. It’s so lonely here.”
    “You could go away to school,” I suggested. “That’s what I did. I loved it.”
    “Oh, Mummy would never agree, and I don’t think I could leave the house . . .” Glancing at the walls surrounding us, she acknowledged them with a fond sigh. “I love it here. This is my home. And I’ve no need to go away to school, for Jenny teaches me. You’ll meet Jenny soon but not today.
Today ,
I’m keeping you to myself.”
    “I ought to be at the abbey,” I said, half- laughing, “but I do so love this house, too.”
    “Then you must come here often. You can come not as a guest but as my
particular
friend. I’ve never really had a friend before. Jenny says it’s because we’re so isolated and Mummy doesn’t want me mixing with the locals. They’re not good enough for
her.
But she can’t say anything about you. You’re our equal.”
    Snobbery was an unfortunate curse. Ladies like Lady Hartley bred it as keenly as orchids.
    “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” Lianne exclaimed, embracing me before skipping back to her doll house. I’d seen loneliness in many a girl, but none more so than Lianne Hartley. True, she amused herself and she was a trifle odd, but her craving for love and attention was touching. I wondered which parent she was most like— her mother or her father?
    “I’m here to be
your friend,
” I expressed. “We’ll do things together . . . and
together,
” I added, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we’ll solve the mystery about Victoria. It’ll be our very own little adventure.”
    Her eyes flashed pure fear. Chewing on the edge of her sleeve, she regarded me with the timidity of a cornered animal. “What if . . . what if it leads to someone dangerous? What shall you do then?”
    I noticed she said what shall
you
do then, not what shall
we
do then. Sensing something significant lurked behind these changeable moods, I saw I’d have to tread cautiously. “I guess I’ll just try to protect myself whilst finding the truth.”
    “Truth,” she echoed and, reclining upon her bed, propped her hand under her chin to view me. “You’re a writer who likes to write stories and such. You should know what to do in such situations. Do your characters murder, Daphne?”
    “Do my characters murder?” I pondered. “I’m writing my first saga and I suppose I’ll have some kind of murder in it.”
    “What do you think makes people murder?”
    “It’s complicated and there are many answers. Ever read the papers? Even good people are driven to murder.”
    “Good people,” Lianne echoed, “truly good people don’t do bad things.”
    “Yes, they do. When pushed or suffering extreme trauma through various circumstances, they turn desperate. And desperation breeds trouble.”
    “But how do
good
people hide the bodies and get away with it? And do they ever confess?”
    “Hiding bodies depends on the moment, and confession, well,