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SUNDAY, 1 JULY 1821
Early the next morning as I waited at the corner of King Street and Marine Parade, I grew alarmed when Olivia Tremont was nowhere in sight. Fearing it meant that something truly awful had happened to Priscilla, I waited a bit longer before hurrying toward the hill and on up to our usual spot atop the white chalk cliffs. Not having a blanket upon which to sit, I stood to watch the sun peek up from the depths of the blue-green water. The sight was as glorious as ever. No matter how many times I beheld it, the peaceful stillness that stole over the earth as the sky above became bathed in light continued to fill me with awe and wonder.
Today, feeling as if the fiery orange globe suspended in the brightening sky were drawing me towards it, I inched a few steps nearer the outer rim of the cliff. However, when I risked a quick glance downward, I gasped! On the craggy rocks below was the twisted body of a girl lying facedown, her legs and arms splayed as if she were a rag doll carelessly tossed from the arms of a child who no longer wished to play with her. Gazing wildly about, I searched for a way to climb down the face of the steep cliff. Spotting nothing, no rocks or ledges that could be used as stepping stones, I whirled about and ran as quickly as I could to the bottom of the hill and into the Custom House, where I hoped to find someone on duty who could reach the girl, or at least summon aid.
Spotting a man behind a desk inside the small stone building, I cried, “Sir! A body is lying on the rocks below the cliff! Just there . . .” I pointed. “Off Fort Point. Please, you must come at once!”
Glancing up from his paperwork, the skeptical look on the man’s face told me he did not believe for an instant what I had just said. “And ye’ seen this dead body for ye’self, did ya’?”
“Yessir! Just now; from atop the cliff. I searched but could find no way to climb down! Please, sir, you must come at once, and help! The girl might still be alive!”
One bushy eyebrow lifted as the man’s lips firmed. “Now you knows as well as I do, miss, that I can’t leave m’ post. You wouldn’t be a-workin’ for The Gentlemen now, would ye’?”
“Sir! A young girl is lying dead, or at the very least, severely injured! Must I run screaming through the village in order to summon help?”
The infuriating man actually shrugged. “Probably some light-skirt what threw herself off the cliff durin’ the night,” he muttered, as he at last rose to come around from behind the desk. Passing by me, he added, “Depend on it, miss; if’n this is a ruse, you’ll pay dearly for it.”
“A young girl in Margate has gone missing, sir!” I cried. “It might be her! Please, make haste to help, or, at least, send for someone who will help!”
“I’m fetchin’ the ‘thorities even now. You wait here.”
I could not think why the customs official was behaving in so belligerent a fashion. Whilst he was gone, I could scarcely stand still for fear it might be Priscilla lying dead, or dying, upon the ledge. But, I dared not attempt to reach her for fear that I, too, might fall to my death, or perhaps drown, should I tumble top-over-tail into the deep water below.
It seemed an interminable length, but eventually the custom agent returned with a pair of blue-clad gentlemen. From the official insignia on the coat of one, I assumed him to be the constable. The agent said his name was Fuller. I was not made privy to the other man’s name. As I rushed from the Custom House to lead the two lawmen as close as possible to where they could look up and see the lifeless body on the ledge high above the narrow stretch of sand and rocks on the beach, I told them about young Priscilla Tremont who had gone missing several days back and about whom we feared some terrible harm had befallen.
Constable Fuller merely replied, “Not many murders in Margate if that’s what you’re a-thinkin’, miss. Most serious offenses hereabouts, if one don’t take into account The Gentlemen, is a stolen chicken at the market; or a pig from a farmyard. Tremont girl will likely turn up soon. Got herself lost on the beach, most like.”
Again, both the constable and the custom agent’s odd mention of the ‘gentlemen’ arrested my attention, but as my thoughts were firmly fixed upon the trouble at hand, I did not remark upon the oddity. Instead, it occurred to me that since I had heard nothing about Priscilla from Olivia in the past two days, it was quite possible that she had turned up and was now safe at home with her family.
“It is possible the missing girl may have been found by now,” I remarked to the constable as we walked.
“No. Tremont girl ain’t turned up yet,” Constable Fuller replied with little to no interest, or concern.
“Shall I alert the parents a body’s been found?” his deputy asked, equally as indifferent.
The constable addressed me. “You can identify the Tremont girl, can you not, miss?”
“Indeed, I can, sir.” My heart pounded as the two men left me standing on the rocky beach to wait and watch as they advanced up the shore. Please, God, do not let the dead girl be Priscilla Tremont. Please, please, dear God, do not let it be Priscilla!
My heart in my throat, I watched as the men scrabbled over mounds of blue-tinged soil and large, rough rocks with jagged edges. When they reached a place at the base of the high chalk cliff above which I had indicated the body lay, they climbed seven to eight feet straight up in order to reach the narrow plateau that had broken the girl’s fall. The landscape here was in sharp contrast to the smooth sandy beach below the Tremont’s home. If it were, indeed, Priscilla lying dead on the ledge here, she had wandered a goodly distance from where her family resided.
At last the men retrieved the limp body from the rocky shelf and between them, managed to return with it to the ground. They, then carried the girl back toward the Custom House, me following anxiously along behind. I could already see that it was not Priscilla and with considerable relief relayed that information to the constable.
“I have never seen this young lady before,” I told the lawman.
Carefully laying down the broken body, he knelt beside it. With no concern for the dead girl’s dignity, he began to feel about here and there on the body, twisting her head from side to side, lifting up the lank hair to inspect her bare neck.
“What are you doing?” I inquired, prepared to stop him from disrespecting the poor, dead girl.
“Looking for signs what can tell us how she died. Telltale marks on the flesh could indicate if’n she was pushed from the cliff, or if she jes’ accidentally fell to her death.”
“Could’a been dead afore she fell,” the deputy suggested.
“Could’a been. If’n we’d arrived an hour later, tide woulda’ come in and washed the body out to sea. No one the wiser.”
Watching and listening, I found the constable’s indolent manner shocking. Upon concluding his search of her person, the constable next plunged a meaty hand into the pockets of the dead girl’s tattered frock.
“Eh, what ‘ave we here?” He extracted a small scrap of something. After turning it over and over in his hand, he tossed it aside. “Ain’t nothin’,” he declared to his assistant, who was also kneeling to inspect the body.
Noting that the object the constable had so carelessly tossed aside was red in colour, I bent to pick it up and could see, at once, what it was.
“This girl is employed by the Tremont family!” I cried. “She is the maid who accompanied Priscilla Tremont when she went to the beach in search of seashells. Both girls have been missing for several days now!”
Again displaying little to no interest, the constable glanced up. “And jes’ what makes ye’ think this girl is the Tremont’s maid, miss?”
I waved the scrap of red paper, covered with tiny seashells pasted onto it, beneath his nose. “I am certain Priscilla Tremont made this! She had gone in search of more seashells the day she went missing. Her maid, and her seashell pictures, are also missing. I will stake my life on this girl being Priscilla Tremont’s abigail!”
The constable and his assistant exchanged dubious looks. “Best get her to the dead-house. Let the ‘xaminer have a look. I’ll fetch the family to come identify the body.” He rose. “I’ll have that evidence back now, Miss . . . ah?”
“I am Miss Juliette Abbott, sir, a friend of the Tremont family.”
“You in Margate for the Season, are ye’?” He took the crimson paper from me and stuffed it into his own pocket.
“Yessir. I am staying with Mrs. Helen O’Mara on . . .”
He interrupted me. “I know where the Capt’n’s missus resides. So, if’n I need to ask ye’ more questions, such as what you was doin’ atop the Fort Point cliff this mornin’, I’ll find you at the O’Mara cottage on Northumberland Row, is that so?”
“Yessir, that is correct.”
I watched as the men hefted the girl’s body up between them and set off toward the interior of the village. Because I had no intention of returning home to Northumberland Row just yet, I did not follow them. Instead, ten minutes later, despite it still being so very early on a Sunday morning, I stood on the doorstep of Number 7 Marine Terrace, rapping as if my very life depended upon speaking to the Tremont family.
The butler opened the door and stood gazing the length of his long nose at me. “Might I be of assistance, miss?”
“Please, sir! I wish to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Tremont.”
“The family is presently taking breakfast, miss. I should not wish to disturb them.”
“Sir! I must speak with Mrs. Tremont! You will allow me to come inside at once; at once, I say!”
As if it went against all that he believed to be right and proper, the thin-lipped man reluctantly opened the door and stepped aside to allow me to enter the house. “Who shall I say is calling at this . . .” he sniffed with disdain, “hour of the day?”
“Miss Juliette Abbott, if you please, sir.”
Just then, I heard the murmur of voices and the sound of footfalls descending the stairs. Skirting past the butler, who had not yet summoned the energy to set his own feet into motion, I cried, “Olivia! Is Priscilla here?”
“Juliette!” Olivia rushed towards me. “Has something happened? We were all up late last evening and I far overslept this morning.”
Clasping my hand, she led me down the corridor to the dining chamber while Noble Carrington trailed along behind us. I heard him declare, “Unfortunately, Priscilla has not yet been found.”
Upon catching sight of me, both Mr. Tremont and Olivia’s brother Ashford sprang up from their places at the dining table, surprise etched upon their faces.
From where she sat at the table, Mrs. Tremont cordially greeted me. “Miss Abbott, how lovely to see you again.”
Unable to hold my tongue a moment longer, I blurted out, “A girl has been found who I believe to be Priscilla’s maid.”
“Found?” inquired Mrs. Tremont. “Found where? How?”
I quickly relayed the alarming events of the morning to the family, amidst cries of distress from both Olivia and her mother. “The constable will likely call here later today,” I added. “He said the family must make a final determination as to the girl’s identity.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Tremont lamented, “I am not at all certain I would recognize the girl if I were to see her again. The household staff are not our . . .”
“Housekeeper will surely be able to identify her,” put in Mr. Tremont, who still remained standing before his place at the table. “Will you join us for breakfast, Miss Abbott?” A hand indicated an empty chair for me to join the family.
However, Ashford pulled out the empty chair beside him. “Please, Miss Abbott, do sit here.”
I hesitantly moved that direction.
“Lovely to see you again, my dear,” he said, smiling. “You look charming this morning.”
Scarcely in a frame to receive, or even acknowledge, flattering remarks, a small smile wavered across my face as I murmured, “Thank you, sir.” Then to everyone, I said, “Do tell me exactly where you have been searching for Priscilla. The maid, if indeed, the . . . dead girl is your maid, was found quite a goodly distance from here.”
When no one said anything, I added, “I recall you telling me, Mrs. Tremont, that you had instructed Priscilla not to stray too far from your home whilst she was on the beach searching for seashells.”
“Indeed, I did, but . . .” she glanced at her husband, “Our youngest is often not one to heed, or abide by, instructions. I often think she does not hear a word I say. Unlike Olivia.” She cast a tender look at her older daughter. “Olivia was such a dutiful child. She never disobeyed, or disregarded the advice that I, or her father, gave her.”
“Perhaps Priscilla did not disobey you,” I said. “Perhaps she and her maid were taken elsewhere, a-against their will.” My eyes darted toward Olivia, who looked quite frightened but, nonetheless, said nothing.
However, a squeak of alarm had escaped Mrs. Tremont. “Taken?”
“There, there, dear,” Mr. Tremont attempted to console his overset wife. “At this juncture we know nothing. The dead girl may not be our daughter’s maid.”
“You are certain, Miss Abbott, that the . . . the dead girl was not Priscilla?” Mrs. Tremont asked, her chin trembling.
“Indeed, ma’am, I am not mistaken on that score. It was the scrap of red paper with the seashells pasted upon it that made me think the girl is, or rather, was, Priscilla’s maid.”
I exchanged another anxious look with Olivia, who cast a glance up at Noble, seated beside her. Looking away, she murmured, “Perhaps I should tell them.”
“Tell us what?” Mrs. Tremont cried. “Olivia, if you know something, anything, I insist you reveal it at once!”
Olivia’s eyes squeezed shut. She inhaled a breath, then reluctantly relayed the circumstances surrounding her recent encounter with Noble Carrington’s father. “He said I would regret crossing him,” she concluded. “And then . . . Priscilla went missing.”
Mrs. Tremont sucked in a horrified breath the same instant that Noble Carrington took umbrage. The legs of his chair scraped against the polished wooden floor as he sprang to his feet. “My father would not say, or do, such a reprehensible thing!”
“Your father is a scoundrel,” Mr. Tremont declared, then popped the beefsteak on the end of his fork into his mouth and began to chew it up.
“Perhaps I should be going now. My cousin gave birth during the early morning hours yesterday and I daresay I shall be needed at home.” I rose. “I simply felt I should tell you straightaway what occurred this morning. If you will please excuse me, I shall leave you to your breakfast.”
Olivia was already on her feet. “I will walk with you to the door, Juliette. It was good of you to come.”
I was glad to leave the tension-filled room. In the corridor, I whispered to Olivia. “I take it you did not mention your suspicions regarding Mr. Carrington’s threats to Noble, or to your family?”
She shook her head. “I merely told Noble I had met up with his father and that he insisted I ask him to return home to Oxford. He knew nothing of the . . . the threat.”
By then, we had reached the foyer. “It is all so very distressing,” I said. “Will I see you tomorrow morning?”
Clearly overwrought, Olivia threw her arms about me. “I feel simply dreadful!” A moment later, after regaining herself, she said, “I had wondered what happened to you yesterday morning. I rather assumed your cousin had given birth. Was it a girl, or a boy?”
“A boy. She named it after her . . . late husband. I had best be off now. Until tomorrow, then.”
We parted ways and I hurried home, only to find another crisis brewing inside the cottage on Northumberland Row.