Murder on the Hour (14 page)

The new exhibit about to open, Llanelen at War, was scheduled to run until the following June. The museum would then close for two weeks while the next exhibit, The Battle of Mametz Wood, was set up for a July opening.

Florence Semble, Mrs. Lloyd's companion, who was acquiring quite a reputation for her excellent catering skills, had agreed to look after the light refreshments for the opening reception.

“Alwynne would like you to circulate and make sure everyone has a drink,” she said to Penny, who had volunteered to help. “I could use you for a few minutes, though, to plate these little quiches and sandwiches.” She pointed to several large boxes. “After you've washed your hands, if you don't mind.”

“Oh, happy to,” said Penny.

Just before seven Florence surveyed the table of food, crossing off items on a hand-written check list. She nodded. “It's all there,” she said. “The party can start.” Just as she finished speaking Mrs. Lloyd, almost always the first to arrive at any event, pushed open the door and Penny and Florence exchanged amused looks.

“Alwynne's been working on this exhibit for over a year,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “I sent along photos and letters from Arthur's relatives.” She shook her head. “Looking back on it now, what a terrible thing that war was. So many young lives lost, and needlessly, if you ask me.”

Alwynne herself entered from her small office at the back of the building. A pleasant-looking woman with short, grey hair and a friendly open expression, she had taken on the museum role about the same time her husband retired. She loved him dearly, but found spending all day, every day with him, too much. She was glad to have the museum and the sketching club as excuses to get out of the house, especially on those mornings when he announced he planned to do some baking. She somehow always managed to slip out of the house just as he was tying on his apron.

“Oh, thank you so much for doing this, Penny,” she said. “We're going to have a short meet and greet, with refreshments, for about half an hour, and then the mayor herself will say a few words.” She turned to Florence. “And if people want tea or coffee rather than wine…?”

“Right over here,” said Florence, pointing to a corner of the table. “I'm just brewing up now.”

The room began to fill and Penny moved easily through the small crowd, chatting and smiling. But as the crowd din filled her ears, she felt herself withdrawing into herself and wandered slowly down the tables looking at the exhibits. Each one had been carefully labeled. Alwynne does a beautiful job, she thought. She looked at the photographs. A whole regiment, some soldiers on horseback, caught her eye.

She bent over for a closer look.

“Those were the Llanelen boys who joined the Royal Welch Fusiliers,” said a familiar voice behind her. She turned to see her friends the rector Thomas Evans and his wife, Bronwyn. “The boys all went to war together,” he added. “With their friends and neighbours. Of course a lot of the boys from this area were farm lads, who'd probably never been out of the valley.”

“So sad when you think of it,” said Bronwyn. They moved down the display until they came to a studio photograph of three young men. The man in the centre was seated, his peaked hat resting on his knee, looking self-consciously at the camera. He was flanked by two men, standing stiffly in their new uniforms, holding their caps at their sides. The man on the right of the picture rested his hand on the left shoulder of the seated soldier. In the regimental large-group photos you couldn't distinguish facial details but in this one, three earnest, young faces from a different time gazed back at her, their expressions serious and apprehensive, as if they knew they were on the brink of something momentous.

Something about one of the standing subjects looked vaguely but distantly familiar. Something in the tilt of his head, the friendly look in his eyes that she'd seen recently. She pointed at the photo.

“Do we know who they are?” she asked. “I don't see a card beside this photograph.”

“We can ask Alwynne,” Bronwyn said. “She's right over there.” She took a few steps toward her but before she could speak to her, the door opened, letting in a burst of evening air, followed by a robust woman in a bright blue suit with a large, heavy, gold chain around her neck. “Oh, my, it's the mayor herself,” said Bronwyn. “Thomas is introducing her, so we'll continue our talk after the formalities are over.” The couple crossed the room, and joined Alwynne, who introduced them to the mayor. A few minutes later the official part of the program got underway.

Penny remained where she was, stealing the occasional glance at the photograph in the glass case. Who were you in life, she wondered. What happened to you? Did you make it home? Or were your bodies left behind, in some corner of a foreign field that is forever Wales?

Shortly after finishing her brief remarks, the mayor, trailed by her small entourage of husband and assistant, made a sweep around the room, smiling and shaking hands with as many guests as she could. Her stiff, lacquered hair remained in place as she nodded graciously at everyone before giving a little wave and then leaving through the door held open by her assistant.

Alwynne breathed a small sigh of relief, and gratefully accepted the glass of wine Florence handed to her. Penny caught her eye and Alwynne joined her.

“This photo,” said Penny, pointing to the three young soldiers in their Royal Welch Fusilier's uniforms. “What can you tell me about it? Who are they, do you know?”

“Well, I'm not exactly sure who's who, but the photo is on loan to us by Haydn Williams, so I assume that one of them is an ancestor of his,” Alwynne replied. “I wanted to ask him about it, but you know what he's like. Always off with that dog of his, or just a bit vague.”

“Yes, he can be a little difficult to pin down.”

“I'll try to find out from him what he knows about it. I expect the men would all have been friends, probably since childhood. The community was so much smaller back then and very tightly knit.”

“It doesn't matter, really; I'm just curious. When you see old photographs, sometimes you get drawn in and want to know the story behind them, don't you?” asked Penny.

“You certainly do,” agreed Alwynne. “And anyway, I really should have their names so I can display them properly on an exhibit card. To be fair, I should have done that before the exhibit opened. But it may not be too difficult to find out who they were. In the old days, people used to write names and dates on the backs of photos. Always in ink, and always in that distinctive style of handwriting that's a little difficult to decipher now.”

Penny handed her empty wine glass to Florence who had begun collecting them. Mrs. Lloyd was deep in conversation with a tall man whose back was to Penny, but from the way Mrs. Lloyd was smiling and nodding enthusiastically, she seemed to be enjoying what he had to say.

“I tell you what, Alwynne,” said Penny, turning back to her friend. “A while back, Haydn invited me up to the farm to sketch the spring lambs. Why don't I fix up a date with him soon and we can go together? We can ask him about the photo.”

“Good idea. I'll bring the photo with me and we can take it out of the frame when he's there.”

“Let's go as soon as we can. Are you free in the next day or two? If it's convenient for him, that is. Those lambs are getting bigger every day.”

Alwynne smiled. “You're very keen. Can you take the time off work?”

“Oh, I always take off a bit of time in May, to make up for all the extra days I work in June.”

Alwynne raised an eyebrow.

“Weddings. Every woman in the wedding party wants a manicure. And a lot of the out-of-town guests want them, too. Keeps us busy.”

 

Twenty-one

“Now Florence,” said Mrs. Lloyd the next morning, “I bumped into Brad Driscoll at the museum party last night and had a few words with him.”

“Oh, yes? I saw you talking to someone but didn't know his name. Who's Brad Driscoll when he's at home?” said Florence, buttering her toast.

“He's my insurance agent. I was telling him about you and your valuable artwork and your need for insurance coverage on it. Naturally, he was very interested.”

“Of course he was.”

“But I didn't tell him too much about the actual artwork because to be honest, I don't know that much about it. I thought I'd leave that up to you when you meet him. He's going to explain to you all about the appraisal process and what's involved with insuring your property.” Mrs. Lloyd paused to take a sip of her coffee. “Where is your artwork, by the way? Is it still locked up in Emyr's vault?”

“According to Penny, it's a safe room. There's a whole room right off the old butler's pantry where things can be locked up. The family used to keep the silver and other valuables in there. The room is actually temperature and humidity controlled, so it's as good a place as any to store artwork. Much better there than at the back of my wardrobe where it's been for decades.”

Mrs. Lloyd nodded. “Right. Well, the thing is, he's coming over this evening, Brad Driscoll is. After dinner.”

“Fine,” Florence said.

“There's another thing, Florence.” Something in the change in the tone of Mrs. Lloyd's voice made Florence set down her coffee cup and give Mrs. Lloyd her full attention.

“I've been thinking about this murder, Florence,” Mrs. Lloyd began. “And the more I think about it, the more I know who did it.”

Florence sighed. “I was rather hoping you'd forgotten about that by now,” she said.

“Forgotten! How could I forget about it when the most important witness was sat right here in our drawing room, telling us everything she knew about it!”

Mrs. Lloyd leaned forward. “Well?” she said.

“Well, what?”

“Aren't you going to ask me who did it?”

Florence gave a little sigh. “Oh, very well. Who did it, Evelyn?”

“Why Brad Driscoll, of course!”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because he was having an affair with Catrin Bellis and she threatened to tell his wife. His wife was a friend of hers from their school days. It's the oldest story in the book, Florence, the eternal love triangle. Happens all the time. And someone always gets hurt. And usually it's the other woman.”

“Well, hurt maybe. But killed? And what proof do you have of this may I ask?”

“I saw them together, didn't I? Catrin and Brad. On several occasions. Walking in the street and chatting together nice as you please in the town square.”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean they're having an affair, and it certainly doesn't mean that he killed her.”

“Oh, I can tell, Florence. I could tell from the look in his eyes when I was talking to him last night. I pretended to hang on his every word, but he didn't fool me. Not for an instant. When you work in the post office for as long as I did, you get so you can read people, and believe me, I could read him like a book.”

Florence thought for a moment.

“All right, then, Evelyn. What about this? If you think Catrin died because she was caught up in a tragic love triangle, how do you know it wasn't the wife who killed her? She might have burst into the house and said something like, ‘I know you're having an affair with my husband and it's got to stop.' And Catrin said, ‘But we love each other and he's going to leave you and we're running off to Tunbridge Wells together.' And the wife, whatever her name is…”

“Tegwen,” said Mrs. Lloyd, her eyes shining. “She's called Tegwen.”

“Right. So Tegwen says something like, ‘You'll never have him.'”

Mrs. Lloyd poured herself a rare second cup of coffee.

“I like the way you're thinking now, Florence,” she said. “You're starting to think like a detective. But there's just one thing wrong with your argument. A flaw in your logic, we might say.”

“What's wrong with my thinking?” asked Florence, widening her eyes.

“It's like this, Florence, I was a married woman before my poor Arthur passed on, whereas you have never been married. If you had been married, Florence, you'd know that this isn't how Tegwen would respond. She'd be much more likely to say, ‘Having an affair, is he? I'll bloody kill him with my bare hands.' So in that case, you see, Brad Driscoll would be the victim, not Catrin Bellis. So that's why he's the killer, not her,” Mrs. Lloyd finished triumphantly. “You're just not thinking clearly.”

The beginnings of a faint smile played in the corners of Florence's lips.

“I think it's you who's not thinking clearly, Evelyn. If you think this man is a murderer, why on earth would you invite him into our home so you can question him? Once he works out that we're onto him, what's to stop him from murdering us?”

“Oh, that will never happen,” Mrs. Lloyd reassured her.

“And how can you be so sure?” Florence demanded.

“Well, he can't murder both of us at the same time, can he? So while he's busy murdering you, I would run out into the street and call for help.”

“Oh, very comforting,” said Florence dabbing her eyes while she tried to control her shaking shoulders.

*   *   *

Florence showed Brad Driscoll into the sitting room. He was smartly dressed in a suit and tie and carried a leather portfolio case under his arm. After declining her offer of coffee, he unzipped his portfolio case and took out several documents and a brochure. He handed the brochure to Florence explaining it contained information on how the company he represented could protect her fine art investment.

“Now tell me what kind of art it is and how much you think it's worth,” he said. “Wow,” he commented when Florence finished describing the
Antiques Cymru
appraisal.

“And where is this art at present?” he asked. “I ask because I wouldn't like to think it's uninsured on these premises.”