Murder on the Hour (28 page)

“You're better at drawing than I am,” he said. “You do it.”

So Herbert drew a map according to Wilfred's instructions showing where the box was buried. “And draw a clock to show the clockmaker fellow's grave,” he said. When the map was finished, they studied it to make sure it was as good as they could make it and then Wilfred solemnly tore it in half. “You keep half,” he said, “and I'll keep half and one day we'll go back together and get it.”

Herbert wrote his name on the bottom of his half. “Do you think we should tell Sydney?” he asked.

“Nah,” said Wilfred. “But let's just tell him we buried some treasure and he'll never guess where, but there's a map shows where it is. And all he has to do is find the map!”

Laughing, Herbert tucked his half of the map in his pocket just as Wilfred's mother came to the kitchen door. “Wilfred, time to come in for lunch,” she called. “You'd better go,” said Wilfred to his friend. “I'll see you tomorrow. I've got to help da with some chores this afternoon.”

Herbert jumped on his bike and disappeared down the road. Wilfred entered the kitchen and was about to sit down for lunch when his mother pointed at his knees.

“That's two days in a row you've come home with filthy knees,” she said. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” said Wilfred.

“Well, get upstairs now and get washed for lunch. And I'll want to see those knees clean when you come back down.”

Wilfred marched out of the kitchen, fingering the map in his pocket. As he passed the parlour the clock struck one. He rolled up the map and approached the clock. His mother had left it slightly out from the wall when she'd dusted behind it so he reached round and stuck the map in a hiding place he'd used before, the space created by the moulding round the bottom of the clock. He knew the clock offered better hiding opportunities up where the dial was, but he couldn't reach that high. He continued up to his bedroom, had a wash, and then rejoined his mother in the kitchen. His father had arrived home from his morning's work in the fields and ruffled his son's hair.

“Coming out to work the sheep with me this afternoon, lad?” he said, buttering a piece of bread and setting it on Wilfred's plate.

“I am, da.”

His mother ladled a small serving of mutton stew on their plates and the little family bowed their heads in prayer as Mr. Williams said grace.

 

Forty-two

A couple of weeks later, with the official start of summer, Penny and Gareth were enjoying a picnic on the somewhat remote tidal island of Llanddwyn, connected to southwestern Anglesey by a stretch of sand that disappears beneath the waves at high tide.

Named after Dwynwen, a fifth-century Welsh princess and the country's patron saint of lovers, the legend-rich island features a rugged coast with sandy coves hidden under large rock outcrops. They'd walked for about a mile at low tide along a pristine beach, stopping every now and then to examine an interesting shell, until they reached the spit of land that connects to the island at low tide.

Once on the island, they walked past friendly, shaggy ponies that roamed freely in the tall grass, and continuing the gentle climb, came to the stone ruins of the sixteenth-century chapel erected in Dwynwen's honour. They continued on until they reached the top of the island, with spectacular views across to the majestic mountains of Snowdonia.

Now, they were sprawled on a green plaid rug beside a white lighthouse overlooking the sparkling blue Irish Sea, happily munching the lunch Penny had prepared and Gareth had carried: sandwiches, cheese and biscuits, grapes, and strawberries.

“They're local, those strawberries,” said Penny. “Caron Jones brought them into the Spa yesterday. The Jones farm is just down the road from Haydn Williams and the Hughes's place.”

Gareth took a bite of one, setting the little green leaves on the edge of his plate. “Delicious,” he said. “Did you know that it was her son that Jessica Hughes married?”

“Oh, the one-day marriage that didn't take, as Mrs. Lloyd put it? No, I didn't realize that's who it was. I guess it's not going to work out.”

“No, it doesn't look as if it will.”

“I guess Jessica's got a lot on her plate right now, with the legal fallout from her father's arrest,” said Penny.

“She does. Catrin's house has an offer on it, but the legality is questionable. She didn't have a will, so her estate would go to her closest living relative.”

“Which would be Evan Hughes.”

“Right. But because of what's called ‘the slayer rule' he can't benefit from his crime, so everything goes to Jessica, even though he hasn't yet been convicted of the murder. But she has said she couldn't possibly keep it, and will donate everything to benefit charities that care for horses and donkeys.”

“That's very good of her.” Penny poured tea from a flask and held the cup out to him. “And would I be right in thinking it's Bethan who's made an offer on the house? I could tell she quite liked it, even with everything that needs doing to it.”

“She has. It'll be a good home for her as well as investment. And of course she'll get it at a good price, what with someone having been killed there. That kind of thing tends to put off a normal buyer but it doesn't really bother her because she helped bring the killer to justice,” Davies said.

“Well I'm sure Jessica will be glad she needn't have anything more to do with the house, although she's still got to organize the auction of the contents. And of course she couldn't keep the bronze casket with the pearls.”

“That was the most amazing thing. The expert that the local museum brought in to do the appraisal was floored when he saw it was Roman.”

“Someone told me a long time ago that the Romans loved pearls from North Wales and some were even sent back to Julius Caesar, but who would have dreamed they'd turn up the way they did.”

They were silent for a moment, listening to the sound of powerful waves crashing into the rugged rocks below them.

“There is something I wanted to tell you,” Gareth said, breaking the silence. “Bethan tells me that they've found the cyclist who hit that artist professor, Michael Quinn, on the path by Lake Sarnau.” He watched her reaction. She showed no emotion. “If the case goes to court, you'd likely be called to testify.”

“I'd be fine with that,” she said smoothly, giving him a steady, reassuring smile.

“So have you got anything special planned for the summer?” he asked.

“Not really. You?”

“As it happens, I do. Turns out you were right about my not lasting too long without a job, so I've agreed to do a bit of contract work. You're looking at the new head of security for the Llanelen Royal Autumn Agricultural Show.”

Penny laughed. “That's terrific! You'll be very good at it. They're lucky to have you.”

“Actually, they've never had much in the way of security before, but with the increase in rural crime, including theft of valuable animals, the organizers thought they'd better do something about that. So I'll be attending meetings and learning as much as I can about the show over the summer. I'm quite looking forward to it, actually. I've always admired farmers. Not just for the work they do, but for the type of people they are.”

Penny checked the time on her phone. “I've been thinking,” she said. “About Catrin's things that will be going up for auction. I was thinking I'd like to buy her little carriage clock.”

“Why would you want to do that?” asked Gareth.

“I've never taken much notice of clocks, but over the past couple of months I've really come to appreciate them. Especially the longcase kind.” She held up her phone. “You show me a piece of today's technology that will still be keeping perfect time two hundred and fifty years from now and looks as beautiful as one of those John Owen clocks.”

“They can be noisy, you know, those longcase clocks. Winding up to strike the hour, ticking and chiming all day long in your front hall or sitting room or wherever you keep it.”

She laughed. “I don't have a front hall and there's no room for a longcase clock, but I could give a pretty carriage clock a good home.”

A long afternoon stretched out in front of them. They still had lots of walking and exploring to do, so Penny began gathering up the lunch things. A few strawberries remained in the plastic box that she now held out to Gareth.

“Let's eat these up before we go.” As he bit into the ripe fruit, she looked up at the blue sky and then across the sparkling water and remarked, “Nothing says summer like ripe strawberries.”

“Except, maybe, days like this.”

“I wonder how the map got in the quilt,” Penny remarked as they placed their lunch things in the backpack and Gareth hoisted it over his shoulders.

“We'll probably never know for sure,” he said, as they set off on the steep, uneven path in the direction of the Celtic cross. “But when I was a boy, my grandmother lived with us and my father set up a quilting frame for her in the front room. All day she'd sit there, in front of the window, sewing these tiny little stitches. Beautiful quilts she made. So I expect someone in the Bellis household was making a quilt, the boy thought it would be a good hiding place, tucked the map inside it, and the woman making the quilt sewed it in. She might not even have known it was there.”

They walked on in silence, surrounded by breathtaking natural beauty, and as they paused for a moment to look back the way they had come, toward the sea and the lighthouse, she slipped her hand into his.

 

Acknowledgements

Many people contributed to the publication of this book, and I am grateful to all of them.

In Wales, thank you to Eirlys Owen for her plotting suggestions and encouragement given generously over tea and cake, to Daniel Casey of Snowdonia Antiques for sharing his expertise on longcase clocks and secret hiding places, and to Sylvia and Peter Jones for so many wonderful days out, including the excursion to the stunningly beautiful Ynys Llanddwyn where the last scene of the book is set. I thank them, too, for the time they spent proofreading this work. They caught many errors and suggested dozens of improvements.

In New York, thank you to the St. Martin's Press editorial team of Anne Brewer and Jennifer Letwack for shepherding this work through the publishing process and to my agent, Dominick Abel, for his insight and wisdom.

And while I do strive for accuracy, any errors are mine.

On the home front, love to Riley and Lucas who so kindly share Bentley, Charlotte, and York.

 

ALSO BY
ELIZABETH J. DUNCAN

PENNY BRANNIGAN MYSTERY SERIES

Slated for Death

Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By

A Small Hill to Die On

A Killer's Christmas in Wales

A Brush with Death

The Cold Light of Mourning

SHAKESPEARE IN THE CATSKILLS

Untimely Death

 

About the Author

ELIZABETH J. DUNCAN
is a winner of the Bloody Words Best Light Mystery Award and has been a finalist for the Agatha and Arthur Ellis Awards. She has worked as a writer and editor for some of Canada's largest newspapers, including the
Ottawa Citizen
and
Hamilton Spectator
. Duncan is a faculty member of the Humber School for Writers. She lives in Toronto, Canada, and enjoys spending time each year in North Wales.

Please visit her Web site at

www.elizabethjduncan.com
and follow

her on twitter@elizabethduncan. Or sign up for email updates
here
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