Murder on the Hour (4 page)

Casey approached it and once again took several photographs. He stood back and with his arms folded, took in the clock from top to bottom. Haydn remained silent. Finally, Casey spoke.

“And how long has this been in your family?”

“Well, that one I do know a little more about. According to my father, it's been in the family since it was made.”

Casey nodded and a slight smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “Do you know how long ago that was?”

“Sometime in the 1800s?”

“Go back another hundred years. It was made about 1760 or perhaps a few years later by John Owen himself, one of the most famous clockmakers in all of Wales. This clock is a stunning example of his work. The beautiful brass dial engraved with sunflowers is exquisite.” Casey grinned. “That's what I love about this job. You just never know when you get up in the morning what the day will bring.”

He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and wrote a few lines.

“Wonderful that it's been in your family that long. And it's still keeping perfect time. These clocks are sensitive—they have to be level and they like a nice moderate temperature, so obviously it's very happy where it is and it's been well cared for.” He ran his hands down the side of the clock. “The cabinetry is perfect. No swelling or buckling.”

“It's oak, I believe,” said Haydn. “The cabinet was made from oak trees that grew in this area, my father told me. My mate told me after I wrote in to your program about the desk that I should have mentioned the clock as it was apparently made locally and the program likes to feature local artifacts.”

Casey raised his arms and gently lifted the hood off the clock, exposing the time-keeping mechanism behind the dial.

“What are you doing?” asked Haydn.

“Checking to make sure that the mechanism and the cabinet are of the same period and were made to go together. Sometimes you see the wrong mechanism in the wrong cabinet, but that's not the case here. This clock is everything it should be. And then some.”

He slid the hood back into place and then, with his arms straight in front of him, ran his hands down the sides of the clock with his fingers curled around the back of it until he had almost reached the base. When his hands were about a foot from the floor he stopped, leaned to the left side of the clock, and turned it gently, exposing part of the clock's back and with two fingers, extracted a piece of rolled paper.

“This was hidden in the hollow of the decorative moulding,” he said handing it to Haydn who unrolled it, examined it for a moment, and then held it out to Casey.

“A rough map of some kind,” Casey suggested. “Well, half a map. You can see where it's been torn in half. Drawn by a child, perhaps? That's the sort of thing kids do, isn't it?”

“I've no idea what this is or how it got there,” said Haydn. “I've never seen it before. But my mother was a meticulous housekeeper and I'm surprised she never found it.”

Casey returned the clock to its original position flush against the wall, stepped back, and offered his hand to Haydn. “Well, that's all for today,” he said. “It's been a pleasure meeting you and thank you for showing me your beautiful pieces. I'll have a little chat with the team and we'll be in touch to let you know what happens next.”

“Can you tell me a little about the pieces?” Haydn said. “What did you think of the bureau?”

“Very nice.” He smiled. “I can't say too much yet, but you'll get our professional opinion soon. You'll just have to be patient.”

“I guess I will. Well, if that's everything, I'll show you out,” said Haydn.

When Casey had left, Haydn poured himself a large whisky and sat at the kitchen table staring at the map.

It was crudely hand drawn in pencil on a piece of lined paper. The person who had made the map had indicated a couple of buildings with square boxes, wavy lines indicating what Haydn guessed was meant to be a river, and odd circles on sticks that he took to be trees. Oval shapes on four sticks he thought might be sheep and the lines surrounding them could be stone walls. There were two initials in the lower left corner: WW. He thought it likely that the W stood for Williams, his surname, and if so, the map must have been made by someone in his family. He returned to the little-used parlour and from a small table in the corner picked up a large black book he rarely touched: the family Bible. In the back, carefully entered by various maternal ancestors, were the names of his parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on, going back to the early 1800s. The entries contained the dates of their births, christenings, marriages, and deaths, all written in an old-fashioned script. The ink had faded but the names were still legible. The last entry was the date of his own christening, August 30, 1970, written in his mother's hand. If and when he married, his bride would enter the date of their marriage and then, in the years that followed, the particulars of their children, if any, although he had to admit that was looking increasingly unlikely. His thoughts turned to Catrin Bellis. How pretty she'd become lately. He wondered if maybe he should ask her out. Where would he ask her to go? He knew very little about her—what she liked or didn't like. The pictures were always a safe bet as long as it was something appropriate and not too violent or with what they called sexually explicit content. And then something nice to eat afterward so they could talk and get to know each other a little better. Or maybe if she liked flowers and walking, they could spend an afternoon at Bodnant Garden and then have tea. That sounded like a nice idea. Now all he had to do was find the courage to ask her.

He took another sip of whisky and turned his attention back to the piece of paper on the table. Something puzzled him. That Daniel Casey appraiser fellow had given the bureau a thorough going over, showing him all those little hidey holes where someone could easily have hidden the map. So the question was: why would someone who wanted to hide something as simple as a piece of paper choose the clock when he might have used all those secret compartments? Surely the bureau would have been a much more logical place. He gave his head a little shake and drained the last of the whisky.

“Come on, Kip,” he said to the Border collie who'd been watching him from his cozy basket. “Time for the pub.” Kip sat up eagerly, gave a few hearty thumps of his tail, and a few minutes later the two set off on their daily walk down the narrow lane that led to town.

 

Six

“Haydn! Kip! Good to see you, boyo! We got yours in.” One of the ruddy-faced men seated around an oak table in the main room of the Leek and Lily pointed at the full glass awaiting Haydn. He returned his friends' greetings while he hung up his coat and let Kip off his lead. The dog immediately made for the fireplace and lay down in front of the open fire, his paws stretched out toward it.

“Cheers,” said Haydn, raising his glass to his friends and then taking a long, welcome sip. He set his glass down and took a slow look around the room. “Not too many in tonight,” he remarked.

The Leek and Lily, with its uneven floorboards, whitewashed walls hung with horse brasses and sporting prints, exuded a sense of awareness of its timeless place in local history. No modern flat screen televisions or noisy, flashing gambling machines disturbed the pub's warm, relaxed atmosphere, establishing it as a place to gather for a cozy chat or a spirited discussion, to drink good ale and eat hearty, traditional food like bangers and mash, and steak and kidney pie.

The low-beamed ceiling ensured a jolly noise level at the bar, and local men had been polishing the chairs and tables with their bottoms and elbows for over a century. Although women were welcome here, most of its customers tended to be men.

Like Haydn, the men who greeted him were hill farmers, men whose families had raised sheep for generations on the rugged slopes that kept watch over the town. Life was robust and challenging for these farmers in their flat cloth caps, chunky sweaters, baggy trousers, and Wellington boots. Their workdays started early and usually ended late, moving forward in endless, timeless rhythm with the changing seasons. Lambing was well underway for this year and for the past two or three weeks the farmers had barely had time to draw breath. But now, in the time before they have to mark and vaccinate the sheep, they could relax a little, and once again enjoy an evening down the pub with friends as a small reward for all the hard work of the previous weeks.

The men discussed the news of the day for a few minutes, and then Evan Hughes, seated on Haydn's left, turned to him and asked, “How did you get on with that
Antiques Cymru
fellow? It was today he was coming to check out the bureau, wasn't it?”

“Aye,” said Haydn. “He checked it over, all right, and even showed me secret compartments I didn't know were there. But then he asked to see the clock and, to be honest, I think he was more interested in it than the bureau. You were right; I should have told him about the clock since it's a local piece and the bureau is English.”

“Is it a Watkin Owen?” asked the man directly across from Haydn.

“No,” said Haydn. “It's an authentic John Owen and it's been in my family since Adam were a lad. Lived all its life right here in Llanelen, it has.”

“What did he tell you about it?” Evan Hughes asked.

“Not that much, really,” said Haydn reaching into his pocket. “But when he pulled it out a bit from the wall and reached round the back, he found this.” He held up the piece of paper. “Rolled up, it was, and stuffed into the moulding that goes round the base of the clock.”

“What is it?” asked one of the men. “It doesn't look like a banknote from where I'm sitting!” The others laughed and Haydn shook his head.

“No, it isn't. It looks like one half of a map.” He passed it to the man on his right who glanced at it, then passed it on. It circulated around the table until it came to Evan Hughes.

“What do you think this is meant to be?” he asked, tilting the paper to catch the light while he peered at it, and then turning it over so he could see if anything was written on the back.

“I have no idea what it is or where it came from,” replied Haydn. “He found it just before he left, the fellow did. I haven't a clue what it means or how long it was hidden in that clock. But a long time would be my guess.”

They marveled at the map for a few minutes and then the conversation moved on to the most important element in a farmer's life: the weather. The long-range forecast predicted a hot, dry summer, which boded well for their hay making. Too much rain before the mown hay can dry properly and it becomes a rotten, inedible, wasted mess, leaving the farmer with nothing to feed his ewes over the winter. Evan Hughes drained the last of the beer in his glass and set it on the table.

“It's your turn to get the round in, Haydn,” one of the farmers said to him.

“Same again all round, is it?” Haydn asked. A chorus of agreement answered his question, although most said they'd just have half a pint this time as they were driving and you couldn't get away with driving home from the pub with some drink in you like you could in the old days. Kip raised his head as Haydn walked past him on his way to the bar, then lowered it as soon as he realized it wasn't time yet to go home.

Haydn paid for the drinks for everyone at his table and returned to his place. “She's bringing them over,” he said. Seeing the empty seat beside him, he turned to the man on his right.

“Evan hasn't gone home, has he? I did hear that his wife was a bit poorly. She wasn't in church on Sunday and it's not like her to miss a service.”

“No, no,” the man reassured him. “Just gone to the gents. He'll be back.” The barmaid arrived at their table balancing a tray laden with glasses. She set down five beer mats and placed a glass on top of each one, picking up their empty glasses as she worked her way around the table. She then wiped up the wet rings that had formed on the table where glasses had been set directly on it.

“Coming back, is he?” she said when she reached Evan Hughes's place. Just as she finished her question the man himself appeared and picked a glass off her tray.

“Thanks, love,” he said as he sat down.

She moved on to the last man and then paused and looked down. After serving him, she bent over and picked a piece of paper off the floor. “This belong to any of you?” she asked, holding it up.

“Oh, aye, that's Haydn's map,” said one. She handed it to Haydn and he set it on the table.

“I wouldn't put it there if I were you,” said Evan Hughes. “The table's damp from the glasses and if there's a spill your map's had it.”

“Good point,” said Haydn. “I haven't had a chance to really study it, yet.” He folded it in half and put it back in his pocket.

Evan Hughes was the first to leave. “The missus wants me home early tonight to put together some new shelving for her flower arranging room. Have you seen how complicated the instructions are for something like that?” He shook his head. “Well, good night, lads. See you soon.” The men said good night and he opened the door and was gone. As he left, two newcomers entered the pub.

Haydn waved at Penny Brannigan, who was accompanied by Emyr Gruffydd, the local landowner who was well known to everyone in the pub. They all called out greetings to him as he and Penny made their way to a quiet table in the corner.

“What are you having, Penny?” he asked.

“Oh, a glass of white would be perfect, thanks.”

He rejoined her at the table a few minutes later with a glass of wine in each hand. He set hers down in front of her, and then sat down.

“Right,” he said, “as he raised his glass to her. “How are things going for
Antiques Cymru
? No problems, I hope.”

“Everything's going very well,” she replied. “The show obviously has a lot of experience with this sort of thing and is very clear about what they need from us. Which isn't much. They're providing everything and doing everything, so all I need do is be there early in the morning just to make sure the production team has everything it needs.”