Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By: A Penny Brannigan Mystery (2 page)

Two

Graham Fletcher closed the door of his new office on the first floor of Gladstone’s Library and, his heart pounding, leaned his back against it. As his breathing slowed, the beginning of a nervous smile appeared at one corner of his mouth. The smile crept across his face as he took in the bare bookshelves. When his gaze reached the heavy, old-fashioned oak desk, a tentative lifting of the corners of his mouth had become a broad, self-satisfied grin. He made a fist with his right hand and pulled it through the air toward his body. Then, with long, graceful strides he crossed the room to reach the leaded window that overlooked the tidy garden at the rear of the building. He grasped the handle, pressed down to release the clasp, and pushed the window open. A gust of cold, damp air rushed in as his eyes swept the rain-soaked scene below him. Four large rectangular grey stones which could serve as seats stood at the corners of two intersecting walking paths. Each stone, now darkened by rain, was carved at one end with an English word and its Welsh translation at the other:
LOVE/CARIAD
,
PEACE/HEDDWCH
,
TRUTH/GWIRIONEDD
, and
JUSTICE/CYFIAWNDER
.

Where the paths crossed stood a limestone sculpture of a half-woman, half-tree creature entitled
Sophia,
from the Greek for
wisdom.
She wore a carved asymmetrical diaphanous gown that exposed one breast and barely concealed the other. In her right hand she held a branch of leaves and, instead of legs and feet, her lower half was made up of gracefully twisted tree roots.

Fletcher didn’t care for the benches and loathed the statue; he considered the grouping unnecessary and much too modern for his taste, but he was more than happy to live with it for now. Once he had established himself, he would find new homes for all of it.

He closed the window, pulled out the desk chair, and slowly—savouring every delicious moment of the descent—lowered himself into it. He switched on the desk lamp and gazed around the room, empty now of all the personal possessions of his predecessor. Fletcher, who had been in this office many times when it belonged to another man, pictured the empty bookshelves groaning under the weight of his own precious books—books it had taken him a lifetime of learning to collect.

The rain hammered steadily against the leaded windows with their small square panes, but nothing could dampen Fletcher’s spirits on this day. For Graham Fletcher was a happy man. At the age of fifty-six, at a time when several of his colleagues were starting to think about retirement, he’d achieved his heart’s desire. He’d been appointed to the position he’d wanted for almost thirty years and believed he deserved. Granted, the wait had been long and agonizing. The previous holder of the position, a man of robust health, had made it clear he had no plans to retire, so Fletcher had had to be patient, smiling while he bided his time. Finally, he’d heard the news he had been waiting for. The elderly incumbent had developed pneumonia and was not expected to survive. Fletcher stayed up late that night, praying and polishing his curriculum vitae.

And a month later, all the formalities completed, the bishop had approved his appointment as the warden of Gladstone’s Library. The position came with a house on the grounds, but he didn’t care about that. He could always get a house.

It was the Library he loved—the red sandstone building itself, of course, with its ornate displays of late-Victorian Gothic design but more than that he loved everything the Library stood for. It was about liberal thinking, open-mindedness, contemplation of a different kind of future, innovation, eliminating barriers and boundaries. Oh, the possibilities were endless. He felt on the very edge of a brave, new intellectual and theological world in which anything and everything might happen. And he would be the man to lead the change.

His long, slender fingers caressed the recently polished surface of the desk as he glanced at the small stack of files in one corner left by his late predecessor. There would be plenty of time later for those. This morning he wanted to meet with the staff and discuss the next major event on the Library’s calendar of special events and the first on his watch: a conference of officials, including the bishop himself, and rectors from the Church in Wales. Also attending would be his old friend from university days, Thomas Evans and his wife, Bronwyn. He’d had hopes for Bronwyn himself, back then, and had been heartbroken, for a while, when she’d chosen Thomas. He himself had never married. It would be good to see them both again and to be able to welcome them to the Library as its warden. Warden. He loved the very sound of the word. It was all he’d ever wanted and he’d only had to tell one lie to get it.

Three

Pamela Blaine’s blue eyes followed her husband, the Very Rev. Michael Blaine, Bishop of Holywell, as he opened his wardrobe, took out two shirts, and laid them smoothly on the bed. He gave her a brief, emotionless glance, then turned his attention to his cufflink tray. He picked up a square silver one with an offset sapphire, examined it, then set it down.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than stand there watching me?” he asked, his head lowered and his back to her.

She remained in the doorway and said nothing. The uncomfortable silence stretched on until the bishop broke it.

“Well, unlike some of us, apparently, I’ve got a busy morning ahead of me.” He glanced at his watch. “Still got a lot of things to do to get ready for the conference. One of our guest speakers has cancelled, I’m told. But that’s got nothing to do with you. If you want to make yourself useful, you could start sorting out my clothes for the conference. Day and evening. Business. One set of casual. Oh, and an extra shirt, just in case. You know. The usual. But don’t pack them yet. I don’t want them creased. I just want to make sure everything has been laundered and gathered up so I don’t forget anything. And I’m still waiting to hear what you’ve arranged for the women’s program. But leave them some spare time, too, for their own pursuits and to enjoy the Library itself. Conference goers don’t like a crowded program.”

Before his wife could respond, he strode toward the door. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

He paused at the door and glanced at her. “If you need help organizing the women’s program, I suggest you contact Bronwyn Evans in Llanelen. She’s always organizing one thing or another. Cooking classes for new mothers, coffee mornings to raise money for literacy programs in Africa, or a good old-fashioned jumble sale. Minty can give you her contact details.”

“Do you really think we need a women’s program?” his wife asked. “If they have to come at all, surely they can keep themselves amused for a day or two? And anyway, it isn’t just women. There’s a husband or two in the mix.”

“I’d like to provide a little entertainment or activity of some kind for them,” replied the bishop. “Shows we care and it doesn’t matter about the gender.”

“Couldn’t your marvelously efficient Miss Russell sort it?”

“No. She’s got enough on her plate at the moment so don’t expect any help from her. Anyway, all you’ve got to do is arrange one small event for one morning for a dozen or so people. Just a couple of hours. Really, Pamela, how hard can that be, even for you?” And then, like a righteous breeze, he brushed past her and was gone.

His wife shifted to one side to let him by, then, with a tightening of her lips, entered the room. She hated the cruelly condescending way he had said that.
Even for you.
She looked with distaste at the immaculately pressed white shirts that she herself had ironed. What’s the point, she thought. Really, Pamela, what’s the bloody point? By the time we get to the conference, his clothes will have creases in them just from being in the suitcase. Anyway, if it’s not the way I packed the shirts, it’ll be the ties I chose. Or that I packed ties in the first place. “Really, Pamela, what were you thinking? When was the last time you saw anyone wearing a tie?” He’ll find fault with something. He always does.

She reached into her pocket for her mobile. No messages. Odd, that. She thought she would have heard from him by now. It wasn’t like him not to call.

Four

“Hello, Bronwyn. How are you?” Penny smiled at the rector’s wife and then bent over to give Robbie a pat. “Are we walking in the same direction?” she asked as she straightened up. “I’m just heading over to the supermarket to pick up a couple of sandwiches for lunch. Victoria and I should make our own lunches, I know, but somehow we just never get around to it. Too lazy, I guess.”

“Or maybe you’re too busy. Thomas and I eat most of our lunches at home, so that’s never a problem for us,” Bronwyn replied, “although we do like the occasional picnic when the weather’s fine. Still, that’s just lunch from home in a different setting.” Bronwyn pointed across the swollen River Conwy that marked the edge of the town. “Robbie and I’ve just finished our walk and we’re on our way home. We were over by the falls this morning. I love this time of year, with spring just getting started. There’s that tiny hint of warmth in the air. The promise of better days to come.”

“The promise of two months of solid rain, more like,” replied Penny, and laughing, they fell into step as Robbie led the way. “I’ll be ringing the Spa to make an appointment to get my nails done,” Bronwyn remarked as they approached the town’s cobblestone square.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Penny. “For Easter, is it?”

“Well, yes, that, and Thomas and I are going away for a few days right after. Four days, actually. I’m worried about Robbie, but Thomas keeps telling me he’ll be fine and I’m sure he will. I had wanted to ask you if you’d mind terribly looking after him, but I know how busy you are at the Spa, and then you’ve got your adorable new kitten, so this wouldn’t be the right time for you. We arranged to board Robbie at Jones the vet. They’ll take good care of him, I’m sure. It’s just that…”

“You’ll miss him so much,” Penny said. “But the four days will go quickly, you’ll see. And two of them are travel days so they don’t really count. If you look at it that way, it’s more like two days. Going somewhere nice?”

“Yes, we are, actually,” Bronwyn replied. “Thomas has a conference to go to, and the wives, well, spouses, are invited. I say,
invited,
but it’s been made very clear that we’re expected to go so there’s not much choice. I’m not sure what we’re meant to be doing while the men, well, mostly men but there are one or two lady rectors, are busy discussing important church matters. The bishop’s wife is arranging a program for us and she’s asked me to help. I had rather hoped we’d just be left to our own devices and then everyone would meet up at dinner. I’m bringing some books that have been gathering dust on my night table, and I’d like to catch up on my reading. The venue will be perfect for that.” She thought for a moment. “Bringing books to a library. Coals to Newcastle.”

“So it’s a conference for clergy, then, is it?” Penny asked.

“Well, yes, rectors and officials from the Church in Wales,” said Bronwyn. “At first I wasn’t too keen on going because of Robbie, but Thomas helped me see things in a different light. Once I understood how much it means to him, I was happy to support him. Funny how changing your attitude toward something can make a change for the better. Now I’m quite looking forward to the break. Thomas says the venue is beautiful and perfectly suited to this type of conference. He’s been wanting to go back there for years.”

“Oh, it sounds lovely,” said Penny. “And where is it you’re going?”

“Gladstone’s Library. It used to be called St. Deiniol’s, but the name was changed a few years ago to Gladstone’s Library.”

“Oh, I see,” said Penny, her eyes widening. “A conference at the Library. Well, that’s interesting. Gladstone’s Library. That’s in … where is it?”

“A town called Hawarden.” She spelled it out. “But pronounced Harden. In North East Wales, near the border. Not far from Chester. The Library is a stunning example of late Victorian architecture.”

“Oh, right. Come to think of it, I have heard of it. And when is it, exactly, this conference?”

“It’s the Tuesday to Friday right after Easter. We’re to arrive Tuesday afternoon and leave after breakfast on Friday.”

Bronwyn thought for a moment and then touched her friend’s arm. “I wonder, Penny, if you would consider coming along and giving the ladies a sketching lesson? Perhaps we could sketch the building? I could see about getting the materials if you told us what would be needed. Or it doesn’t have to be a sketching class. Maybe you could give a talk on Victorian stained glass. Or church art? You could do anything along those lines, with an artistic Victorian theme. It’s just that the bishop’s wife, Mrs. Blaine she’s called, asked me to sort out the programming for the ladies. She gave me a lot of flannel about how she’d heard I was so good at organizing things and would really value my help … but never mind about all that. I’d take it as a great personal favour if you’d agree to do something for us. I know so few people who have the kind of creative talent you do.”

“Now who’s flannelling who?” Penny started to laugh and after a moment, Bronwyn joined in good-naturedly.

Penny had arrived in North Wales twenty-five years earlier as a young Canadian backpacker touring the British Isles. She’d fallen in love with the market town of Llanelen, and the one or two nights that she intended to stay had stretched into years as she’d made friends, started a small business, and contributed to the life of the community. She had a degree in fine arts from a distinguished Canadian university, and although she now earned a good living from her business investment in the Llanelen Spa, which she and Victoria had renovated and opened just before Christmas, her knowledge and appreciation of art had continued to grow over the years.

“How many women would there be?” she asked.

“Well, that’s the thing. Why they’re even bothering is beyond me. Let me see. Well, there’s me, of course, and Mrs. Blaine. Pamela, I believe she’s called. She’s married to the bishop. Oh, I already said that. And then there’s the bishop’s secretary, but whether she’d be free to attend our sessions, I don’t know. I expect she’ll be required to attend the work groups and take the minutes. Or maybe she’d be too busy scurrying around behind the scenes making sure everything is in order…” Bronwyn shrugged. “And then there’ll be other rectors from the diocese. Two of the rectors are women. Whether their husbands would attend, I don’t know. And if they did attend, would they join the wives’ group or do you think they’d be excused and allowed to follow their own pursuits? It’s all so complicated. Do you know, I’m not exactly sure who all is going. I’ll have to check with Thomas and let you know. Will you be home this evening? I’ll ring you.”