The Cold Light of Mourning (10 page)

“That’ll be Welsh gold,” said the manager, peering at it. “They say pure Welsh gold is now the most valuable of all the precious metals.”

“The royal family’s wedding rings are made from Welsh gold, aren’t they?” asked Morgan.

“Indeed they are,” said Burton. “It’s become very rare since the Clogau mine closed down. Supply and demand, don’t you know.”

Clogau rose gold, the rarest and most expensive in the world, was discovered in 1854 at the Clogau St. David’s mine near Dolgellau in Snowdonia. By 1998, the gold seam had become too thin to work, and the mining operation was closed, leaving only the reserves.

Morgan snapped the lid shut and set the box down on the desk.

Letting out a small sigh, she picked up the other one, and opened it.

A smile lit up her face as she showed the box to the two men.

“You’ll appreciate this, Mr. Burton,” she said, pleased with her little joke.

Nestled inside was a Welsh dragon brooch, its fiery red-gold wings gleaming against the white satin lining.

“Well, everything seems to be in order here, then,” said Davies. “And this is all you had?”

“Let me just make sure,” said the manager, looking again at the register. “No, wait. There should be two more. Two others were brought in after these ones. They were listed in her name, but she didn’t entrust them to us herself.”

He reached into the safe and withdrew the two boxes that Anne and Jennifer had given to the night clerk late Friday night.

The men watched as Morgan examined the chandelier drop earrings and diamond hair clip. It was difficult to tell what she was thinking, but Davies knew she had to be feeling something like envy and longing.

Silently she handed the boxes back to Burton, who replaced them in the safe.

He hesitated for a moment, and then, leaning forward with his hands braced on the desk, looked at Davies.

“I hope I’m not being insensitive here,” he said, “but I was wondering about the rooms and how long they would be needed. And also, what if Ms. Thompson doesn’t come back? How long should I keep the jewellery boxes? Who should I give them to? Should I give them to her parents, or her fiancé? It’s a bit difficult to know what to do for the best, and I wondered if you would be kind enough to explain to me what our position is here at the hotel?”

Davies scratched the back of his neck and thought for a moment.

“Yes, I do understand that all this is a bit tricky for you. Let’s talk about the rooms first. I expect the bridesmaids and her parents will be leaving today, as planned, and as for her room, we are going to go through it again this morning, and then we’ll release it to you, and the contents to her parents.”

Burton, listening carefully, nodded.

“This jewellery now, is a bit different,” Davies continued. “Why don’t we hold it for you? We’ll take it off your hands and give you a receipt for it, and that way, if there’s any disagreement over it later, that won’t be your problem.”

Burton nodded gratefully.

“Of course, what we hope will happen is she’ll turn up within a day or two in London or somewhere, and then we’ll make sure everything is returned to her.”

With a relieved smile, Burton turned away again to remove the boxes from the safe once more.

“All right then?” said Davies. “Very good. Thank you so much for all your help. If you would put those boxes in a bag—any old bag will do—the sergeant here will give you a receipt for them and we’ll pick them up on our way out. When we’re finished upstairs, we’ll take the tape down, and let you know on the way out that we’ve finished with the room.

“Oh, and here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else, no matter how trivial or unimportant it might seem to you.”

Davies and Morgan made their way upstairs to Meg Wynne’s room, checked that the tape across the door had not been disturbed, and then peeled it away.

Everything was as they had left it the evening before, but now, in the bright sunlight of a beautiful June morning, the room felt stale, closed in, and lifeless.

“Let’s see what we can find,” Davies said. “Handbag, credit cards, money, address book, diary, passport, receipts, anything and everything like that. I’ll start over here, including the closet,” he said, pointing toward the window side of the room. “You do over there, the dresser, and bathroom.”

They worked their way around the room for about twenty minutes without speaking. There was the occasional sound of a drawer opening and closing, clothes hangers being pushed along the rail, bedclothes being turned over, and one or two cracks of protest from Davies’s knees as he bent down and stood up again.

Morgan held the curtains back to check the windowsill and then, opening the drawer in the nightstand, glanced in. She leaned closer, then withdrew something and called out to her boss.

“Why on earth would she be reading this?” she asked, holding a slim volume entitled
Street Drugs
. “I would have thought something from the
Shopaholics
series would have been more in her line.”

Davies glanced over and then held out his hand. She crossed over to him and handed over the book. He thumbed through it, shook his head, and gave it back to his sergeant.

“Go through it carefully, see if any pages are marked and make a note of it. You’re right, it does seem strange.”

A few minutes later Davies crossed his arms and looked around the room.

“Right,” Davies instructed. “That’s it. We’ve done all we can. We’ll notify the manager that we’re finished and he can let her parents take her things. If they want them.”

He glanced at his watch and then gestured at Morgan to get ready to leave.

“Our bulletin should be on the noon news. Let’s hope it gets results. And now, let’s follow up with surveillance tapes of the street that might show which way she went. We’re looking for, say, nine A.M. and later. We’ll leave no stone unturned.”

They stepped out into the hall and just as Davies was about to close the door, Morgan stuck her foot in front of it to keep it open.

“I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder as she headed back into the room.

A few moments later, she returned, holding up a scrap of yellow paper.

“It looks as if she was writing something, changed her mind, and then tore it up. A first draft of a letter, maybe. This little piece was hiding under the wastepaper basket. Probably fell out when it was emptied. It was you saying that about no stone unturned that made me realize I should have looked under the bin.”

She smiled up at him.

“Good work,” said Davies. “Now I wonder. What do you suppose it can tell us?”

Eleven

A
s Rev. Evans began his sermon that morning, Penny’s thoughts began to drift, and she decided to spend the afternoon sketching. When church was finally over, she returned home to pack up a bread roll, some cheese, an apple, and a bottle of water, change into comfortable walking clothes, and collect her pencils and notebooks. A few minutes later, she was crossing the town’s landmark three-arched bridge, and heading off in the direction of Gwyther Castle, where she knew she could find solitude and serenity in the newly restored formal gardens and enjoyment in the nostalgia of the way things used to be a century or two ago.

As she walked along the road she passed fields where sheep grazed contentedly. A few lifted their heads from their grassy task to watch her go by, and then returned to their munching. Her thoughts turned to Emma, and how deeply she missed her. She felt resentful that this messy and unexpected business with the runaway bride, or whatever she should be called, was distracting her, and other townsfolk, from mourning Emma with the dignity and respect she deserved. Penny wanted to be able to remember her friend in an uncomplicated way, for the lovely, cultured woman she was, and not have her memory tied in to all the disruption and unhappiness that this Meg Wynne person was causing.

She was also struggling with guilt and blaming herself that Emma had died alone. I’ve spent so many nights in that cottage, she thought. If only I’d spent that night there, that one night, I might have been able to do something. She could find no comfort in any of it.

In the hills above the town, seated in front of a small waterfall, she sketched in a distracted, perfunctory kind of way. Unhappy with what she had done, and unhappy with herself, she finally decided to pack it in. She returned home in the mid-afternoon, hungry and somewhat tired in a bored, restless way to find a telephone message waiting for her. Morwyn Lloyd of the
Daily Post
would like to speak to her and would she please ring her back.

Not until I’ve had a warm bath and maybe an early supper, my girl, thought Penny as the tub began to fill and a shepherd’s pie warmed in the oven.

An hour later, she called Morwyn and answered her questions honestly and openly, as that young police sergeant had suggested she should, without volunteering or guessing at anything.

Throughout the evening she tried to watch television, but found herself wandering around the small flat, picking up a book and putting it down again after rereading three paragraphs, straightening out and dusting things that didn’t need seeing to, poking around in the fridge and just generally feeling thoroughly miserable.

Eventually, it was time for bed and she was grateful to crawl into its welcoming warmth.

While Penny had been in the Welsh woods trying to concentrate long enough to produce a decent sketch, Morgan started looking through the videotapes the local constable had produced. The national bank on the Market Square had a surveillance camera trained on the outdoor cash point, and although it was positioned to capture the image of anyone using the automatic money dispenser, it incidentally videotaped everyone who passed along that busy street.

The bank manager had handed over the tape for Saturday, midnight to noon, explaining that the tapes were changed twice a day, held for a fortnight, and then recorded over. He didn’t know of any other surveillance cameras covering that part of the town, although he thought the garage owner had had one installed after an attempted robbery there a year or so ago.

“The major crime aspect of big city life hasn’t reached us, yet, thank God,” he said, “but all branches of this bank throughout the country have been fitted with them. We are a bank, after all, and people expect us to have them. Nobody takes any notice.”

In a corner of the large, windowless briefing room, where the television and VCR stand had been parked in a corner, Morgan sat down with a cup of coffee. The grainy black-and-white film showed the usual Saturday morning activities of any High Street in Britain—a well-dressed woman stopping for a quick greeting with a friend, a couple of teenage girls withdrawing a few pounds to buy a new lipstick at the chemist, and traffic moving slowly around the town.

Finally, just before nine, she saw a woman who fitted Penny Brannigan’s description of Meg Wynne Thompson round the corner into the square, pass by the bank, and disappear from view heading in the direction of the nail salon.

It was not possible to see her face, but Morgan was sure it had to be Meg Wynne.

Now, she thought, I need to see if she comes back this way. She fast-forwarded to a quarter to ten and watched the tape. About six minutes later, the figure appeared again, headed back the way she had come.

Excited, Morgan reached for her mobile and phoned Davies.

“That’s good that you’ve spotted her,” Davies said, “now we’ve got something to go on. So you’ll need to interview the shopkeepers along the route, put up some flyers, see if you can find any townsfolk who saw her, and all the rest of it.”

Just before two the next afternoon villagers entering St. Elen’s for the funeral of Emma Teasdale looked at each other in amazement and smiled. Coming from the open door was the lilting, unmistakable sound of harp music.

“How wonderful, utterly wonderful,” said Mrs. Lloyd to the woman beside her.

As they took their places to the sounds of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” many took comfort in the music. Centuries before, the area had been home to some of Wales’s finest harpists and harp makers and this gentle tribute to a woman who had placed such a high value on music was appreciated by the villagers as appropriate beyond words.

“I think I know who was behind this,” whispered Mrs. Lloyd, nudging her neighbour.

The music continued for several more minutes while everyone settled into their seats and then Rev. Evans took his place to begin the service, exchanging a grateful, conspiratorial smile with his wife.

“Good afternoon.
Pnawn da
,” he began. “We are gathered here today to commemorate the life of our departed sister, Emma Teasdale, and we will begin by remembering the immortal words, ‘I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’ ”

About forty-five minutes later, when the final hymn had been sung and the benediction spoken, the doors of the church opened, and the coffin was carried solemnly to a quiet corner of the churchyard where a grave had been prepared to receive it. A small procession followed, led by the rector whose white surplice fluttered softly in the breeze.

Surrounded by the friends who had admired, respected, and even loved her in life, the coffin of Emma Teasdale was gently lowered into the ground.

Standing at the foot of the grave, reading from his
LLyfr Gweddi Gyffredin
or
Book of Common Prayer
, Rev. Evans continued with the solemn service.

“We therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.”

One by one a few mourners, including Penny, came forward and scattered handfuls of earth on the coffin. After a final few moments of silent good-byes, they turned away and made their way slowly from the churchyard to the hotel where a modest tea awaited them. As she turned away from the gravesite, with one last look over her shoulder, Penny thought the service had been exactly what Emma would have wanted, and that she would have been deeply touched by the harp music. But as she made her way out of the cemetery, past generations of tombstones rising out of the newly mown grass, she was aware of an idea trying to form in the back of her mind that something had not been quite right.

As she tried to bring it to the surface, Mrs. Lloyd, dressed in her best black suit that she wore only to funerals, caught her up.

“Well, Penny,” she asked, “what did you think of the service? I think Emma would have loved it, especially the music. I wonder who the harp player is. I don’t think she’s anyone we know, is she?”

Penny let go of her thoughts, and turned to Mrs. Lloyd.

“The music was wonderful,” she agreed. “Very moving and so appropriate.”

As they reached the steps of the hotel, Mrs. Lloyd moved on to the topic that was never far from her mind.

“There was a slap-up tea laid on for us on Saturday after the wedding,” she said. “Or nonwedding, I guess it was. Really a very nice effort, though, all things considered. I hope this one will be as good. Do you think they’ll have those nice little empire biscuits I like so much?” she asked eagerly.

Penny shook her head.

When the last of the mourners had left the churchyard, two men in overalls made their way to the grave and in a practiced, unemotional way began to fill in the grave. And as the sparkling Conwy River flowed endlessly, silently by, Emma Teasdale was laid to rest.