Twenty-one
On Friday afternoon, the guests arrived, crowding eagerly into Penny’s sitting room. Gwennie passed around sandwiches and Victoria and Penny handed out cups of tea and glasses of sherry for anyone who wanted one.
“And the important bits work just fine,” Jimmy was overheard telling Florence as she not-so-discreetly wrapped up a few sandwiches and slipped them into her handbag.
Mrs. Lloyd, with Bunny in tow, had arrived amidst a great air of business and bustle, and then the two of them monopolized Florence as they reminisced about the old days, when young people showed respect to their elders and you could get a decent cup of tea and a nice homemade bun at a wonderful tea shop filled with atmosphere, not like those American chains of coffee shops where surly girls with hair in their eyes serve overpriced, bitter coffee with pretentious names.
And then Davies stood up and asked for everyone’s attention. A silence fraught with delicious anticipation filled the room.
“I’d like to begin,” Davies began, “by thanking Penny and Victoria for hosting us this afternoon and by thanking you for coming. Each of you here today has played a role in helping us solve a crime committed many years ago.”
He glanced at Alys’s two brothers.
“And the lives of two of you were changed forever because of what happened on that December morning so long ago.
“Penny has asked me to tell you what happened, so I’m going to do that for you now.”
Mrs. Lloyd breathed deeply and leaned forward.
“Alys Jones was killed in a hit-and-run accident because, as Penny came to suspect, Millicent Mayhew was filled with an all-consuming envy. She couldn’t accept that Alys was on the brink of great recognition as a superbly talented artist. She wanted that fame for herself, so she killed Alys and then stole her artwork.
“Her original plan was to take the paintings, cover up Alys’s signature, and then sign them herself. She did this with one painting—the one on view at the Victoria Gallery that Florence here recognized as not being Millicent’s work.”
Florence nodded.
“Millicent also realized, too late, that the art world would never accept the work as hers—too many questions would be asked—so she just kept them, lived with them, and loved them. They were well worth having in their own right so in that regard she was a bit like a private collector who will pay a fortune for a stolen work of art, knowing that it can never be exhibited. It’s a private pleasure kind of thing.
“Originally, we thought that Peyton was driving the car that hit Alys, with Millicent in the passenger seat. In fact, it was she who pulled the body off the car and left it on the side of the road.”
He looked at the Jones brothers and apologized softly.
“Now, as for our second body, the remains found in the ductwork of the new spa. I have just been on the phone with Cynthia Browning’s brother, who was rather tired after a long flight from New Zealand. Browning had been out there to a family wedding at which Cynthia, now a great-grandmother, had enjoyed herself enormously.”
A ripple of chatter passed through the group.
“Then who . . .?”
Davies pinched his lips together.
“That’s the thing. We don’t know whose remains they are. We think they might be a homeless person or transient who disappeared and was placed in the ductwork at some time when the building was either a hostel or was being used as a squat. So we’ll keep looking into that.”
He gave his audience a few minutes to take in this new information.
“So, with Cynthia alive and well, we will start extradition proceedings to bring her back to the U.K. We aren’t sure yet what her motive was, but hopefully we’ll be able to discover that when we speak to her.”
Florence cleared her throat and held up her hand.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “but I might be able to help with that.”
Davies smiled at her. “Yes, go on, please.”
“Well, Cynthia had set her cap on this young man from New Zealand. He came from a wealthy family of sheep farmers, with large holdings, apparently. They got engaged, but while he was back in New Zealand, she had a brief fling with someone else and found herself in the family way.”
A few brief smiles flitted across elderly faces at the use of this quaint, old-fashioned euphemism for “pregnant.”
“Anyway, she was so afraid he’d find out—and you have to remember that back then, abortions were illegal and very risky. But Millicent knew someone who could help, because her brother’s girlfriend had been through the same thing. So she got Cynthia sorted out, and I think Cynthia then owed her. Big time.”
Florence paused and looked around the room.
“Millicent was like that. She’d get something on you and then hold it over you.” She thought for a moment.
“Oh, all this takes me back. They set me up with a little desk in the corner of the staff room because there was no place else for me, so I had to try to get my work done in there while the teachers went on and on about their personal lives. And you should have heard them talk about how much they disliked the students! Makes you wonder what they were doing there if the kids were that bad. It’s the old adage, I guess, ‘He who can does . . .’
“Anyway, they talked about anything and everything and took no notice of me. It was as if I didn’t exist. So I just kept my head down and got on with my work. But I overheard a lot, I can tell you.”
Davies glanced at Bethan, who nodded.
“Thank you, Florence,” he said. “We’ll get Sergeant Morgan to take your statement later. You’ve been very helpful.”
Florence sat back in her seat and folded her arms.
Penny stood up. “Sorry to interrupt, Gareth,” she said, “but before we move on, there’s something I’d like Florence to see.”
She crossed over to the small desk, picked up the Harrods pencil case, and pried it open.
“Is this Cynthia?” she asked Florence, showing her the black-and-white photo of the smiling blond woman cradling the fox terrier.
Florence took the photo from Penny, tipped it toward a nearby lamp, and gazed at it. Then, she turned it over.
She nodded slowly.
“Yes, it is. Cynthia’s parents had a home on Menlove Avenue. She lived there with them, and they took in students.” She looked around the room.
“You have to remember that Liverpool was badly bombed in the war, and even twenty years later there was still a housing shortage, so many Liverpudlians, who had the room, took in student lodgers for a bit of extra income.”
She handed the photo back to Penny, and all eyes turned back to Davies. But before he could speak, another voice spoke.
“Florence is right.”
Jimmy looked at Florence and smiled.
“Millicent is still like that. I think she finds out things about the staff members and uses that information to her advantage. She always gets special treatment, and I think it’s because they’re afraid of her.”
Florence patted his hand, and they turned their attention to Davies.
“And now, we come to our second victim, Andrew Peyton,” Davies continued. “He was given a massive injection of potassium chloride by, of course, Millicent Mayhew. She might have overheard two nurses discussing it. It’s the perfect poison, really. It’s in your body anyway; your heart needs it to function properly. But an overdose will stop the heart. And it’s easily available in a nursing home. It’s on every drug cart, and it’s not restricted in any way.
“It was our old friend Jimmy here who remembered all the commotion a couple of weeks ago when Millicent couldn’t be found for the bridge game and how annoyed the players were when they had to rustle up a fourth at the last minute.”
Jimmy nodded and looked very pleased with himself.
“We’ve also found a witness who saw Millicent entering Peyton’s building that day.” He paused and looked around. “I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions later, but right now, Alys’s brother, Richard, would like to say a few words.”
A respectful silence settled over the group as Alys’s twin rose to his feet. He handed his teacup to his brother and turned to face the gathering.
“I want to thank all of you for your efforts. Alwynne, who found the photos, the rector who spoke to my brother, and Penny and Victoria who tracked down the people who killed our sister.”
He paused for a moment to fight back tears.
“You know, when someone is murdered, everyone tends to focus on the victim. But there are more victims. Our mother was bewildered and in pain for the rest of her life, our father was consumed by hatred for her killer, and our whole family ached with the loss of our beautiful girl. Her death changed who we were as individuals, and it changed who we were as a family.
“And then there was Emma. She lost the love of her life, and because of the attitudes when all this happened, she felt she couldn’t discuss it with anyone or come forward with what she might have known. She had to carry a terrible burden for the rest of her life. If our family had only known, we would have tried to comfort her.
“And we can’t even begin to imagine what the art world lost. We’re glad that her paintings are being restored to us. The value hasn’t been determined yet, but we understand they’re valuable. Of course, we’d be only too happy to exchange all of them for her.”
His voice broke, and unable to continue, he returned to his place. Bronwyn immediately went to him and said a few words. He smiled at her and conversation resumed.
And then the rector took the floor.
“I have been asked to speak to a somewhat delicate matter. When Alys died, her family did not know about Emma, but now that they do, her brothers have asked for her ashes to be reburied in Emma’s grave. They feel that the two belong together, and we are making the arrangements for this to happen. We’ll let you know when.”
Gwennie, who had been listening at the entrance to the sitting room, entered the room and passed among the guests with a tray of sweets.
Penny gave her a grateful smile as she went through to the kitchen, where she picked up a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. She returned with it to the sitting room where Richard Jones was preparing to leave.
“Richard, I’m very sorry. I know I should have returned your painting sooner, but here it is,” Penny said, as she handed it to him. “I’ve put the other one in there, too. Like Emma and Alys, they belong together and I want you to have both of them.”
Richard smiled at her and then at his brother, Alun.
“Funny you should be thinking that,” Richard said. “We thought the same thing, and hoped you’d be willing to swap. Anyway, we thought you’d rather have another one.”
Alun returned and handed Penny a painting. She turned it around, and a broad smile lit up her face. It was the painting of Emma reading in the garden.
“I love it,” she said, “and a restorer will soon get the signatures right. Alys’s signature will be here, under this gob of paint. A gob of paint very badly applied, I must say.”
The brothers thanked her again, shook her hand, and then made a dignified, graceful exit.
The party gradually broke up, with Florence and Mrs. Lloyd among the last to leave.
“You may not have seen the last of me,” Florence said to Victoria as they were saying good-bye. “Mrs. Lloyd here has offered to rent me a room, and I might take her up on it. I could live so much more cheaply here, and there’s nothing much keeping me in Liverpool now.”
“And the company would be very nice,” added Mrs. Lloyd as they made their way together down the path leading to the street. “I have a feeling we’re going to get on just fine. In fact, why don’t you stop over tonight? I’ve got a nice fresh chicken we could have for our supper. Do you like to cook, Florence?”
? ? ?
That night, as Penny lay in bed thinking over the events of the day, she smiled as she thought of Mrs. Lloyd and Florence. Both so opinionated. What was it Mrs. Lloyd had said about Emma? “Always liked to have the last word.” Now, that was the pot calling the kettle black!
She started to drift off to sleep and then jerked awake.
The last word! Of course!
She flew down the stairs and into the living room. She pulled the Scrabble game off the shelf where Gareth had placed it on her first morning in the cottage and carried it to the table. She ripped off the elastics holding the box together and lifted the lid. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment when she didn’t see what she was looking for, but she couldn’t resist picking up the little pad on which Emma had recorded the games. She flipped to the last page. With a score of 278, Emma had won, and even noted a word which she must have liked for some reason: QUEENLY!!
Penny lifted out the folded board and the four tile racks and set them on the table. Then she picked up the little bag containing the letter tiles, kneaded it for a moment, and then opened it and tipped out its contents. The letters of the alphabet scattered across the table, and so did dozens of photographs. She picked one up and tipped it toward the light. Alys and Emma with their arms around each other in front of the Victoria Gallery & Museum. Emma smiling and waving to the camera. Alys lounging in a deck chair, holding a glass of wine. And so many more, capturing all the golden moments of their lives together. Penny’s heart began to beat faster as she lifted out the cardboard inserts that divided up the space. And there they were. Four slim red journals. She looked at the years: 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970. Peeking out of the 1970 volume was an envelope. She withdrew it from the diary and turned it over. It was addressed to her.
She opened it, and began to read.
My darling Penny,
By the time you find this, you probably know my secret. You’ll find all the details in the journals, but I want you to know that I loved you, too, in a different way. You reminded me of her and when I met you . . .
I’d better put the kettle on, thought Penny. It’s going to be a long night.