Murder on the Hour (15 page)

“It's locked up in a secure location,” said Florence.

“Right. Very good. Well, you will need to have it appraised for insurance purposes.” He shuffled some papers and then addressed Mrs. Lloyd. “The art is covered up to ten thousand pounds under your home policy, so I think we'll put a rider on your policy with immediate effect insuring the work for one hundred thousand pounds, in the event of fire, theft, damage. There's appraised value and insured value, which is always more. Of course, it's irreplaceable.” He handed Florence a few papers. “Please review those and if you are in agreement, you can drop into my office to sign them. Here's my card with the address on it.” He clipped his business card to a corner of the papers and handed everything to Florence. She didn't look at them, but sat stiffly with them on her knee.

“Thank you,” she said, and waited. Mrs. Lloyd had told her that she would take the lead on the questioning of Brad Driscoll and Florence was more than happy to let her get on with it.

He checked his watch and began arranging his papers. “Now, any other insurance needs I can help you with? Planning a trip? Life insurance? Do you have any questions?”

“That was a terrible thing that happened to Catrin Bellis,” Mrs. Lloyd blurted out after a moment's silence. Driscoll raised his eyes from his briefcase. “Yes,” he agreed. “It certainly was.”

“And she and your wife were great friends, I understand,” Mrs. Lloyd continued.

“Yes, they were. We all went to school together, so we were friends for a long time.”

“That's interesting,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “I always think there's something very special about a school friendship that lasts a lifetime.”

“Yes, there is,” said Driscoll getting to his feet. “Well, if there's nothing else, I'll be on my way.”

“Oh, but are you quite sure you wouldn't like a cup of coffee before you go?” asked Mrs. Lloyd rising from her chair. “It really wouldn't be any trouble at all, would it, Florence?”

“No trouble at all,” smiled Florence. “But perhaps Mr. Driscoll hasn't even been home yet and he's anxious for his dinner.”

“Yes, that's exactly it,” said Driscoll a little too eagerly. He made for the front door, which Florence opened for him.

“Good night,” she said, then closed the door quietly behind him and returned to the sitting room.

Mrs. Lloyd glowered at her. “Well, how do you think that went, Evelyn?” Florence asked.

Mrs. Lloyd sighed. “I was just starting to get someplace and then he realized I was on to him, and he couldn't get out of here fast enough. I thought it best to let him go, as you never know what might have happened.”

“No,” said Florence. “You don't. But that talk of coffee's rather put me in mind to have one myself. Would you like one?”

Mrs. Lloyd, deep in thought, didn't reply.

 

Twenty-two

The next afternoon Penny and Alwynne waved good-bye to Alwynne's husband as he drove off, leaving them with their sketching paraphernalia at Haydn Williams's farmhouse gate. They walked down a short path that had recently been a dark brown soup of thick, lumpy mud but was now hard and rutted. Ahead of them was a two-storey grey stone farmhouse, with outbuildings and sheds built of similar stone off to the right. The sheds, open sided and empty now except for piles of sweet smelling straw, had housed ewes and their newborn lambs from early April until just a few days ago. A dark green Land Rover spattered with mud was parked beside the nearest shed alongside an equally muddy quad bike.

The farmhouse door opened and Kip, Haydn's black and white Border collie bounded out, tail wagging furiously, to give them a boisterous welcome.

Haydn was right behind him. “Come in, come in,” he said, smiling broadly. “Glad you've come to see the lambs. They're about a month old, and as playful as can be but they won't be small much longer. And they won't be here much longer, either,” he added.

“You're not selling them already, surely?” asked Penny.

“No, no. Nothing like that. The flock'll soon be ready to be moved to the high pastures for summer grazing. Why don't you come in for a moment and then I'll show you the way to the field. It's not far.”

The women set down their stools and easels by the door and entered a kitchen that smelled faintly of wet dog and heavily of a fellow living on his own who enjoyed a hearty fry up. A man dressed in the same style of farming clothes as Haydn stood up and smiled as they entered. Haydn made a simple introduction. “This is Evan Hughes,” he said, then introduced each of the women.

“Evan's a friend of mine. Farms farther on down the road. He's kindly been helping me repair a boundary wall that was damaged in that February storm so we can keep the sheep enclosed when we move them. And we've been discussing the funeral arrangements for Catrin Bellis. He's, er, was I guess I should say, her cousin.”

A tall man with dark wavy hair stuck to the sides of his head by a flat cap, Evan held out a rough, work-hardened hand to Penny. His grip was surprisingly gentle as he shook her hand, appraising her with dark brown eyes.

“I'm very sorry for your loss,” Penny said. “Catrin's closest relative, were you?”

“Aye,” said Evan. “She had no brothers or sisters. Only child, she was.”

“Well, we don't want to keep you from your wall mending, Haydn, but I brought the photo you loaned us for the exhibit and I wondered if you would tell us what you can about who's in it. I really would like to do a proper exhibit card and to do that, I need to know the names of the three men,” said Alwynne.

As she was speaking, Evan stood up. “Just going out for a smoke,” he said to no one in particular.

“Well, why don't you do your sketching now and then when you're done come back here and we'll look at the photo over a cup of tea,” said Haydn. “And you're not holding us up. We're done with the stone wall for today. Come on, then. I'll show you the way.”

As they passed Evan in the farmyard he twisted a cigarette butt under the toe of his boot. He gave them a little wave as they continued on their way to the field of ewes and their spring lambs.

Haydn raised a dirty hand and pointed. “If you go round this way, there's a path that'll take you higher up so you look down into the field. But don't go in the field with them. The ewes get nervous and besides, there'll be a lot of sheep muck in there.”

Penny and Alwynne thanked him and walked on until they reached a small field not far from the house. A stream ran through it, clear and cold, and several stunted rowan trees beside a dry stone wall provided what shade they could.

“Oh!” exclaimed Penny when she saw the sheep. “I was expecting just the regular white ones but these will make for a much more interesting picture. I like them!”

They exchanged quick grins as they set up their gear on the side of the gently sloping hill where Haydn had suggested. Not far below them, a small flock of ewes and their spring lambs, several of them black, stopped their grazing to study the newcomers. The ewes soon lost interest and lowered their heads to return to their task but three adventurous lambs, including a black one, approached the stone wall to get a better look at the newcomers. Penny reached for the camera she kept in her sketching kit.

“So adorable. I love their little faces,” Alwynne said.

“I wonder what kind they are. What breed, I mean.”

“Oh, they're Welsh Mountain, I believe,” replied Alwynne. “Haydn entered one or two in last year's agricultural show and he told me all about them. Very hardy and perfect for a life in these hills. Mostly white, but every now and then a black one pops up.”

Penny continued to photograph the lambs as they regarded her with curious, intense looks. She took a few steps closer to the stone wall, but they turned away, flicked their tails, and in endearing little bounds, returned to the safety of their mothers' sides.

She returned to her collapsible stool, pulled out her sketchbook, set it on her knee, and began to pencil in the lambs' faces.

“So Evan is Catrin's closest relative,” said Alwynne as she unscrewed the top of a water bottle and took a swig.

“Apparently. Do you know him?” Penny asked.

“Not really. At least, not very well. I see him at church on Sundays every now and then with his family. His father is, or he used to be, the churchwarden.”

Penny frowned as she examined the tip of her 2B pencil and then scrabbled around in her bag for a pencil sharpener. “What does a churchwarden do, exactly?” she asked as she twisted the pencil and blew the shavings on the ground.

“Oh, he's responsible for making sure the building is looked after. The roof doesn't leak, the doors are unlocked on Sunday morning, everything is tidied up after the service … that sort of thing. But Bronwyn could tell you more about it than I can.”

As she finished speaking the farmhouse door opened and the two women turned their heads as Evan stepped out into the farmyard. He turned as if to say something to Haydn, raised a hand in a brief gesture, and began walking to the Land Rover. When the kitchen door closed, he stopped, pulled out his phone, studied it for a moment, then lifted his eyes to where Penny and Alwynne were seated, then once again checked his phone. Alywnne waved to him and he returned the gesture, then continued to his vehicle and a few minutes later drove off down the lane, through the gate, and disappeared.

Artistic peacefulness settled over them as they sketched, immersed in their work, oblivious to the world around them and each other, connected only to the scene in front of them. One of the ewes wandered over to the stream for a drink and Penny decided to use this as the focal point of a picture. The splashing sound of the little brook and the occasional baaing of lambs and ewes calling to one another broke the stillness. Although they weren't close to the sheep, the wind carried a faint smell of farmyard animals that was strong enough to remind them where they were but not strong enough to be unpleasant. The women remained in deep concentration for about forty minutes, until Alwynne checked the time and glanced up at the sky.

“We should start to pack up, Penny,” she said. “The best of the afternoon light is gone. When we've just about finished talking to Haydn, I'll ring Himself and let him know it's time to come and pick us up.”

Penny made a soft sound of acknowledgement, sighed, took a critical look at her work, and began to put her art supplies back in the wooden case she used to transport them. “I've got three good sketches to be going on with,” she said. “So I'm happy with that.” She showed Alwynne her sketches. “How did you do?”

“I did four, but mine aren't as detailed as yours. I like what you did with the ewe at the stream, the way she was taking a drink, and then looked up as if something caught her attention. I focused on the lambs.” She placed her sketches in her case. “Interesting, isn't it, how we can both look at the same scene but see such different things.”

The women walked back to the farmhouse, knocked on the door, and entered. Haydn was seated at the table, a glass of whisky in front of him. He asked the women if they'd like a drink and when they declined, he offered tea.

“Why don't I make it,” said Penny, “while you and Alwynne get on with the photograph.” She filled the kettle, plugged it in, and remained standing leaning against the cluttered worktop facing them.

Alwynne pulled the photo from her bag. “Would you mind if we took the photo out of the frame so we can see if there's any writing on the back?”

Without replying, Haydn took the photo from her. “That's my great-grandfather,” he said, pointing to the man standing on the right. “If you wait here a moment, I can get you his full name.” He disappeared into a nearby room and returned with the family Bible. Alwynne's face lit up when she saw it. “Oh, these are a wonderful resource for tracing family history,” she said. “Bless those dear women who took the trouble to write down the names and birthdates of their family members.”

Haydn pushed some dirty cups and spoons on the table to one side and was about to set the Bible on the table when Alwynne sprang forward. “Let's put a cloth down,” she said, “in case anything's been spilled. Even one drop of tea could stain the cover.”

Haydn looked about helplessly. “Have you got a towel perhaps, Haydn?” Alwynne asked.

A look of relief came over his face. “Oh, yes, there's a clean towel in the drawer in the dresser. I was saving it for Kip. I'll get it.” He handed the Bible to Alwynne while Penny cleared the dirty glasses and mugs off the table and deposited them in the sink and then wiped down the table with a not-too-clean cloth. Haydn spread the towel on the clean area and set the Bible on it. He turned to the pages where his family genealogy was recorded.

“Right. This is me, this is my father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather,” he said, running his finger up the row of names.

“This man,” he pointed to the man on the right of the photo, “is Wilfred John Williams. He was born in 1890, and he married in 1912, so he must have been, let's see…”

“Twenty-two,” said Alwynne. “That might seem a little young to us today, but that's about the age men got married back then.” She scrabbled around in her handbag and pulled out an unopened envelope.

“Now, it says here in 1913, their child was born, a boy that was, so he would have been my grandfather,” Haydn continued. “And then in the next entry, Wilfred John Williams dies on July 10, 1916, aged twenty-six.” Alwynne jotted down the dates on the back of the envelope. “And that's all there is here about him,” Haydn said quietly.

“It's always moving, learning about your family members who went before you,” Alwynne said.

“It just struck me that my grandfather was only three years old when his da died,” said Haydn. “I never knew that before.”