Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By: A Penny Brannigan Mystery (19 page)

“Mrs. Lloyd didn’t say,” said Penny. “But there are two children involved, and I suspect this will all get really messy. When it comes time to sort it all out legally, it’s going to be ugly. I expect there’ll be a divorce and all kinds of ramifications. And his business will likely suffer terribly. Mrs. Lloyd said she couldn’t possibly continue to use him. But if he’s an excellent accountant, which apparently he is, and she’s done very well with him as her advisor for many years, it’ll be too bad if she decides to take her business somewhere else.”

“Well, speaking of legal, I’ve got papers here for you to sign. Dilys turned up a few days ago and finally gave us the formula for the hand cream, so her licensing agreement can go ahead. The arrangement is fair to everyone, I think.” Victoria gave Penny a large envelope.

“You don’t have to sign it now. Take it home and read it over.”

“Good idea.” Penny picked up the envelope and stuffed it in her bag.

“I’ve been thinking about this and I’ve got one request and one suggestion.”

“Fire away.”

“First, the laboratory where we get this made.”

“There are several we can use.”

“Right. I’d like to use one that does not do animal testing.”

“I agree,” said Victoria. “We’re ethical.”

“So that’s my request and here’s my suggestion. I thought about all the different kinds of fragrances it could be, and then I thought we should go with the simplest one of all.”

“Lavender? You love lavender. Or lavender vanilla? That’s very popular. Or maybe different fragrances?”

“No,” said Penny. “No fragrance. Fragrance free. We’ve taken a real stand on the tanning-bed issue and I thought we could do the same with fragrance.”

“That wasn’t what I thought you were going to say. I’d like to think about it, but my first reaction is that I like that idea very much. It might appeal to more people, too.”

“Good. Where was Dilys, by the way? She’d gone missing and I’ve been so focused on what happened at the Library I haven’t thought about her for days. Was she all right? Where was she?”

“She’d gone walkabout. She turned up again about two days ago. Emyr thinks she was sleeping rough. Apparently she likes to do that every now and again. Without a doubt, she is a very strange creature.”

Thirty-three

Penny was tired and looking forward to spending a quiet evening at home with her feet up and her kitten, Harrison, now a gangly teenager, curled up on her lap. He had been rescued from a fire at Ty Brith Hall a few weeks earlier and given to her by the Hall’s owner, Emyr Gruffydd. She’d always thought of herself as more of a dog person, but was finding the kitten an absolute joy to have around, and she looked forward to seeing him each day when she returned home. Besides, he was easier to manage than a dog.

She slipped her key in the lock and let herself into the picturesque cottage she had inherited from an old friend the previous year. She’d spent a considerable amount of money updating and renovating it, and loved the result. The cottage was warm, inviting, stylish and above all, hers. As she hung up her coat, a small grey figure walked toward her. She set down her bag and scooped him up into her arms.

A moment later they set off for the kitchen. “Well, I know what you’re having for dinner,” she said. “But what about me?”

When she had finished her microwaved meal, she plugged in the kettle and made a small pot of tea. She set this on the table and went to the hall to fetch her bag. She pulled out the contract Victoria had given her, poured a cup of tea, and sat down to read.

Twenty minutes later, bogged down in legal jargon and not really sure what she had read, she stood up, carried her cup to the kitchen, and set it in the sink. She walked through to the sitting room and sat down in a comfortable wing chair. She needed a few quiet moments to think.

Something Victoria had said during their chat had struck a chord. About how expensive it would have been for Hywel Stephens, a small-town accountant, albeit with some big clients, to run two households in two countries. Did he have that kind of money? Did he have access to it? Could he get it?

She poured herself a glass of white wine. Was it possible that Minty knew about the Spanish family? Hywel Stephens’s initials—HS—weren’t on Minty’s blackmail list, but did the
S
stand for Stephens? Penny smiled at the irony. If Minty had known about the Spanish family, Stephens could have been the biggest and best blackmail target of all of them—the one with the most to protect and the most money to pay.

Everyone has secrets, she thought. And for all sorts of reasons, people keep secrets for other people. Had someone in the Church in Wales been keeping this secret for Stephens? Had the bishop known about it? She snapped her fingers. Of course! Who was the most likely person to have known about the Spanish family? The bishop’s wife. After all, she was having an affair with him. What if Stephens found the whole arrangement just too heavy a burden and in a moment that he would be deeply regretting now, confided the details of his double life to Pamela Blaine? Had Pamela then, in a pique of jealousy, tipped off Ros Stephens? What had prompted Ros to go off to Spain like that? Why now? And how had she known where to find Stephens, anyway? So many unanswered questions.

And what about poor old Shipton? Gareth had told her they were poking into every aspect of his life … his friends—if he had any—colleagues, hobbies, banking information, previous relationships, current relationships. Everything and everybody would be scrutinized. And they were trying to trace his Nigerian boy toy. She wondered how that line of enquiry was going. It flashed through her mind to ring Gareth to find out. She decided not to. It didn’t seem right, somehow.

She took a sip of wine, put her feet up on the ottoman, settled back in her chair, and closed her eyes. Harrison jumped up in her lap and she stroked his soft fur, smiling as she listened to him purr. The sound of his purring grew louder. She blinked, and then started, when she realized through her twilight, drowsy haze that what she was hearing was not her purring cat but her ringing telephone.

“Hello?” she mumbled.

“Hello, Penny, is that you? Oh, I’m so sorry, I think I woke you up.”

Penny recognized the soft Midwestern American accent. “No, no, Dorothy, I was just relaxing in my chair.” A light laugh greeted this remark. “Now come on, Penny. I’ve roused Alan from a nap often enough to know what a sleepy voice sounds like.” Dorothy Martin was a former American schoolteacher who, like Penny, had settled in Britain many years ago. She’d married the now-retired Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, and the two travelled widely. She’d come to the Spa a few months ago and the two women had got to know each other over Dorothy’s first manicure.

“Well, maybe I had drifted off,” Penny admitted. “But I’m awake now and it’s great to hear from you. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you, Penny. But here’s the reason I’m calling. Alan and I are planning to visit some more Welsh castles in June and are hoping to see you and Gareth while we’re in your neck of the woods. The dates aren’t definite yet, and I know it’s a long way off, but just wanted to let you know.”

Penny hesitated. “I’d love to, but I can’t speak for Gareth, so I can’t say for sure. But perhaps closer to the time we’ll be able to sort something out.”

“Sure. Anyway, you can discuss it with him and let me know.”

“He’s rather busy just at the moment,” Penny said. “You probably heard about the murders at Gladstone’s Library.”

“Oh, yes, but I only know what I read in the papers. I understand there’s been an arrest for the first one, but not the second, is that right?”

“That’s exactly right. The police still don’t know who did for poor old Shipton. Gareth doesn’t think the two murders are connected, but I’m not so sure. There’s usually something, some kind of link, however tenuous and far fetched it might seem.”

“You know Alan always says that a murder victim has no secrets from the police. And once you uncover the big secret, the one he was most desperate to keep hidden, you usually uncover the motive. Which, of course, leads you to the killer.”

“Now it’s very interesting you should say that. I was thinking about secrets just before I dozed off. In this case, I’m wondering if someone was keeping a secret that’s connected to a bigger secret. I’m wondering if other people in the organization were in on the secret, too.”

“Could be.” Dorothy was silent for a moment. “That’s certainly not unheard of. Think of the dreadful business in the Catholic Church with all the child abuse. Officials very high up had to have known what was going on and they all kept the secret. They put the organization’s reputation and interests ahead of the welfare of the children.”

“And shame on them,” said Penny.

“Exactly.”

“Thanks for this, Dorothy. You’ve given me something to think about, as you usually do.”

“Well, I do hope you and Gareth will be able to get together with us when we come to Wales. You haven’t really mentioned him. Is everything all right there?”

“Oh, it’s fine. I think we’re just redefining how we want to be together.”

Dorothy laughed. “Oh, is that what they call it now? Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out the way it’s meant to.”

After a few more minutes of friendly chat, Dorothy wrapped up the call. “It was lovely speaking to you and we’ll hope to see you in June. And please, do let me know how the investigation goes. I’m curious to know what poor old Shipton’s secret turns out to be.”

Penny mulled that over for a few minutes. Shipton’s secret. Then she called a friend.

“Hello, Bronwyn. Wondering if I could take you to lunch. The Ivy. Tomorrow? Lovely. See you then.”

Thirty-four

The Ivy, named for the spectacular Virginia Creeper that covered every square inch of it, which attracted national media attention when it turned scarlet every autumn, was Penny’s favourite eating place.

She had even been known to escape to the Ivy on a weekday afternoon, strolling across the town’s historic three-arched bridge that spanned the River Conwy, pausing for a moment, resting her arms on the bridge’s parapet, to admire the sparkling water that splashed through the valley as it flowed to the Irish Sea.

She hadn’t seen Bronwyn since the warden had been arrested, but she had spoken to her on the telephone and apologized for the way things had ended. Bronwyn and Thomas had been gracious and grateful. And while they were sorry they’d been wrong about the warden’s involvement in the death of Minty Russell, they were glad that the truth had come out.

“What do you fancy today?” she asked, as Bronwyn scanned the menu.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I bother with this,” Bronwyn said, closing the menu and placing it on the table. “I always look at it, then ignore it, and order the same thing.”

“The Welsh rarebit?”

Bronwyn nodded. They gave their orders to the server and then Bronwyn raised an eyebrow and looked expectantly at Penny. “Well?” she said with a sly smile.

“All right. I’ll get right to it. I’m hoping you can tell me more about poor old Shipton. What he was like. Your impression of him. You’re very good at reading people, and I’d be very interested to know what you made of him.”

Bronwyn laughed lightly. “Thomas and I were saying just last night we thought you’d be asking a few questions about him. In fact, we were surprised you didn’t ask sooner.”

She sat back in her chair and took a sip of water.

“Well, let me start with what Thomas says about him. The other rectors didn’t care for him, for several reasons. He had a rather off-putting sense of arrogant entitlement … as if the rules didn’t apply to him. The others had to submit reports, for example, but he couldn’t be bothered. The bishop is fastidious about record keeping, and so he should be—parish records are important, and have been for centuries. They have to be accurate and they have to be up to date. But Shipton’s were sloppy. The bishop was always threatening to send Minty over there to help him get caught up and make sure everything was shipshape.” She grimaced at her little pun while Penny was taking in what she had just said.

So there was a connection between the two. Minty would have had complete access to Shipton’s parish records. But still, as the bishop’s secretary, that was to be expected. She smiled up at the server as she set their meals down in front of them.

“Will there be anything else for now?” she asked. Bronwyn shook her head and Penny told the server they were fine for the moment.

“Tell me about the parish records, Bronwyn, please.”

Bronwyn cut off a piece of toast, piled some warm, gooey cheese on it, placed the fork in her mouth and closed her eyes. She chewed for a moment and swallowed.

“There are two types,” she began. “There’s the financial record. That’s about accountability. The amount of revenue the parish raises, how it’s spent. Or saved. Some money stays within the parish to cover operating costs and some is sent to the bishopric for the general good of the diocese.”

“And the other?”

“This is the interesting one. This is a formal record of the births, marriages, and deaths within the parish. I suppose it would have legal standing, but I’m not sure. Anyway, the rectors are required to maintain legal records of these major life events. There’s only one parish record book in use at one time, and sometimes it’s retained at the church and sometimes it’s held for safekeeping at the county record office. When the book is full, it’s sent to the National Library of Wales, where it forms part of the national collection. Until about the mid-1800s, the church was the only keeper of this kind of information—
data,
people would call it now, I suppose. And then in the mid-1800s, civil records came into play so genealogists and amateurs who come here to Wales to trace their roots have two sources. But parish records are still important for historical record keeping.”

“I see. And might anyone have access to the parish records? For example, if I wanted to view Thomas’s records, could I do that? If I thought my great-aunt, say, had been married in the church, could I look that up myself?”