Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By: A Penny Brannigan Mystery (8 page)

“Oh,” said Bronwyn, “I think I know what that is. It looks like shorthand. Pitman shorthand, I think it’s called. I had an aunt who was a secretary and she knew how to do that. Instead of writing the words, you have all those symbols that represent the way words sound. I could never make any sense of it and thought it was wonderful how some people, mainly young women, learned how to do that. It’s like a code. They used to teach it at the old secretarial schools.” She thought for a moment. “I wonder if secretarial schools still exist. I don’t think many girls these days set out to become secretaries and yet it doesn’t seem so long ago that secretary was one of the few career options open to women. We’ve come a long way.”

“But you can’t read it?” Davies asked.

Bronwyn shook her head. “No, sorry.”

He directed a silent enquiry at Mrs. Blaine, who rose stiffly to her feet.

“Of course I can’t read it. What do you take me for? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m finding all this very upsetting. I’d like to go to my room.”

“Certainly. But before you go, do you happen to know how we could get in touch with Miss Russell’s sister?”

“No, sorry. I have no idea.” Davies stood as Pamela Blaine left the dining room, her trim figure attractively displayed from the back in a tight black pencil skirt paired with a well-cut white blouse tapered at the waist. She walked quickly, like a woman who was late for a meeting, her black high heels clicking on the parquet floor.

Davies sat down again and turned to Penny and Bronwyn. “Well, we do have someone we’ve used in the past who knows shorthand, so I’ll ask Bethan to contact her and see if she’s available.”

“Why do you want to do that?” Bronwyn asked. “Is the notebook important, do you think?”

“It might be, depending on how the investigation goes. We don’t know what we’re dealing with but we have to consider all possibilities. Hopefully, we’ll know more once the contents of the plate have been analyzed.”

He checked the time on his phone.

“Bethan’ll be here soon to pick it up.” He looked from one to the other. “I can’t get past the fact that there was no EpiPen in her bag. People with severe allergies always carry one. Always. They never know when they might need it and they know that their lives could depend on it.”

He cleared his throat.

“I’d like the two of you to do something for me. Please keep an eye on the plate while I search Miss Russell’s room for the EpiPen. I need to know if the pen was in her room.”

Thirty long minutes later a welcome, familiar figure appeared in the dining room entranceway. Catching sight of Penny and Bronwyn at the table, Sgt. Bethan Morgan threaded her way through the tables and joined them. She gave them each a quick greeting and then sat down.

“Where is he?”

“He went to search Miss Russell’s room. He wants to know why she didn’t have the EpiPen in her bag, so he’s looking to see if she left it in her room for some reason. In another bag, maybe,” said Bronwyn. “I expect when she’s recovered that’ll be one of the first things he asks her.”

A look of dismay shading into fear flashed across Bethan’s face.

“How is she?” Penny asked. “Is she…?”

“She’s alive,” said Bethan, “but poorly. Her body is shutting down and it doesn’t look good.”

“She thought the pen was in her bag,” said Penny. “As soon as she realized what had happened she pointed at her handbag. She kept trying to tell us to get the EpiPen from her handbag.”

At that moment Davies entered the room and as he got closer to the little group he shook his head slightly. Bethan filled him in on Minty’s condition and then pulled an evidence bag from her jacket. Davies initialed it and Bethan slid the plate into it, keeping it flat. A few minutes later she was on her way.

“So what happens next?” asked Bronwyn.

“We wait and see,” said Davies, picking up the notebook and examining the coded contents.

They did not have long to wait. A few minutes later Davies’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, then nodded.

“Yes, I’m sure you did. Yes, there’ll have to be one.” He listened for a few more moments, thanked the caller, and then rang off. The little group raised fearful eyes in his direction.

“Miss Russell died ten minutes ago. There’ll have to be a postmortem. No question about that.”

Thirteen

In the downstairs hall of Evelyn Lloyd’s comfortable house on Rosemary Lane in Llanelen, Florence Semble put the phone down and turned around just in time to see Mrs. Lloyd dart back into the sitting room. A moment later, her head emerged and the rest of her sidled through the doorway.

“Well?” asked Mrs. Lloyd eagerly. “I was deeply engrossed in
The Lady
, but you were talking so loudly I couldn’t help overhear a bit of your conversation. It certainly sounded intriguing.”

“That was the North Wales Police. They have a job for me and I’m to come at once. I’m to plan to stay overnight.”

“A job for you? What kind of job could you possibly do for the North Wales Police? What on earth are you talking about?”

Florence rested her hand on the banister, one foot on the first stair.

“A woman’s died in what they call suspicious circumstances. She left a notebook, but it’s written in shorthand. They need me to translate it for them. And,” she added proudly, “although I would be happy to do it as the good civic-minded citizen I am, they’re going to pay me. It’s considered translation. A professional service.”

Mrs. Lloyd folded her hands in front of her. In a recent television documentary she had seen the Queen working in her office, wearing a simple, tailored dress with a brooch on the left shoulder and black shoes with low heels. Thinking the outfit exactly what a lady should wear at home in the daytime, Mrs. Lloyd had adopted the same look. Her dress was a burgundy wool and her brooch was an ornate, swirling flower made up of pink and red stones.

“Now when they said come at once, Florence, do they mean to send a car for you?”

“No. I’m to take the train to Chester, letting them know which train I’m on, and they’ll send a car to the station to meet me.”

“Us,” said Mrs. Lloyd firmly. “They’ll send a car to meet us.”

She consulted her wristwatch. “I think there’s a train in about two hours, but I’ll check the schedule and ring for the taxi while you get ready.” She thought for a moment. “We’ll need to take some sandwiches with us for the journey. We don’t want to waste our money on that awful rubbish you get on the train. There’s that leftover roast beef. That would be good. What do you think?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “Oh, and we’ll definitely need a flask of tea. It’s been ages since I used the flask. I wonder where I put it? I hope it wasn’t in with the lot I sent along to Bronwyn for the spring jumble sale. Well, we’ll have a look for it. It must be somewhere.” She took a step toward the kitchen. “And some wine gums. I always like wine gums on a train journey, for some reason. Have we got any in?”

Florence shook her head. “Why would we have wine gums hanging about?”

“No? Well, we’ll just stop off and pick up a couple of packets on the way to the station. And I’ll bring a couple of my magazines.” She looked at Florence. “I suppose you have your library book?”

Florence remained where she was, one hand still on the banister.

“Well, don’t just stand there, Florence. We’ve got a lot do. You start with the sandwiches and I’ll take care of the travel arrangements.”

“Evelyn, it’s me they want. Not us. Not you. I’m perfectly capable of doing this on my own.”

Mrs. Lloyd had the decency to look mildly apologetic.

“Of course you are, Florence. There’s no doubt about that or they wouldn’t have asked you. But I haven’t been anywhere for ages, and surely you would not begrudge me accompanying you, would you?” Eyes bright with enthusiasm, she added, “I could be your assistant.”

“Do you know shorthand, Evelyn?”

“No, I could never make head nor tail of it.”

Florence laughed. “Then I don’t really see how you could be my assistant.”

“I will offer unqualified support and encouragement, Florence, as you set about your important police work. Now, where did you say we were going, exactly?” asked Mrs. Lloyd.

“I didn’t say, but it’s Gladstone’s Library. And I think you meant unconditional support, not unqualified.”

“Oh, wonderful!” exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd, clapping her hands. “There you are, you see! I’ve heard so much about Gladstone’s Library and always wanted to go there, so this is the perfect opportunity. A day or two away will do me so much good.”

Florence frowned.

“Oh, Florence, you didn’t really think I’d let you have this adventure all on your own, did you? This is much too good to miss.” She thought a moment. “And wait until Penny Brannigan hears about this. That we,” knowing when not to push her luck, Mrs. Lloyd corrected herself, “that you were asked to go to a murder to provide assistance to the police. So exciting. Thrilling, even.”

“I think she knows already.”

“What? How could she possibly…”

“It was her boyfriend, that Inspector Davies, who rang me. Penny was the one who suggested I might be able to help sort out the shorthand. Apparently there was someone they used in the past, but it’s been so long since they needed her that she’s died, so Penny suggested me. She remembered that I used to work as a secretary at the Liverpool College of Art back in the old days and thought I might know shorthand, which I do.”

“I might have known,” grumbled Mrs. Lloyd. “What is it about that woman, that wherever and whenever there’s a murder, there she is.”

“And mind your language, Evelyn. Nobody said anything about murder. Suspicious circumstances they called it.”

Florence turned toward the kitchen.

“Right, then. I’d best get on with those sandwiches. But you do know, Evelyn, that the train journey doesn’t take much over an hour from Llandudno. We’re not taking the overnight train to Scotland. And I’m sure there’ll be plenty for us to eat when we get there. We’re not likely to starve.”

Fourteen

“How are you going to spend what’s left of the afternoon, Penny?” asked Bronwyn. “I don’t expect we’ll see much of Gareth from now on. We’ll have to amuse ourselves.” Davies had left them soon after Bethan had set off to deliver the contents of Minty Russell’s luncheon plate to the forensics lab. He wanted to interview the kitchen staff himself. With the right handling, the chef might be able to help with the inquiry.

“I thought I’d do some sketching in the garden,” Penny replied, “while the light is still good. Gardens are beautiful to me all year round. Care to join me? I’d welcome the company.”

“Would you? I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m not too keen on people looking over my shoulder while I work, but I like having people nearby, if you know what I mean. That’s why our little sketching group works so well. There’s always someone close, but not too close.”

A few years earlier, Penny and a few like-minded friends had formed the Stretch and Sketch Club for amateur drawing and painting enthusiasts, and the occasional photographer, who enjoyed rambling about the countryside, capturing the beautiful, varied scenery in all its Welsh greenery and glory.

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant about wondering if you wanted company, but if you’re sure, I’ll get my book and I might just bring a cup of coffee with me. I’ll see you outside in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be round the back. Where the statues are.” Penny clutched her satchel of art supplies under one arm, and warmly dressed against the light, but cool, breeze, she slipped out the door near the chapel, to the sculpture garden where Bronwyn found her a few minutes later.

Bronwyn sat at one of the picnic tables beside Penny, set her book down and took a sip of coffee. She watched Penny sketch for a few minutes. “Penny, about what I said earlier. It’s just that I was wondering if you were coming out here because you wanted some time on your own. If you don’t mind my asking, is everything all right between you and Gareth? Only you don’t seem as, oh, I don’t know, comfortable with him as you used to. You used to have a bit of sparkle when you were around him and that seems to be gone. You seem anxious around him.”

Penny looked up from her sketching pad.

“It’s that obvious, is it?”

“Maybe just to me. Do you want to talk about it?”

Penny put down her pencil.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this the past few days. I would say that my feelings toward him haven’t changed. In fact, quite the opposite. But part of me is pulling back, trying to disengage, not letting myself go there.” She sighed. “Victoria has suggested that he’s going to ask me to marry him and I rather hope he won’t. I don’t want that kind of major change in my life. I like things the way they are.” After a moment she added, “The way we are.” She gave a helpless shrug. “But I don’t want to hurt him, and I certainly don’t want to lose our friendship, so I’m not sure how to handle the situation. I don’t know how to tell him how I really feel without it sounding like a rejection.”

“Well, then, Penny, if you’re sure this is how you feel and you don’t just need more time, you must raise the subject, tactfully, of course, before he does, so he knows not to ask you. That way, he’ll be spared the embarrassment of a rejection.”

Penny groaned. “That sounds like the sensible thing to do.”

“I had a magazine from the library recently on how to phrase difficult things in ways that are not harsh or hurtful. Would you like me to help with the words? Apparently you should speak from the heart in a sincere manner and start with something positive and encouraging.”

“You mean like, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’?”

Bronwyn laughed. “Oh, I think you can do better than that. But do think about saying something to him, so he knows.” A small silence fell over them, broken only by the wispy sound of Penny’s pencil on her sketch pad. And then Bronwyn spoke.

“Part of what you’re feeling, Penny, may be related to what you’ve got used to. You’ve been on your own for a very long time, so the idea of having a deep, all-consuming, committed relationship with someone may seem just too much for you. It works the other way, too, of course. That’s why someone who’s been married for donkey’s years finds it so difficult to adjust to being alone when the spouse dies. I simply cannot imagine my life without Thomas. I would be so lost without him. Bereft. I depend on him for everything. Almost every thought I have is us and we, not I or me. That’s the way of people who have been married happily for a long time. Perhaps your problem is you cannot imagine your life defined by being with Gareth, to any great extent. The extent of being married to him. Perhaps you feel you’d have to give up too much of yourself to do that.”