The Cold Light of Mourning (12 page)

Fourteen

S
he hadn’t vanished off the pages of the
Daily Post
, though. Morwyn Lloyd was writing a new story almost every day, based on material given to her by the police, who were trying to keep the story alive in the hopes that some small detail would jog someone’s memory and lead to the break they so desperately needed.

NEW TWIST IN MYSTERY OF THE MISSING BRIDE-TO-BE

Police are seeking a woman who apparently posed as missing bride-to-be Meg Wynne Thompson shortly before her disappearance on Saturday.

Detective Sergeant Bethan Morgan from North Wales police said that there is widespread concern for Ms. Thompson, who has not been seen since Saturday morning. At first, detectives believed she had had a manicure at the Happy Hands salon on Station Road, but now think the woman who had the manicure was someone else who, for unknown reasons, was posing as the bride.

“If anyone knows who this mystery woman is, we would ask them to come forward,” she said. “We believe this woman might be able to help us find Ms. Thompson and return her safely to her family.

“We certainly are hopeful but as time goes on we become more and more concerned about her well-being.”

Ms. Thompson had been scheduled to marry Emyr Gruffydd, son of local landowner and businessman Rhys Gruffydd, on Saturday afternoon. For unknown reasons, she did not appear at the church, and has been the subject of a widespread police missing persons inquiry.

Over the next few days, however, the story gradually fell off the front page and a photo no longer appeared with it.

Llanelen life was settling back into its cosy routine, until a chance remark by Mrs. Lloyd changed everything.

On Thursday afternoon she arrived for her usual manicure carrying a large bag from Marks & Spencer.

“Oh, Penny,” she said as she carefully set her bag down beside the appointment-book table. “This has been such a dreadful week and I don’t mind saying I hope I never see one like it again.”

“Very true,” agreed Penny as Mrs. Lloyd settled herself at the manicure table and Penny prepared her warm soaking liquid.

“Of course, for you, dear, Emma’s funeral would have been very upsetting. I know you two were very close, as would only be natural, seeing as how you were both incomers, so to speak.

“Not that we ever thought of you that way, of course,” she added as an afterthought.

Penny smiled at Mrs. Lloyd. Honestly, the woman was impossible, but still, you had to like her. Most of the time.

“The whole wedding experience was very upsetting for me, I can tell you,” Mrs. Lloyd went on. “I was right there as it all unfolded. I saw everything. I can’t tell you how simply shocked everyone was when the bride didn’t turn up. No one knew where to look or what to do. I must say, though, that Bronwyn handled everything beautifully. She really is the most gracious woman and such an asset to her husband. Yes, that Thomas Evans chose very well when he chose her. He certainly knew what he was doing.”

Mrs. Lloyd was off and running. Penny nodded agreement every now and then, murmured an occasional “Mm hmm,” and went on with her work, through the shaping and filing of her client’s nails and the application of the base coat.

“What colour will you be having today?” asked Penny. “How about Chocolate Moose from the Canadian collection? You like that one.”

“That will do very nicely, thank you, Penny.”

As Penny began applying the first coat of polish, Mrs. Lloyd was off again.

“As you know, Penny, I’ve always prided myself on being well turned out. There’s nothing quite sets a professional woman apart like a smart suit, I always say. And I do like the way they’ve brought out suits for more formal wear. I had a very fetching one for the wedding, if I do say so myself, but I was very disappointed in my hat. In fact, it’s over there in the Marks and Sparks bag; I’m taking the bus this afternoon up to Llandudno to return it. They’re very good about taking things back, I find, Marks and Spencer. But of course, I am one of their best customers; I’ve worn nothing but their clothes for years. Or perhaps I should say they dress me! I believe that is the fashion parlance. I find they do a good line for all ages.”

Penny started work on Mrs. Lloyd’s other hand.

“No, the hat wasn’t quite right, I’m afraid. Oh, the colour matched my suit all right, I made sure of that and there was nothing actually wrong with the hat itself, it just didn’t suit me.”

Mrs. Lloyd paused for a moment, held her hands at arm’s length, and gave them a critical look.

“Yes, I think that colour will work very well with the dress I’ll be wearing to the bridge game tonight.

“While these are drying, Penny, just go and fetch me my hat out of the bag, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Penny sighed inwardly, but knowing the importance of humouring the client, did as she was asked, and handed the large turquoise hat, with its wide brim, tall crown, and masses of netting, feathers, and bobbing wispy bits to her customer. Mrs. Lloyd carried it carefully over to the wall-mounted mirror and placed it on her head.

With a broad, upward sweep of her hand, she gestured at the hat.

“There now, Penny, do you see what I mean? I don’t think the hairdresser did anything different, but for some reason I can’t get the hat to go on properly. It’s sitting up way too high!”

Tilting her head this way and that to get a better look at the hat, Mrs. Lloyd caught sight of Penny, standing behind her, reflected in the mirror. She was shocked by what she saw.

Penny’s normally pale, freckled face was a mask of puzzled intensity as she struggled to process what she had just heard. Her eyes widened, and then her face turned ashen as if all the blood had drained from it. She couldn’t speak and tried desperately to swallow.

“Good heavens, Penny! Whatever is the matter with you, girl? It’s only a hat from Marks and Spencer—there’s no need to take on like that. What’s the matter with you? You look as if you’ve had a terrible shock! Are you all right? Are you ill? Should I call somebody?”

Penny shook her head and sat down on the small chair beside the appointment-book table. She was trembling slightly and used the edge of the table to steady herself.

“No, Mrs. Lloyd,” she said in a low voice. “I’m all right, but I need a drink of water. I’ll be right back.”

Penny disappeared into the preparation room while Mrs. Lloyd took off her hat and replaced it in the bag.

If she didn’t like it that much, she thought, I’d better get it out of her sight before she returns. She could hear water running in the small supply room, and a moment later Penny returned, looking somewhat more composed, but not herself.

“Mrs. Lloyd, I’m terribly sorry, and I know you aren’t going to be pleased with me, but I’m afraid I can’t do your second coat just now. Something you said has really upset me, and I need to sort it out. Well, not so much upset as made me realize something. I’m very sorry, but I have to ask you to leave. Please forgive me. Look, come back tomorrow morning, and I’ll finish your nails for you and there won’t be any charge to you for this manicure.”

“Well, really, Penny, this is a bit much, I must say,” said Mrs. Lloyd, as Penny scrambled to collect her bags and hand them to her. “Will you not at least tell me what I said that’s made you take on like this? I can’t think what I said that could have upset you. Is it something personal?”

“No, no, Mrs. Lloyd, it’s not personal, it’s just something else,” replied Penny. “I hardly know what I’m doing just now, but I have to make a very important telephone call. I’m so sorry, but I need to be on my own.”

Mrs. Lloyd took her handbag and Marks & Spencer bag from Penny and made her way out of the shop and into the street. As she glanced behind her, she saw Penny turning the shop sign to CLOSED and then switching the lights off.

Making her way across the square, Mrs. Lloyd decided to return home to make a phone call of her own.

“It was simply the most astonishing thing, Morwyn,” she was telling her niece a few minutes later. “And in mid-manicure, too! One minute we were going along fine and the next minute I was being rushed out the door. ‘Here’s your turquoise hat and what’s your hurry?’ she might as well have said. I didn’t know what to make of it. I can tell you, if it had been anyone else except Penny I wouldn’t be setting foot in her shop again anytime soon. But obviously something’s upset her deeply or she wouldn’t have reacted like that. I’ve never seen anyone so flustered. And all because of a hat! A hat! Honestly.”

“Tell me again, Aunt, exactly what you said that set her off,” Morwyn said. “Word for word and don’t leave anything out.”

Penny, meanwhile, after shutting the shop door, returned to the small chair beside the telephone table.

A few minutes later she rose, made her way resolutely upstairs to her flat, and picked up the telephone in one hand as she reached for Davies’s business card with the other.

She picked up the receiver and after a moment’s hesitation, set it down again.

What if he thinks I’m an hysterical idiot, she thought. She looked at the phone for a few more moments, picked it up again, and quickly entered in the numbers.

“It’s me again, Sergeant Morgan,” she said when the call was answered. “Penny Brannigan in Llanelen. Something terrible has occurred to me, and I need to talk to you about it.”

Morgan listened and then thanked Penny and rang off. She knocked on Davies’s door and entered.

“I’ve just had Penny Brannigan on the phone again, sir. She’s asked if we can go around and see her. She doesn’t want to go into it on the phone. She sounds very upset.”

Davies looked at her.

“What’s she upset about?”

“She thinks she might know where Meg Wynne Thompson is. Or, I should say, where her body is.”

Fifteen

P
enny was standing on the pavement outside her shop when the police officers arrived.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said as they made their way through the shop. “I don’t want to talk here. Follow me.”

She led them upstairs to the flat and into the small sitting room. With a brief gesture at the sofa, Penny sat down in the matching armchair.

“I’m very sorry if I seem upset, but I am,” she began. “I’ve had something of a shocking idea and I felt I needed to tell you about it. I may be wrong. I hope I am. But I don’t think so.”

“What is it Miss Brannigan? Please tell us what’s happened,” said Morgan.

“Whatever it is, it’s obviously affected you,” said Davies gently. “Look, let’s have Sergeant Morgan get the kettle on, and we’ll take a few moments before you start.”

He gestured with his head toward the kitchen and Morgan rose obediently and went to organize a cup of tea.

“Would it be easier to tell just me, Miss Brannigan, or do you want to wait for Sergeant Morgan to return?” he asked.

Penny nodded.

“You want to wait?”

Penny nodded again.

“That’s fine. Miss Brannigan, did you want us here because you didn’t want to be on your own just at the minute?”

Again, a nod. Penny could barely bring herself to look at him, but when she did, she was encouraged by the concern in his eyes.

A few moments later Morgan returned with three mugs of tea, a carton of milk, and the sugar bowl.

“How do you take your tea, Miss Brannigan?”

Penny indicated the milk, and accepted the mug Morgan handed her. She took a sip, and then put the mug on the table between them.

Davies leaned back and then nodded at Morgan, who took out her notebook.

“Right,” he said. “In your own time, Miss Brannigan. You think you know where Meg Wynne Thompson is. Please tell us.”

Penny looked at him, took a deep breath.

“Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it. I think her body’s underneath Emma Teasdale’s coffin.”

In the stunned silence that followed, Davies, who had been about to take a sip of tea, paused with his mug halfway to his lips as if he had been flash frozen.

He recovered himself quickly, set his mug down on the table, and took charge of the conversation. “Who is Emma Teasdale, please?”

“She was buried on Monday afternoon. She was my friend and I miss her very much.”

Penny’s eyes filled with tears and Morgan handed her a tissue.

“I have to ask you,” said Davies, leaning forward with his hands clasped together between his knees, “why would you even think such a thing?”

“Since the funeral, I’ve had this awful feeling that something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I kept telling myself it was probably nothing, the way you do, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. I was going to ask Bronwyn Evans or some of the others who were there if they noticed anything wrong, but I kept telling myself not to be so silly, that it was just all in my head. And then today, when Mrs. Lloyd came into the shop, she was going on and on about her hat, how it wasn’t right, and then she put it on. And then she said, and I’ll never forget this, she said, ‘It’s sitting up way too high,’ and I realized that was the problem at Emma’s graveside. You know how you gather around the grave at the end and you toss earth on top of the coffin as the rector says the ‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes’ bit?”

The police officers nodded.

“Well, that’s what wasn’t right. The coffin was too high. It was too close to us when we threw the earth on it. And now, I think the reason it’s too high is because there’s something underneath it.”

Again, there was a heavy silence as the two police officers took in what they had just heard. The sound of their breathing seemed amplified in the stillness.

Finally, Davies spoke.

“We need to be very careful with this, Miss Brannigan. I know you loved your friend, and you would not be telling us this unless you were quite certain of it. But is there any chance you might be mistaken? Because there’s only one way for us to find if you’re right and that is not something we would ever do without very good cause.”

“I know,” Penny said. “But I believe that’s what happened and I thought it was my duty to tell you. What you decide to do with this information is obviously up to you.”

She made a little impatient, fluttering gesture with her hands and looked from one to the other.

“But do you know that feeling you get sometimes when you’ve misplaced something, and you’ve looked absolutely everywhere for it? And then you step back for a moment, think about it, and suddenly, with absolute certainty, you know exactly where it is? And you go straight there and you look in the pocket of that jacket you haven’t worn for ages and sure enough, there it is. What you lost. That’s how I feel about this. I feel absolutely certain that if you look there, you’ll find her. Meg Wynne Thompson.”

She sat back, distressed and exhausted. The late-afternoon sun filtered through the curtains lighting the flowers on her desk, the art books on her shelves, and the watercolours on the walls. Morgan, drawn out of the moment, looked around and wondered admiringly how anyone could live such a clutter-free life.

“Miss Brannigan, do you have anyone you could call who might come and stay with you for a little while? Is there anyone you’d like us to get?” Davies asked. “Normally, I’d suggest that the WPC here stay with you, but in light of what you’ve just said, I’m going to need her back at the station.”

Penny met his gaze.

“Well, since Emma died, I don’t really have a very close friend, and everyone who might be able to come over is probably at work.”

She sat there for a moment.

“There’s Bronwyn, of course.”

A moment later, she added, “Wait, there is someone, actually, but I don’t have her phone number. She’s called Victoria Hopkirk, and Bronwyn Evans, the wife of our rector, knows where to find her. She seemed a sensible, kind woman. I don’t know her very well, but I quite liked her. Could we ask her?”

Davies nodded at Morgan, who excused herself to make the arrangements.

“The thing is, though, Miss Brannigan, we’re going to have to ask you to keep this to yourself for the moment,” said Davies.

He smiled at her and she was surprised by how reassured she felt.

He stood up and took a few steps to take a closer look at one of the paintings.

“Is this yours?” he asked, turning around to look at her.

She nodded.

“Very nice. I like landscapes. I like when things look the way they’re supposed to look.”

“That’ll be the policeman in you.”

This time, she smiled and he nodded.

Morgan returned a few moments later.

“It’s done, sir. Mrs. Hopkirk said she’d be happy to keep Miss Brannigan company. She should be here in about twenty minutes.”

Morgan looked at Penny.

“I told her you weren’t feeling well, that you’d had a bit of a shock. She was concerned but seemed rather pleased that you asked for her. I got the feeling that she quite likes you, too.”

“Good,” said Davies as he sat down again. “Well, that’s that, then.”

While Morgan tidied away the tea things, Davies and Penny went over the funeral scene again in greater detail and when Victoria arrived, the two officers took their leave.

“What’s going to happen now, sir?” asked Morgan when they were in the car. “Do you think she’s credible?”

“She very well may be,” Davies said cautiously, “because she’s an artist and what’s been bothering her, I think, is that from an artistic point of view, the perspective at the gravesite was wrong. But still, she could be mistaken, and I’d feel more comfortable if we had another point of view. If somebody else noticed something amiss, I’d feel better about moving forward with this. What we need is corroboration.

“And who has the best view of the coffin at a committal service?” he asked slyly. “And who’s probably seen more of them than anybody else?”

Morgan grinned, turned the car around, and reached for her mobile.

“Good one, sir! Interesting, isn’t it, that I only had to press redial?” she said as she handed her phone over to her supervisor in the passenger seat.

“Ah, good afternoon again, Mrs. Evans,” said Davies. “This is DCI Davies here. I wonder, do you think we might pop in for a word with your husband?”

A few minutes later they were shown into the rector’s comfortable, if somewhat shabby study. What the small, book-lined room lacked in style, it more than made up for with the beautiful view of the rectory garden leading down to the River Conwy and the hills beyond.

Noticing Morgan detaching from business for a moment to admire the view, Rev. Evans smiled at her.

“I often look out that window for inspiration,” he said to her. “And every time I do I understand what the psalmist meant when he wrote, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.’ Well, I say psalmist, but it was David, actually.”

Bringing herself back to the business at hand, Morgan nodded.

“We’re sorry to disturb you, Rev. Evans,” she began.

“No need to apologize,” he replied. “I wish I could tell you I was giving some deep and profound thought to Sunday morning’s sermon, but you’ve actually caught me napping. Please, have a seat.”

He gestured at two chairs on the other side of his desk and looked intently at his visitors.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“We’d like to talk to you about the funeral of Emma Teasdale, especially the committal part of the service,” Morgan said.

“Oh, yes?”

“Did you happen to notice anything odd or unusual when you were at the gravesite? Was there anything about the scene that struck you as unusual or out of place?”

The rector sat back in his chair, put his hands in a prayer position, and gently touched the ends of his fingers to his mouth.

“Odd or unusual. Hmm, let me think.”

A few moments later, he leaned forward.

“Well, now that you mention it, there was one thing. Something about the coffin seemed different. I did notice that, and in fact, I think I mentioned something about it to Bronwyn that night.”

“Can you tell me what that was, Rev. Evans?”

“It was just a little thing, but I noticed that I could read the name and dates on the brass coffin-plate quite clearly. I can’t see as well as I used to, and now the plates are a little blurry, so I thought, Oh, that’s very good. They’ve started making the letters larger so us over fifties can read them better. But then I said to Bronwyn that night, ‘Why would us over fifties, or anybody else for that matter, ever need to read the coffin-plate?’

“So that seemed rather unusual, but I thought no more about it.”

Trying to contain her excitement, Morgan glanced at her supervisor and asked her last question.

“Can you tell me the name of the undertaker who would have arranged for the plate?”

“Certainly,” said the rector. “It was Philip, just across the square. Philip Wightman. Wightman and Sons.”

Morgan sat back as Davies took over.

“Rector, we are going across the street for a word with Mr. Wightman, but we need you to stay awake. I expect we’ll be back to finish this conversation in about fifteen minutes. Is that all right with you?”

Rev. Evans sighed.

“Certainly, it is. Quite all right. I guess now I really will have to make a start on that sermon. If it puts me to sleep, that doesn’t bode well for my poor parishioners, does it?”

Morgan and Davies smiled at his gentle joke, and took their leave.

A few minutes later the shop bell tinkled as they entered the premises of Philip Wightman.

Slipping on his jacket as he emerged from the back room, Philip took the measure of his visitors and extended his hand.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Philip Wightman. May I help you?”

Davies and Morgan showed their warrant cards and got right to the point.

“We’d like to know about the brass nameplate you used for Emma Teasdale’s coffin,” said Morgan. “Was there anything different about it?”

“Different?” asked Philip. “No, it’s not different from any other nameplate we would use. Why do you ask?”

“We’re following a line of investigation and the nameplate may be important,” Davies said. “What can you tell us about it?”

“I don’t do the engraving myself, that’s outsourced, as they say, but I do affix the plate to the coffin. I need to make sure everything is spelled correctly, see.”

“And this one was no different from any other nameplate you might have used in the past little while?”

“No. The font changed in the 1970s—it used to be more of an italic script—but this plate was like any other I would use.”

“And the type was no larger?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wightman, that’ll be all. We appreciate your time this afternoon.”

The jingling shop door safely shut behind them, Morgan and Davies looked at each other with a mixture of anticipation, excitement, and dread.

“So if the type wasn’t any larger, that must mean …” Morgan started to say.

“… that the coffin was closer to him, giving him the impression the words were larger,” Davies finished. “He thought he saw what he expected to see, that is, the coffin at its usual depth, so his brain explained the nameplate by suggesting the typeface was larger.”

He sighed.

“Start the paperwork, Morgan,” Davies ordered. “You won’t see this very often, maybe once or twice in your career, but we need to get on to the Home Office with a request for an exhumation. Normally, when you call for an exhumation it’s because you need to examine what’s inside the coffin. We’re not going to open the coffin, but because we’ll be disturbing human remains, to be on the safe side, we’re going to do the paperwork and put in a formal request. That way, it’s all aboveboard. No complaints later.

“I’ll double back and let the rector know and then drop around before I go and talk to Miss Brannigan myself.

“Oh, and one more thing, Morgan. The next time she calls, put her straight through to me. I’m starting to really like the way that woman thinks.”