The Cold Light of Mourning (15 page)

Twenty

G
ood morning, Chief Inspector,” said Penny as Davies cautiously pushed open the door. “Do come in. This is Mrs. Lloyd, one of my regular clients. Mrs. Lloyd, this is Detective Chief Inspector Davies. He’s leading the Meg Wynne Thompson investigation.”

Mrs. Lloyd gave the police officer a careful once-over and then nodded pleasantly. “Ah, Inspector,” she said. “Very clever of you to find me here, especially as this isn’t my regular day, is it Penny dear? No, I was wondering why you hadn’t been to see me before this, but never mind that, you’re here now. What would you like to know?”

Mrs. Lloyd sat back expectantly while Davies collected himself and Penny tried to hide her amusement. Slowly he approached the table where she was sitting.

“What exactly do you have to tell me?” he asked.

“Well, I would have thought you’d be around to take a statement,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “You and that lady officer of yours. I know you’ve been talking to people, and I was there and saw everything, and yet you haven’t spoken to me yet.”

“You were?” Davies asked incredulously. “What did you see, exactly?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lloyd impatiently. “I was in the church when they made the announcement that the bride was missing. I was almost in the front pew so not much got past me.”

“It never does,” said Penny, looking intently at Mrs. Lloyd’s nails.

“Well, that’s very true,” agreed Mrs. Lloyd with a modest degree of smug satisfaction. “I was the postmistress here for many years, and as you probably know, Inspector, in the post office we’re trained to be observant. In an important position like that, you hear and see just about everything. Of course, discretion comes into it, too, but you learn to tell the difference between what’s important and what’s not.”

“Rather like police work, perhaps?” suggested Penny, smothering a smile.

“Exactly!” exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd.

“Now, then, Inspector, shall I start at the beginning and tell you everything that happened that morning? Why don’t you pull one of those chairs over here and sit beside me?”

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Lloyd was wrapping up her version of events as Penny was applying the top coat to her nails.

“And so, that was just about it, Inspector. The rector made the announcement and we all made our way across to the hotel for some refreshments. It was all such a pity. And such a waste, too. The church had never looked more beautiful. It seemed like there were stands of lovely flowers everywhere. Pink, they were, and very blowsy and fragrant. Peonies, I think they were but where anyone would get peonies now, I don’t know. They’ve been over for weeks.” Penny started and dropped her brush, leaving a little puddle of clear fluid on the work surface which she quickly wiped away with a cotton ball.

Mrs. Lloyd took no notice, but Davies’s shoulders hunched forward slightly.

“Sorry,” said Penny, recovering. “I think that you’re done now, Mrs. Lloyd. Just sit there for a moment while they dry.”

But Mrs. Lloyd was now deep into her recollections of the wedding that wasn’t.

“I wonder in a situation like that what happened to the flowers? They weren’t in the church on Sunday, were they? Were they donated to a local hospital or hospice do you think?”

She looked from one to the other.

“Or maybe to one of the old folks homes. Yes, that’s probably where they went. Someplace where they could do a bit of good.”

She blew on her nails.

“And, my goodness, what about all that lovely food? Went home with the hotel staff, I shouldn’t wonder. Well, as I said, what a shameful waste it all was. Not that it was the poor girl’s fault, of course, as things turned out, but I did ask myself at the time if it wasn’t simply a matter of cold feet. Although with a catch like Emyr, that would be hard to fathom, wouldn’t it?” She looked brightly at the two of them, and then, as she always did, held out her hands at arm’s length for inspection.

“Very nice, Penny, as usual. What colour did you say that is?”

“Melon of Troy.”

“Melon of Troy!” chuckled Mrs. Lloyd. “I never! Well, as you say, Penny, we’re done, so I’ll be on my way. Lovely to meet you, Inspector. If you need to speak to me again, I’m sure you know where to find me.”

Penny gathered up Mrs. Lloyd’s bags, handed them to her, and thanked her as she made her way to the door, where Davies was waiting to open it.

“Thank you, Inspector. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my new nails, would I! Melon of Troy!”

As the door swung slowly shut, Penny joined him and turned the sign to CLOSED. Turning around she faced Davies and smiled up at him.

“Victoria’s just gone to get us some things for lunch but I’m sure there’ll be enough for you, if you want to join us. I was going to go upstairs to make some tea,” she said.

Davies hesitated, glanced down at her, and then peered through the glass window in the door.

“Actually, I had dropped in on the off chance that you might be free for lunch,” he said. “I’d like to go over your statement again, just in case you’ve remembered anything else. Sometimes it helps to talk about things in a neutral environment. I think it’s possible that you know more than you think you know. So far, you’re our most important witness. And I did want to ask you about something, and that’s …” He stopped as Penny leaned slightly closer to him and craned her neck to watch as Victoria turned the corner, a shopping bag in each hand.

“Excuse me,” she said, reaching past Davies to open the door. “I’ve just got to let Victoria in. But do, please, join us for lunch. It’s no bother, and we’d like you to.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” he said, as a breathless Victoria pushed her way past them.

“Oh, God, my arms are breaking,” she moaned. “There were a few items on sale so I got in some extras so we can have them on hand.” Setting the bags down, she smiled at Davies.

“Hello, there, what brings you here? Joining us for lunch, are you?”

Davies looked at the two women, and smiled.

“I guess I am. Thank you.”

Upstairs in the flat, crowded around the small table with cups of tea, sandwiches, salad, cheese, and biscuits, Davies looked at Penny.

“Mrs. Lloyd said something that seemed to startle you. Why was that?” he asked.

“Mm,” said Penny, as she put her egg-and-cress sandwich on her plate. “It was the strangest thing. Just this morning Victoria and I were going back over the events of the Saturday morning when that woman, the bridal impostor whoever she was, came for a manicure and I remembered that she had said something about having peonies at her wedding, so when Mrs. Lloyd mentioned that there
had
been peonies at the wedding, it made me wonder.”

Victoria looked at her admiringly.

“Penny, you’re brilliant! Don’t you see? It means that whoever killed Meg Wynne must have known what flowers she had chosen. It was an inside job!”

She looked triumphantly from one to the other.

Penny smiled back at her, and then frowned slightly.

“I’d be curious to know, though, more about Meg Wynne’s background.” She glanced at Davies. “You know what hotbeds for gossip villages are. There are rumours going around that she wasn’t on the best terms with her father, that he drank too much, and had a violent temper.”

“Oh, yes,” said Davies, nodding. “We’re looking into him. He’s in the frame.”

And then, silently signalling that the subject of the murder was closed, he reached for another sandwich.

“I’ll just stay here and tidy up,” said Victoria, as Penny and the policeman stood up from the table. “I want another cup of tea, anyway. You two carry on.”

Davies and Penny made their way downstairs and into the salon.

“By the way,” said Penny as they stood in front of the door, “what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“Sorry?”

“When you first got here, you said there was something you wanted to ask me. I wondered what it was.”

“Do you know, it’s gone right out of my head. Can’t have been that important, I guess. If I remember what it is, I’ll ring you.”

Penny fiddled with her watch strap.

“I was just thinking,” she said, “that perhaps Victoria and I could ask around and see what we can find out—”

Davies interrupted her. “No, don’t go there,” he said sternly. “I know you feel you’re involved in this case, and you’ve been very helpful. But the last thing we need now is a couple of amateur detectives—you and your chum upstairs. We’re the police, we’ve got resources, and we know what we’re doing.”

As Penny raised her eyebrows, he smiled.

“Well, most of the time, anyway. But, see, don’t try to work this one. Leave it to us, and if you do think of anything else, just let me know, and we’ll look into it.”

He reached into his inside pocket.

“Here’s my card,” he said, handing it to her.

“I’ve still got the other one you gave me,” said Penny stiffly. “I don’t need that one, thank you very much.”

Davies reached for the door and started to leave. He turned back to her and gently touched her shoulder.

“Remember what I said. We don’t know who it was yet, but we do know he’s dangerous. And thanks for the lunch. My turn next time.”

When he was gone, Penny did a little dusting, put some instruments in the sterilizer, and then went to rinse her soaking basins. When she stepped away from the sink, Victoria was standing there watching her.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He warned us off. Said we’re not to go poking around. Too dangerous. Probably thinks we’re just a couple of silly women. Mr. ‘We Know What We’re Doing’ policeman,” she said indignantly.

Victoria thought this over for a moment.

“Do you like him?” she asked.

“Do I like him? Where did that come from?” exclaimed Penny. “Like him? I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Because he fancies you.”

Penny laughed. “No, he doesn’t! He just wants to know what I know.”

“Yes, he does,” said Victoria. “I’ve seen the way he softens when he looks at you. And he looks at you more than he has to. He likes watching you. I don’t think he’s quite realized it yet, though.”

“Hmm,” said Penny. “I don’t know what to say to that. It’s been so long since anybody’s fancied me, that I don’t really know if the one or two hormones I’ve got left would be up to that kind of excitement.”

They both laughed, and then she looked thoughtfully at Victoria.

“But I’ve been thinking some more about this case, and I’ve had an idea. We can’t go to wherever it is that Meg Wynne’s parents are, and we can’t go to London where the bridesmaids are, but we can go to Ty Brith. We need to get into the Hall so we can snoop around and see what we can find out.”

“And just how are you going to do that?” asked Victoria.

“Oh, no,” said Penny. “Not me. I’ve got no reason to go to the Hall. But you do. And as reasons go, it’s heavenly.”

Victoria groaned. “Well, just don’t keep harping on about it.”

They looked at each other and laughed, leaning into each other, the way friends do.

Twenty-one

O
n Monday morning, Victoria drove slowly up the winding road leading to Ty Brith which had been situated perfectly to give spectacular views of the Conwy Valley. As her car climbed higher, she took in the breathtaking vista of the wide view stretching all the way to the rugged peaks of Snowdonia. The endless fields, shimmering in the freshness of their summer greenery, contrasted spectacularly with the brilliant blue of the cloudless sky. In all seasons, whether lit from above by bright sunlight on a summer’s day, nestled under a thin, patchy blanket of snow, or aflame in autumn foliage, the valley always looked postcard beautiful. But best of all was early spring, when gardens filled with shocking yellow daffodils signalled the arrival of warmer weather and longer days.

The Hall had been built of Welsh stone in the mid-1800s as the country retreat of a titled English landowning family. Much loved and much used, it had stayed in the family until the 1930s when its age began to catch up with it, and rather than undertake the extensive repairs and refurbishing required, the family reluctantly decided it would have to be sold. But with the Second World War looming, no buyers came forward, and as the war years dragged on, the Hall was pressed into service as a convalescent home for wounded Welsh soldiers.

Having made a fortune during the war from its haulage interests, the Gruffydd family had bought the rundown Hall at auction and modernized it to include the best of mid-twentieth-century refinements, including central heating, en suite bathrooms, and a large, bright kitchen. It had retained, however, its shabby chic feel, complete with lots of chintz, the occasional wet dog, and the unmistakable smell of beeswax on the days when Gwennie rode her bicycle up from the village to give everything a good going over with her duster.

The small pastures on either side of the road leading to the Hall were dotted with sheep, and as her car approached, they stopped their grazing, lifted their heads, and looked at her with mild curiosity. Bits of their fleece that had snagged on the metal fence fluttered softly in the breeze. She smiled at them, envying their woolly contentment, and drove on.

When she reached the Hall, she decided to drive around to the back of the large house, and use the tradesmen’s entrance. She parked her car and walked across to the back door, her heels tapping on the flagstones. She lifted the heavy brass knocker, which was shaped like a dolphin, and rapped twice.

A few moments later she heard footsteps and the door opened to reveal a small woman with a pointed nose and small, dark, meerkat eyes. She was wearing an apron and carrying a bright pink feather duster.

Ah, thought Victoria, this must be Gwennie.

“Yes?” the woman asked pleasantly.

“Good morning,” said Victoria, giving her the benefit of a broad smile. “I wondered if I could have a word with Mr. Gruffydd?”

“Sorry, he isn’t here at the moment,” she said sharply.

“Do you expect him back soon?” asked Victoria.

“Well, now, that’s hard to say,” said the woman cautiously. “Depends on who you are, and what you want with him, doesn’t it?”

“Of course,” said Victoria. “So sorry, I’m Victoria Hopkirk and I’m a harpist and I wondered if he would like me to play at his father’s funeral. Bronwyn Evans suggested I might call around and offer my services It would be—”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the woman. “I’m Gwennie. I do for him. Well, that is I used to do for his father, and now, I guess, I do for him, although there’s been so much bother lately nothing’s settled. You’d better come in, then. I was afraid you might be one of those reporter ladies and I know he doesn’t want to talk to any of that lot just at the minute.”

“No, of course he doesn’t,” said Victoria soothingly as they made their way down the short passage to the kitchen.

“He’s just out walking Trixxi,” said Gwennie. “Oh that reminds me, I’d better get her biscuit ready. She always looks in her bowl for her biscuit when she comes back from her walk and is very hurt when there isn’t one.” Gwennie opened a cupboard door, took a dog biscuit from the box, and placed it in the stainless steel dog bowl on the floor.

“Right. Well, have a seat,” she said, gesturing at the table. “I was just thinking about a cup of tea, and I’m sure you’d like one, so I’ll just get the kettle on, shall I?”

As Gwennie turned to fill the kettle, Victoria took in her surroundings.

The large, airy kitchen had been cleverly and tastefully modernized to retain its old-fashioned look and feel, but to incorporate all modern conveniences. Cream-coloured floor-to-ceiling cupboards, with open shelving decoratively displaying plates, cookbooks, and plants, took up two walls. A built-in recess housed an Aga cooker, in front of which, on the shining hardwood floor, sat a large, open Victorian gardener’s basket filled with the last of the asparagus and the first of the green beans that had been harvested that morning from the Hall’s kitchen garden. A few feet away from the basket was a rumpled dog bed.

The generous counter space was clear of clutter. From her seat at the well-scrubbed harvest table in the centre of the room, Victoria could see past a pottery bowl filled with bright yellow lemons into a long, carpeted hall that stretched toward the front of the house. Behind her were two large windows with a view onto the car park and the wooded grounds beyond. The room was filled with a warm, spicy fragrance that reminded her of Christmas baking.

As Gwennie puttered about, Victoria went over the discussion she and Penny had had the night before over their cups of bedtime cocoa.

“Mrs. Lloyd says that Gwennie knows everything that goes on in that house,” Penny had said. “Make sure you get as much information about the wedding party as you can. Oh, and she’s absolutely mad about the dog, apparently, so you might want to play that up a bit to get things started. And take things slowly. Try to find a reason to come back, once you’ve established yourself as someone they can trust.”

Gwennie set the tea things on the table, along with a plate of freshly-baked ginger snaps.

“I can see you’re fond of dogs, Gwennie,” Victoria said. “Not everyone would be sure to have a biscuit waiting when a dog comes in from a walk.”

“Very fond,” Gwennie replied. “That’s to say I like pretty much all dogs, except of course the bitey ones. But Trixxi, now, I’ve come to love her, truly I have. Course I can’t keep a dog myself because I live with my sister and her husband and she’s that house proud she wouldn’t hear of keeping any kind of pet, not so much as a gerbil, so I enjoy Trixxi’s company when I’m here. And I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been putting in long hours of late.”

She offered Victoria a warm ginger snap and took one for herself.

Victoria murmured sympathetically.

“Tell me, then, Mrs. Hopkirk, what brings you to these parts?” asked Gwennie.

“Well, I’ve been visiting family in the area. I used to spend lots of time in this village when I was growing up and I’ve always loved being here. I find the scenery so, oh I don’t know, serene yet inspiring.”

“Oh, it is that,” agreed Gwennie. “Although lately, of course,” she said darkly, “we’ve been too busy to take much notice of it.”

“Yes, you have certainly had your share of troubles and sadness here, haven’t you, and that’s why I wanted to offer my services to Mr. Gruffydd,” said Victoria.

Gwennie munched thoughtfully on her biscuit and with a tiny hand gently brushed a crumb off her small bosom.

“Yes, he’s certainly in need of support,” she said. “He’s all on his own now in this great big house, poor lamb. I did think maybe that Louise might stay on for a bit, but after Mr. Gruffydd died, she couldn’t get on her way fast enough. Made me wonder, that did.”

“Really, Gwennie?” asked Victoria innocently. “What did it make you wonder about?”

“Well, I know to those who do private-duty nursing, looking after sick and dying folks is just a job, but it seemed so callous the way she was packing her bag before he was even …” Her voice trailed off and she was silent for a moment. Brightening at her next thought, she perked up and continued.

“Was it you, then, who played at Emma Teasdale’s send off?” she asked. “I did hear that your playing was absolutely splendid. Just lovely, folks said. I’m sure young Mr. Emyr will be very glad to talk to you.”

She cocked her head in the direction of the windows.

“That sounds like them now.”

They heard the back door open, and the sound of a dog’s toenails scratching on the slate floor, accompanied by the unmistakable jingling of dog tags.

“Oh, who’s my darling girl?” laughed Gwennie as an excited Trixxi bounded into the room, tail wagging vigorously from side to side, as she rushed past them to get to her bowl and scoop up her treat.

Emyr followed her into the kitchen, a green ball in one hand and Trixxi’s leather lead in the other. He dropped them in a basket on the floor and looked questioningly at Victoria. His face was troubled and dark. Whether this was due to apprehension or grief, Victoria couldn’t tell.

“Ah, Mr. Emyr,” said Gwennie. “This is Victoria Hopkirk come to talk to you about playing the harp at your father’s funeral.”

Victoria stood up and held her hand out to Emyr.

“I’m so sorry for your losses,” she said. “I’d be happy to perform at your father’s funeral, if you would like me to. Mourners often find the sound of a harp relaxing and comforting.”

Emyr looked at her, his dark blue eyes cold and unreadable.

“That’s very good of you,” he said politely, “but we’ve completed all the arrangements.” His eyes slid toward Gwennie, who pinched her lips together, nodded slightly, and looked at her shoes.

“Mr. Emyr, if I may, there is something wonderfully soothing about that kind of music.” Gathering her courage to look up, Gwennie met his eyes and added firmly, “I think your father would have loved it and after all, the rector’s wife herself did suggest it.”

Emyr relaxed slightly and gave Victoria a superficial smile that came nowhere near his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound ungracious. Well, thank you then, that would be lovely,” he said. “Very kind of you. What would the next step be?”

“I suggest two songs, the first as the guests are arriving, and the second toward the end of the service. I can pick the songs for you, if you wish. I can easily find something appropriate or we can discuss it. Did your father have a favourite song, or is there something that reminds you of him?”

When he didn’t answer right away, she added, “Maybe you’d like to think about it and I could call back tomorrow.”

“That would be fine, thank you. If I’m not here, I’ll leave a note or a message with Gwennie.” As he turned to go, Gwennie put her hand on his arm.

“You’ve had a couple of calls, Mr. Emyr. David Williams called from London to say he’d be arriving tonight and that he isn’t sure yet if Anne and Jennifer will be coming but he thinks they will.”

“Thanks, Gwennie.”

“May I get you a cup of tea?” she asked him. “Are you hungry? Would you like anything?”

He shook his head.

“No, thank you, Gwennie. I think I’ll just get on with things. I’ll be in the office if anybody needs me.” He nodded at the two women. “Right then,” he said, and after thanking Victoria again, was gone.

Gwennie looked at Victoria, and smiled.

“How about you, then? Another cuppa?”

“Yes, please,” said Victoria. “And just to be sure, Gwennie, when is the funeral, exactly?

“Wednesday at two. And Mr. Rhys’s favourite song, by the way, was ‘The Way You Look Tonight.’ His wife, that’s Mr. Emyr’s mother, was a great beauty, and I think that’s why he admired Miss Thompson. That, and he must have seen something in her that apparently no one else did.”

They continued to chat and Victoria finally got what she came for: a natural break in the conversation when she could ask her question seamlessly and logically.

“It must have been very busy here the morning of the wedding. How on earth did you keep track of where everybody was?”

Gwennie settled back in her chair, crossed her legs, and picked up her teacup.

“I couldn’t,” she said. “There was just that much going on. They were having all kinds of fun, the boys were. Someone even tied a red handkerchief on Trixxi and very fetching she looked.”

At the sound of her name Trixxi turned toward Gwennie, and two pairs of dark brown eyes filled with adoration.