Twelve
“Are you coming with me to Penny’s this evening, dear?” the rector asked his wife over a supper of cold roast beef and salad on Friday evening. “I’d like to,” Bronwyn replied and then, glancing down at Robbie sitting patiently beside her chair, added, “Do you think she’d mind if I bring Robbie? I don’t feel right to leave him.”
“I’ll just give her a quick ring and ask, but I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. Penny loves dogs. I’ll ring her right after dinner. This salad is delicious, by the way.”
“That’ll be the new Asian sesame dressing. We’ve not had it before.” She laughed. “Oh, look at us! Keeping a dog and eating fancy foreign food. What are we like?”
? ? ?
The Evanses, with Robbie in Bronwyn’s arms, were the last to arrive at Penny’s. She greeted them warmly, making a great fuss over the dog.
“So this is the little chap I’ve been hearing so much about,” she said as she fondled a silky ear. “Well, bring him in. I’ve put down a bowl of water for him in the kitchen, and here’s a little pup-warming present for you.”
She gave Bronwyn a box of gourmet dog biscuits tied in a bright red bow with little Dalmatians on it. Then she gestured toward the sitting area.
Alwynne, who was seated in a wing chair near the archway to the dining room, rose to greet them.
Penny joined the group and, after making sure everyone had a drink, invited them to sit down. Bronwyn scooped up Robbie, who had been wandering around giving everything a good sniff. He promptly curled up on her lap and, after one last look around the room, closed his eyes and went to sleep as Penny took her place in front of the group.
“I’d like to start by filling you in on what I’ve learned this week,” she began, “and adding to that a very important piece of information that Bronwyn and the rector, here”—she nodded and smiled in their direction—“have given us.
“At the time of her death Alys had been getting ready to participate in an art showing along with two other artists.” She consulted her notebook. “Millicent Mayhew and Cynthia Browning they were called. The curator of the show was an Andrew Peyton, and the four were photographed together just a month before Alys died. The show was to have been held in February 1971 and Alys was killed in December.”
She wrote the three names on the board and then continued.
“Now, Bronwyn and Thomas learned from Jones, the vet, Alys’s brother, that his parents were surprised that she had left so few paintings behind. But that doesn’t make any sense, does it?” She looked from one to the other.
“Of course it doesn’t! If she had a show coming up in two months, there should have been lots of paintings. But, so far, we only know about two. This one”—she pointed at the painting of the couple on the picnic that she had hung near the display board—“that belonged to Emma and its companion painting that now hangs in Richard Jones’s office. And that painting, according to Alun Jones, had been in the possession of his family.”
The rector nodded.
“So the question is this: What happened to the rest of her paintings?”
No one spoke.
“Well, there are a couple of things for us to consider. For every major artist, their work becomes more valuable after their death. That’s easy to understand. The creation of the work is over. There won’t be any more. Supply and demand. So someone who had access to the paintings might have killed her, and then hoped the publicity around her death would drive the value of the work up. That person might have hidden the paintings somewhere, and when the time is right, they’ll be ‘discovered.’ However, the problem with that theory is that if they do surface, the paintings are obviously the property of the Jones brothers, so it’s difficult to see how someone else could profit from that scenario.
“So I think something happened to them, but I don’t know what, yet. But I think the missing paintings are telling us that Alys’s death was no accident. I think she was murdered, and whoever killed her has the paintings. Or had them.”
The rector cleared his throat and looked at his hands, Bronwyn continued to stroke the sleeping Robbie on her lap, and Alywnne looked at Victoria, who looked at Penny.
The silence hung heavily over them as each pondered what Penny had said.
“I called the art college this week to see if anyone there knew anything about these three characters—Millicent, Cynthia, and Andrew—but the young woman I spoke to had never heard of them, didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, and to be honest, I don’t think she cared very much. Why should she? Long before her time.”
Penny’s shoulders sagged and she ran her fingers desperately through her hair, leaving one side standing up wildly.
“So I’m wondering if anyone has any suggestions on what our next steps should be. We’ve got to find out more about these three.”
Victoria got up from her chair, took a biscuit off the table, and returned to her place. She took a bite and then delicately picked a few crumbs off her skirt.
“Well, what about this then?” suggested the rector. “Everybody writes down the names of these three people we’re looking for, and we’ll all go home and put on our thinking caps. If anyone comes up with something, ring Penny or bring it to the meeting next week.”
He peered at her. “There will be a meeting next week, won’t there?”
He smiled at everyone, then nodded encouragingly.
“Well, then,” he said to Bronwyn, “if there’s nothing else, shall we be on our way?”
Bronwyn set Robbie on the floor, clipped on his lead, and after saying their good-byes, they made their way to the front door, where Alwynne and Penny joined them. Penny walked with them down the short path that led to the street. The outside light shone on Robbie’s blond fur, and Penny smiled at the sight of his sturdy back legs and wagging tail as he set off to lead the little party safely home.
She waved good-bye, then turned and walked back to the cottage, stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and leaned on it. Victoria walked toward her across the sitting room.
“Gareth just rang. I said you were out—well, you were, sort of. Said I didn’t think you’d be very long. And you weren’t.”
Penny winced.
“Sorry! But really, Penny, I think you owe it to him to talk to him. He sounded rather low.”
“Well good. Serves him right. I’ve been feeling a bit down myself over the last few days, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Penny replied.
“Look, I’d hoped we could get caught up on the building tonight, but I think I’m going to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow and we can talk then. How are you getting on with Eirlys, by the way? The clients really seem to like her. We’re almost fully booked, and we’ll soon have to set up another table.”
“She is wonderful!” Penny agreed. “You should have seen her charming Mrs. Lloyd this week. Mrs. Lloyd wanted me to do her nails but kept glancing over at Eirlys. I think she’ll be asking for her in a week or two. I’m so glad I thought of getting Eirlys in.”
“Yes, very clever of you.” Victoria grinned. “Anyway, Gareth said he’d ring back, so I’m going to leave you to it. Whatever you decide to do, I’m sure it’ll be for the best. At least at our age we know how to deal with these situations.”
Penny’s eyes clouded. “What would you do if you were me?”
“I’d listen to what he has to say. I think he’s a genuine, sincere man who cares about you. I think you’re afraid of being hurt and of being vulnerable. But you already are involved, anyway, so it’s too late.”
She gave an apologetic shrug. “God, I almost wish I’d never mentioned it now. But, Penny, do hear him out. He’ll probably have some big reason. Men always do.”
Sensing something but not knowing what, she touched Penny on the arm. “What is it?”
Penny shrugged and looked away. “I’m not sure I’d know what to say. I don’t think I’d feel comfortable with that conversation. I think I’d rather just let it go.”
Victoria peered at her. “Well, maybe when the time feels right.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m off. See you tomorrow.”
Penny returned to the living room and stared at the names she had written on the whiteboard: Andrew Peyton, Millicent Mayhew, Cynthia . . . at the sound of her ringing telephone, half expected but nevertheless startling in the stillness, she stopped and turned to look at the phone. She let it ring until it went to voice mail. She looked at the phone for a few more seconds, then returned to her whiteboard and started writing down questions:
Where is Alys’s artwork now?
Did she have any enemies?
Penny thought for a moment and then added the word frenemies? Thinking it was an awful word with even worse implications, she considered the idea that people are usually killed by someone they knew and often that person was a wolf in sheep’s clothing—an enemy disguised as a friend. Someone the victim knew and trusted.
She set the marker down on the whiteboard ledge, then sat down on the sofa that faced it.
And who would Alys have known best and trusted the most? In her personal life, it would have been Emma. In her professional life, it probably was Andrew Peyton, who was preparing the exhibit that would have launched her career.
Penny got up off the sofa and returned to the whiteboard. Picking up the marker, she added to the list:
Did the exhibit go ahead?
The answer to that, she decided, would tell her a lot. She reached for her notebook and made a note to call the Walker Gallery. She doubted anyone would be available on Saturday, and the answer would probably have to wait until next week. But in the meantime, the Llanelen library would be open tomorrow, and she could use the computer there to see what she could find out about the Liverpool three.
The next morning, Penny arrived at the salon almost half an hour before opening time to sort out a box of new samples, and soon after, Eirlys knocked on the door.
“Blimey, Eirlys,” said Penny as she let her in, “you’re early this morning.”
“Morning, Penny,” Eirlys replied brightly. “I was hoping you’d be here. I wanted to ask you something. There’s a fall dance coming up at the school, and I wondered what you would think of the idea of offering a student rate. I know lots of the girls would love to come in for a manicure. Most of them have never even had one, so this would be a good way to introduce them to the idea of coming to the salon, even if just for special occasions.”
“That’s a great idea, Eirlys, and I’ll discuss it with Victoria and we’ll think about it. The problem is that if we offer a student rate, we’ll also have to offer a seniors’ rate, and I just don’t know if we can swing that right now. But it’s definitely something to consider, and I want you to bring all your ideas to me.
“Now, let’s have a look at who’s coming in this morning. I’d like to leave you in charge here while I slip out for a bit.”
“If you’re going to the library to use the computer, why don’t you just buy one?” Eirlys asked innocently as she filled a glass container with cotton balls.
“I want to,” Penny replied, “but I don’t know that much about them. I don’t know what kind to get.”
“You should talk to my brother, then. He’ll help you, and he knows everything there is to know about computers.”
“Of course he does.” Penny smiled. “That’s why you young people are so great to have around.”
She handed Eirlys a small stack of towels and glanced at her watch.
“Anyway, Mrs. Morgan should be here in about ten minutes, so I’m going to leave you to it. I’ll be back at lunchtime to take over, so I’ll see you then.”
Eirlys folded a towel exactly as Penny had shown her, neatly into thirds with the seams and label to the inside, and added it to the stack on the shelf above the sink.
“How about this, then, Penny? We offer the students a discounted rate, say one pound off, just for the dance? There’ll be a set time limit. One week only! I’ll get my brother to make up a nice sign on his computer, and we’ll post it in the window.” She paused for a moment and then added eagerly, “And I’ll be the one to do the girls’ nails; you don’t have to worry about that.”
Penny laughed. “I admire your enterprise, Eirlys! All right, then, go on. We’ll start with that. One week only!”
“And then . . .” Eiryls glanced at Penny as if seeking approval to continue. “Well, it’s just that you mentioned the senior ladies would want something, too, so I thought perhaps in the run up to Christmas, you might offer the pensioners a one-pound-off special deal, too.”
“Hmm. I like it,” agreed Penny. “Or maybe in the week between Christmas and New Year’s, when things are a bit slow.”
Penny gave Eirlys a little pat on the arm and then left the shop, headed up Station Road in the direction of the library.
“Hello.” She smiled at Rhian, seated behind her desk.
“Computer?” she asked. Penny nodded.
“Right. I’ll put you on number eight and give you an hour, as we’re not too busy.”
Penny thanked her and settled in front of the computer. She took out her notebook, called up Google, and went to work.
The time flew by and a very fast hour later, she closed her notebook and signed off the computer.
“That was really helpful,” she said to Rhian on the way out. “Thanks very much. I was thinking about getting myself a coffee. May I get you one?”
“How kind! No coffee, for me, thanks, that’s part of my problem. But I’m all alone here for the next two hours, and if you’d just wait there for a moment, in case someone comes, I’d love to pop along to the loo. Would you mind?”
“No, I’d be glad to.”
Penny stood in front of the counter while the librarian pulled her handbag out of the desk drawer and disappeared through a door marked PRIVATE.
A few minutes later she returned, and Penny left the library. She hurried along the street back to the salon and poked her head in the door. Eirlys was concentrating on her work, but the client looked over and, when she saw who it was, smiled.
“Hello!” said Penny. “Everything all right?”
“Just grand, thanks. Your new assistant is doing a wonderful job.”
“Good! Glad to hear it. Eirlys, have you seen Victoria? Is she here or at the site, do you know?”
“She’s upstairs in her flat, working on some papers.”
“Right. I’ll just pop up and see her then, and I’ll be back in about half an hour and you can take your lunch break.”
She closed the door and walked a few steps to the edge of the building and scampered up the circular wrought-iron stairs that led to the small flat above the salon that had once been hers; when she moved into Emma’s cottage, Victoria had taken it over. She knocked on the glass door and waited for Victoria to answer it.
A few minutes later Victoria tugged open the door.
“You gave me a real fright. No one uses that door, and you should know by now that you don’t have to knock. What were you thinking?”
“Sorry! I just thought it would be better to come this way than through the salon. I’ve got so much to tell you. You won’t believe what I’ve found out.”
“Well, you’d better come in, then. Do you want anything to drink? Tea? Biscuit?”
“No, thanks. I’m bursting to tell you what I learned at the library on the Internet this morning.” She flipped open her notebook.
“Right. Let’s start with Cynthia Browning. She’s supposed to have emigrated to New Zealand. Anyway, she seems to have been a pretty minor player in the Liverpool art scene.”
Penny looked up from her notebook.
“But Millicent did better for herself. She had a couple of successful shows and got fairly good reviews. ‘Work shows great promise’ sort of thing. But then she got arthritis and had to give up her painting career. Still, her paintings sell reasonably well today. She’s considered almost, but not quite, in the same league as Stuart Sutcliffe.”
She closed the notebook with a flourish.
“And . . .” Victoria prompted.
“And what?”
“And what about the man? The curator?”
“Ah. I couldn’t find anything about him. But . . . and here’s the best bit . . . there’s a multimedia exhibit opening at the Victoria Gallery and Museum in Liverpool in a couple of weeks that’s going to be perfect for us. It’s a retrospective of Liverpool artists from the 1960s, featuring Stuart Sutcliffe and his contemporaries. It’s got photographs by Edward Chambré Hardman, poetry, art, everything from the period. Can’t wait! Will you come with me?”
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
“What if I told you there’ll be paintings by Millicent Mayhew?”
“Now I’m interested. Let me know what day.”
“Right. I’d better get back downstairs now so Eirlys can go on her break.”
“Good. And I hope that means you’re really going to get back to work. I’m starting to wonder how you ever managed without her. And don’t forget we’ve got an appointment on Monday with Jones, the solicitor, to sign the papers on the new spa.”
“Good morning, ladies. Right on time, I see.” Richard Jones smiled as he stood up to greet the pair and gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk. Penny set a package down beside her chair and leaned forward. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the painting above his head.
“Now, Penny,” he began, “stay with us here for the signing, and we’ll chat about the other matter when we’ve wrapped up the real estate business.” He peered at her over the top of his glasses. “You’re investing a lot of money in this property, although I must say I was very pleased indeed to see you got it for considerably less than the asking price.”
“It had been on the market for a very long time,” Victoria explained, “and it’s going to need a lot of work. We know that. The roof and guttering will be expensive, so the vendors had to take that into account. And lying empty for so long didn’t improve its condition.”
Jones nodded and then brought out the legal documents he had prepared.
“Well, if you’re ready, let’s get started.” He looked from one to the other the way he always did. “I always think this process calls for a special ceremony of some kind to mark the occasion. Maybe I should have to wear a special hat or something.”
“A nice blue velvet one with a gold tassel,” suggested Penny. “Something to give it a medieval judicial look!”
They all smiled, and Jones pointed to the places on the documents where signatures were required. They worked in silence, except for the occasional light ripping sound as he peeled red and yellow SIGN HERE tabs from the papers.
A few minutes later, they all sat back in their chairs.
“Congratulations!” he said.
Victoria and Penny looked at each other, their smiles silted with anxious excitement.
“Yes, but it’s a bit daunting, that’s for sure,” Victoria said. “We’ve just bought ourselves a derelict stone building beside the river. Still, wait until you see what we make of it!”
“I have no doubt you ladies will turn it into a charming, prosperous business.” He replaced the signed papers in a large folder and stepped out from behind his desk. “And now I’d better get out of the way so Penny can get in here to look at the painting.”
Penny came round behind him.
“Actually, Mr. Jones,” she began, “I wanted to do more than just look at it. I wondered if you might lend me this painting for a few days. I’d like to have the time to really examine it, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to photograph it.”
She hurried on.
“I know you wouldn’t want your clients looking at an empty picture hook, so I brought you this painting to hang in its place.” She pulled out the watercolour of the blowsy roses from Emma’s flat. “I know it’s not nearly as good, but just for a couple of days.” Her earnest pleading seemed to amuse him.
“Yes, all right,” he agreed after a moment. “I’m sure you appreciate how precious it is to us and I know you’ll take good care of it. And just for a couple of days, mind. In fact, we should probably set a day for its return. You know perfectly well I wouldn’t entrust it to anyone else. Shall we say Friday?”
Penny agreed and reached up to take down the painting. As she touched it, she felt a frisson of excitement ripple over her. She set it down carefully on the solicitor’s desk, quickly removed the wrapping from the replacement painting, and hung it on the empty hook behind his desk.
Jones glanced at it, and then gave her a measured look.
“You should know, Penny, that my brother, Alun, is not happy with what you’re doing. He thinks that our sister’s death is a private, family matter best left alone, and he’s uncomfortable that you’re stirring all this up.”
“How do you feel?” Penny asked softly.
Jones seemed to age before her eyes. His eyes misted and he turned away. He looked unseeing out the window at the street below.
“You know, people expect you to get over something like this, but you never do. You learn to live with it, that’s all. All these years there’s the pain of the loss and on top of that, the pain of not knowing. So much destroyed in one hideous moment. Someone took my sister’s life and then just kept going as if nothing had happened, probably without so much as a backward glance.”
He brought his gaze back to Penny’s.
“If knowing who did this to her could help make some of that pain go way, then I’m all for it.”
“No matter what the truth is?” Penny asked.
Jones nodded. “No matter.”
With a small sigh, he straightened his shoulders and picked up their file.
“Right. Well, I think that’s all for now. As you know, the vendors want a quick closing, so I think we can get all this paperwork done, and if you could come back next week, we’ll hand over the keys. In the meantime, I think you should organize the builders and get the renovation work lined up.”
Penny wrapped the Alys Jones picnic painting in the bubble wrap and brown paper that had protected the watercolour of the roses, and they said their good-byes.
When they were out on the street, Penny turned to Victoria. “Well, I think we learned one thing today,” she said as they walked slowly toward the town square. “I don’t think he had anything to do with it. Not that we ever thought he did, of course,” she added quickly. “But why do you think Alun Jones doesn’t want us to look into this? Do you think he’s hiding something?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want the lesbian relationship to come out?” Victoria suggested.
“That seems pretty weak these days,” Penny said, “but you could be right.” She thought for a moment. “If he feels that way about it today, maybe he didn’t want it coming out thirty years ago, either. Maybe her parents didn’t know, or he thought they’d be ashamed or embarrassed if it got out.
“Anyway, I can’t wait to get this painting home, put it with the other, and see if they have anything to tell us.”
Penny let herself into the cottage, walked through to the dining room, and set the painting down on the table. She returned to the living room, picked up the companion painting, and set it down on the table beside the first one. Then, she looked around for something to use to prop them up so she could view them better. She picked up a few books to lean them against, and then pulled a couple more off the bookshelf. She put them against the bottom of the frames, wedging the paintings into an upright position.
She sat down, crossed her arms on the table, and rested her chin on them. She looked from one painting to the other, drinking them in. She loved the way the paintings looked together and was filled with admiration for the artist. She was so young, Penny thought. Really just getting started. Imagine what she might have achieved had she lived and had another twenty, thirty, or forty years to develop and expand her craft and creativity. And, Penny thought as she felt the sting of unshed tears, there’s love there. This artist loved these canvases.
Together, the paintings told one story. Individually, they told another. Penny tilted her head and looked more closely at the Jones painting. The figure of the woman, she was sure, was Emma. There was something about the way she held her glass of wine that looked so familiar. Penny had seen her holding an icy glass of gin and tonic on many a summer’s day in exactly that way, using her left hand to steady the glass by supporting the bottom. The male figure, dressed in trousers and a vest, appeared very relaxed as he leaned toward the female figure. His shirt was open at the collar and he wasn’t wearing a tie. A moment in time gone by, thought Penny. A guy on a picnic now would just as likely be wearing a ripped pair of jeans, scruffy T-shirt, and baseball cap on backward. She looked closer. Was it a man? Or was it Alys, wearing the same clothes she wore in that photograph taken in the art college staff lounge that had been printed in the Liverpool Echo?
And if the subjects in that painting were Alys and Emma, who was in the other paintings? Could the male figure be Andrew Peyton, and the female be either Cynthia Browning or Millicent Mayhew?
She gazed at the paintings, taking in the play of light on the figures and background. The artist had used her brush strokes confidently and yet sparingly and lightly to suggest the bank of purple flowers in the background. It was impossible to tell what kind they were. Bluebells? Forget-me-nots? Violets? But aren’t violets a spring flower? These paintings had the look of high summer about them.
Where was this scene painted, Penny wondered. She had hiked and rambled on her painting excursions around much of the area, or so she thought, but she had no idea where this could be. She looked at the artist’s signature on the bottom left of the painting: A. Jones. She would have loved to have stroked it but knew better than to touch the painting.
She sighed softly, looked at her watch, and realized she was starting to get hungry.
She went to the kitchen for a glass of water, but before she could sit down again, she was startled by a knock at the door. Her drinking glass shook slightly, spilling a few drops on the floor. She held the glass well away from the paintings on the table and looked around for a place to set it down.
The knocking came again, a little louder this time and, she imagined, more insistent. She set the glass down on a nearby table and headed for the door, wiping a damp hand on her trousers.
She braced herself, then opened the door.
“Hello,” he said. “I know I should have called first, but I wondered if I might come in and have a word.”
Penny stepped silently aside to let Gareth enter. He seemed somehow smaller than when she’d seen him last. She gestured at her sofa, and he sank into its squishy depths.
She sat near him, in one of the wing chairs, and pinched her lips together as she waited for him to speak. She could not meet his eyes and, instead, looked at her hands.
“I’ve missed you,” he said simply. “I don’t know what’s happened or what’s gone wrong, but I must have done something to upset you. Whatever it was, I’m sorry, and I’m so hoping you’ll give me the chance to make it up to you.”
Penny turned her attention to a tree in the front garden, its leaves gently brushing against the diamond panes of the window.
She made a vague gesture with her hands.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Gareth, except I’m sorry. I just don’t think this is going to work.”
He swallowed and patted the back of his neck.
“I was afraid you’d say that. I was thinking rather the opposite. I thought we could be really good together. Are you saying we shouldn’t see each other again?”
Penny nodded. “I think I am. I just feel it would be for the best.”
A heavy silence, tinged with frost and awkwardness, settled over them.
He reached out to her, but she withdrew her hand before he could touch it.
“I see,” he said, and then stood up. He glanced around the room and seeing the two paintings propped up on the table, appeared about to say something and then thought better of it.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Good night.”
She followed him to the door, opened it for him, and watched as he set off down the path. Look back at me, she thought. Look back. But he didn’t and a few moments later she heard the sound of his car starting as she closed the door.
Heart pounding, she leaned against it. What have I done, she thought. Instead of feeling the relief she had expected, she felt an overwhelming sense of loss. She opened the door and looked out, but as twilight fell over her front garden, she knew there was no one there.
She walked back into her sitting room, and suddenly the paintings didn’t seem quite so interesting and she realized she was no longer hungry.