Seventeen
“I’ve really been looking forward to this,” Penny said to Victoria on the train to Liverpool the next Friday. “It feels good to get away. It’s been a long week.” She leaned back in her seat, glanced at Victoria, who was sitting in the seat opposite her with a magazine in her lap, and then looked out the window. She watched a few scattered buildings go by, and then shifted her attention to Victoria. Scanning a fashion magazine, her ghostly reflection in the window, she was occasionally turning a page with a small sigh, whether of envy, boredom, or exasperation, Penny could not tell. When she turned the last page, she dropped the magazine onto the empty seat beside her, put her glasses on top of her head, and leaned back and closed her eyes, her hands resting lightly in her lap.
Penny continued to gaze at her but was not seeing her. She was seeing the body of Andrew Peyton in his sitting room, dead in his chair. And what was now striking to Penny was the sterility of the scene. There were no reading glasses on his head as if he’d just dozed off, no book or magazine in his lap, no television or radio playing. Nothing. Is that the way people are when they’re alone, she asked herself. No! They do something, especially with their hands. They’re on the computer, or knitting, or holding a book. They’re watching TV and the remote control is in their hand. That’s what they do when they’re alone. So what had Andrew Peyton been doing before he died? He had probably been with someone. Talking, perhaps.
Victoria’s eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes. When she saw Penny, she gave a little start.
“It’s all right,” Penny reassured her. “We’re on the train to Liverpool. How do you feel?”
“Have you ever fallen asleep on a train?” Victoria asked.
Penny nodded.
“Well, that’s what I feel like. Like I need a cup of coffee.”
“That’s a good idea. We should be arriving at the station soon, and we can get a coffee before we go to the gallery.”
“While you were dozing, I think I figured out what was wrong with the scene when we found Peyton,” said Penny when they were seated with their coffee in the Lime Street station.
Victoria shuddered. “Hmm, there’s something not quite right here,” she said, with an exaggerated hint of sarcasm. “Oh, now I get it, there was a dead body in that chair.”
Penny gave her a sharp glance.
“I know you’re still a little sensitive on that subject,” she said smoothly, “so I’ll overlook that.” She then went on to explain her theory that Peyton had been talking to someone when he died.
“And that would explain why the door was open; someone had just left. The police didn’t seem too interested in that. Gareth said they are not treating Peyton’s death as suspicious, but I think it is.”
She looked at Victoria over the rim of her cup.
“And there’s something else that bothers me. They couldn’t find a cause of death. The paramedics thought he’d had a heart attack, but it turns out from the autopsy there was nothing wrong with his heart. Oh, a bit of clogged arteries, as you’d expect to find in someone his age, but not enough to cause a heart attack.”
She looked at the paper cup.
“God, I hate these paper cups. Make the coffee taste like blech!” She blew a light raspberry. “Do you know, when I first moved to Britain, train stations had cozy little restaurants where you could get a glass of wine or a pretty bad cup of coffee. But at least they were served up in proper glasses or cups and saucers.”
Victoria nodded. “Yes, I remember those days. God, we sound absolutely ancient when we talk like that. Anyway, do you think Peyton’s death is somehow connected to what happened to Alys?”
“I think it has to be. I think she was murdered for her art. Her brother, the vet, told Thomas and Bronwyn that their mother was surprised that she’d left so little work behind. But she had a show coming up, so the work must have been there. The thing is, what happened to it? There are only the two pieces we know about . . . Emma had one, and Jones the lawyer had the other.”
She took a sip of her coffee.
“I haven’t been able to find any local dealers who ever handled an Alys Jones painting, and because her work isn’t on the market, she isn’t known. She should have been known or would have been, if she’d lived. She was a very talented painter, you know. So to answer your question, I think Peyton knew something. Either about Alys’s death or the art.”
Victoria nodded. “Or both. And let’s assume the bones are Cynthia Browning. Do we think whoever killed Alys killed her, too?” Victoria asked.
“We do,” Penny replied. “And about the same time, too. It may be that Cynthia overheard something or asked one question too many. And Alys’s killer or killers decided she had to be silenced.”
“That was really awful about the little dog, though,” Victoria said.
Penny nodded and winced. “Very nasty.”
She drained the last of the coffee from the paper cup, snapped the plastic lid on it, and then peered into Victoria’s empty cup.
“Well, ready to go?”
They walked sedately up Brownlow Hill until they reached the gothic building that not only anchors a University of Liverpool neighbourhood but gave its name to the redbrick university movement of the late 1800s. They stood for a moment, heads back, to admire the famous Liverpool landmark with its spires, turrets, and gracefully arched windows.
As the bells in the clock tower tolled the hour, they passed through the entranceway and found themselves in a magnificent great hall, now used as a modern café. Faced with gleaming brown and blue terra-cotta tiles, the walls and archways were stunning. The columns, covered in shell-shaped brown tiles, were especially impressive for their smooth regularity. Admiring the interior as they went, they climbed the shallow stairs to the first floor.
With smiles and nods, they accepted glasses of wine from a young man holding a tray standing outside the adjoining rooms where the exhibit had been mounted.
“Real wineglasses, not that plastic rubbish!” Victoria grinned as she tipped her glass in Penny’s direction. They eased their way into the room and joined the small crowd. The exhibit was a multimedia retrospective of artists from the 1960s and included a large display case filled with drawings and sketches by Stuart Sutcliffe.
“He was a friend of John Lennon and . . .” Penny stopped when she realized Victoria wasn’t beside her. She looked around and saw her gazing at a painting on the far wall. The evening light pouring in through the tall, graceful window slanted down on her, touching her blond hair with little beads of sunshine. Victoria turned slowly, seeking out Penny with her eyes, then pointed at the painting.
Penny joined her and gasped.
“Don’t you think this looks a lot like yours?” Victoria said softly.
The painting showed a woman sitting in a striped deck chair, reading, with a brick wall behind her. She held a book in one hand and gently brushed the hair from her forehead with the other. She was wearing a summery white frock lightly sprinkled with delicate purple splashes.
“Mine?” asked Penny. “My painting or my garden?”
She leaned forward to look at the signature on the lower right of the painting and then said the name out loud.
“Millicent Mayhew.”
“If Millicent Mayhew painted that, I’ll eat my hat,” said a voice from behind her.
Penny turned around slowly to see an elderly woman planted squarely behind her. She was wearing a burgundy plaid skirt with matching jacket and a fussy blouse with frothy lace spilling down the front, struggling to break free of the lapels. The woman pointed at the painting.
“Mediocre Milly we called her. She could no more have painted that than I’m an Olympic ski jumper!”
“Who do you think did paint it, then?” asked Penny.
“I’ve probably said more than I should have,” the woman replied. “It’s just my opinion, that’s all.” She started to turn away, but Penny put a hand gently on her arm. “Please, I’d like to talk to you.” She gave Victoria an imploring look and gestured in her direction. “My friend Victoria here and I are looking into the hit-and-run death of an artist about thirty-five years ago, and we think there’s a connection to this woman.”
The woman’s face softened and a subtle light came into her blue eyes.
“Do you mean Alys Jones?” Penny nodded eagerly. “She was a lively one, so full of fun. Really brightened the place up.”
“You knew her then?”
“Oh, yes,” said the woman. “I knew all of them. Alys and Cynthia, and Millicent and her creature. That awful man. Oh, what was his name?” She tapped the side of her head.
“Andrew Peyton?”
“That’s it. He was a nasty piece of work, but he had nothing on Millicent. She had a special genius for making people afraid of her.”
Penny’s eyes darted quickly around the room. Important-looking men in dark suits were chatting up twenty-something long-haired girls in jeans and skimpy tops. Nothing new there, she thought.
“Look, I’m sorry, let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Penny Brannigan and this is Victoria Hopkirk. It’s a long story, but we’d love to talk to you. Maybe this isn’t the best place. Somewhere quieter. Would you join us for dinner?” The woman hesitated, and Penny realized that from her age and dated suit, she was probably a pensioner on a very mean budget. She had likely come to the opening thinking the free wine and whatever food was being served would do for her supper, and that would be one less meal she had to worry about. “Of course, it would be our treat,” she added. “Do let us give you a nice dinner. Anywhere you like.”
“Well, I haven’t been to the Adelphi in many years, so that would be rather nice,” the woman said. “If you wouldn’t mind. I don’t know what it’s like there now, of course.”
“I’m sure it will be just fine,” Penny said. “Would you like to go now, or shall we walk around for a bit and look at more of the exhibit?”
“Well, we could have a look at it on our way out,” the woman said. “I’ve seen them all before. I was surprised to be invited, to be honest. I only came to see if there was anybody here from the old days, but there aren’t many of us left. All died. Or been killed off.”
She gave Penny a sharp, knowing look.
“Why are you here?”
“We came hoping to meet you. Or someone like you. We just didn’t know who you would be.” Penny paused. “Who are you, by the way?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? My name is Florence Semble. I was the secretary at the School of Art for many years, and I knew all of them. And yes, before you ask, I knew Lennon. And a jumped-up little git he was, too. So aggressive and rebellious. Still the music worked out all right for him, I’ll give him that.” Her eyes clouded over as fifty years slipped away and an image of the disruptive eighteen-year-old Teddy Boy with the drainpipe trousers, duck’s arse haircut, and affected working-class accent filled her mind.
Penny smiled and turned back to contemplate the Mayhew painting, while Victoria and Florence moved on.
Half an hour later, as they left the gallery, Victoria turned to Florence and asked if she would be all right to walk to the hotel or if she would prefer that they hail a cab.
“I walked up the hill,” she replied tartly, “so I can certainly walk down it!”
About twenty minutes later, Penny pushed on the revolving door of the Adelphi and they all entered the grand old hotel.
Built in 1914 to cater to upper-class passengers of the large liners whose home port was Liverpool, the Adelphi still manages to evoke the gracious era of oceangoing travel.
As they crossed the reception area, Florence turned to Penny and Victoria and gestured up the red carpeted stairs.
“Oh, I haven’t been in here in years,” she said. “It’s grand to be back. We should just see if we can pop into the Sefton Suite up here. It’s an exact replica of the smoking lounge aboard the Titanic and well worth seeing.”
She led the way through the Titanic-sized ballroom and up a few side stairs to a doorway and peeked in. “There, girls, have a look at that!” She waved Penny and Victoria into the room, where they stood, eyes turned upward.
From the massive chandeliers hanging from the soaring ceiling, to the ornately carved oak-paneled walls, the oval-shaped room, which represented the full-blown luxury of the Edwardian age, was spectacular. As they drank in the beauty of the room, a disembodied voice startled them.
“Sorry, ladies, we’re just going to start setting up for an event, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Reluctantly, they returned to the reception area and then went down the few stairs to Cromptons Restaurant.
When they were seated, Penny explained that she had inherited Emma’s cottage and wanted to know everything she could about Alys.
“She was a lovely girl, was Alys,” said Florence. “Just a tiny little thing, but so talented. She was younger than the teachers they usually hired at the college, so she had a good rapport with the students. They all adored her. Everyone was so shocked when she died like that. No one could quite believe it. We didn’t want to believe it.”
“Can you tell me more about her circle of friends?” Penny asked. “The people she hung out with?”
“Well, there was Cynthia Powell. No, sorry, that was another Cynthia. Cynthia Browning. Not sure what happened to her. I think there was talk around that time that she was emigrating to Australia or New Zealand, although I don’t know why she’d want to do that.”
Florence gave Penny a quizzical look. “From the sounds of you, you’re from away, though, so I guess you’d know why some people decide to leave a perfectly nice country and go and live in another one.”
The waiter handed them menus, and conversation stopped while they studied them. Florence scanned hers greedily and opted for a smoked salmon starter with roast lamb for her entrée. When the waiter had taken their orders, she continued.
“Anyway, then there was that Andrew Peyton who was on the fringe of it. Didn’t really belong to the college but liked to be around the artists, as if some of their creativity might rub off on him.”
She took a sip of wine.
“I could never figure him out, to be honest. He was a very queer duck. And I don’t necessarily mean queer in that way. Or maybe I do. We could never figure out if he leaned to the lavender. There was something asexual about him, to be honest.” She shrugged. “It’s anybody’s guess what team he played on. Or if he played at all, really. But he was devoted to that Millicent for some reason. Maybe she had some kind of hold over him. Couldn’t stand her myself, but maybe that’s just me. She was aggressive in a very sneaky kind of way, and although she was somehow unsure of herself, I think she usually got what she wanted.”
“What do mean, exactly?” Victoria asked.
“She was so fearful that somebody else might have something she didn’t, or do something she couldn’t. Catty, smiling to your face and saying the most awful things about you behind your back. I never trusted her. Something about her just didn’t sit right with me. I like people who are straight up. Me, I speak as I find, and if that hurts people’s tender feelings sometimes, then I’m very sorry, but at least with me you’ll always know where you stand. That Millicent would put a knife in your back and wouldn’t give it a second thought, if she thought it would get her what she wanted.”
Florence gave a little sniff and then glanced longingly in the direction of a waiter.
“She never bothered to pretend in front of folks she considered the lower classes, though. She thought we were all common. That was the word she used. As if she wasn’t the commonest one of the lot.”
“Florence, you said at the gallery that you don’t think Millicent painted that work on display—” Penny began.
“What I actually said was that if she did paint it, I would eat my hat,” Florence interrupted.
Penny smiled. “Yes, you did say that. But I’m wondering, if not Millicent, then who?”
Florence gave her a wry, withering look.
“Missy, you already know who painted it, and that’s why we’re here having this lovely meal.”
Florence sighed. “I tried to tell all this to the Liverpool police at the time, but they took no notice of me. Why should they? I was just a young secretary. What did I know? They were skeptical when I told them I didn’t think it was an accident. They told me it wasn’t their investigation, that they’d pass on what I told them to the police who were looking into it, but I never heard from anybody.” A cloud of profound sadness drifted across her face. “Oh! Wait! I’m wrong. I did hear from someone. I spoke to Alys’s mother. She came to the college one day asking about the paintings that Alys left behind. Millicent was in a classroom at the time—she taught lettering, by the way—and I told Mrs. Jones that Alys never painted at the school but always in her little studio on Rodney Street and that Alys was keeping her paintings well under wraps. She didn’t want anyone to see them until the big show that was coming up in the spring, I think it was. Or maybe it was late winter, I can’t remember. Her mother said that she and Alys’s father had been to the flat to clear out her things, but there were no paintings. So she thought the paintings must have been at the school. But they weren’t.”
She shrugged. “But they had to be somewhere. I think they were stolen.”
Penny nodded. “We think they were stolen, too. But I haven’t been able to find anything by Alys Jones in circulation. We know where two are in Llanelen, and there’s maybe this one at the Victoria Gallery that we saw today, so where are the rest of them?”
“We didn’t see anything in Peyton’s flat,” said Victoria.
“Oh, him. Yes, I read about his death in the newspaper,” Florence said flatly. “Can’t say I’m particularly sorry.”
“We think he was murdered,” Penny said.
“Do you really?” Florence’s eyes lit up and she leaned forward. “Now that is interesting. Why do you suppose someone would go to all that trouble after all these years?”
“After all these years?”
“Well, yes. I would have thought that if someone were going to murder him, it would have been done ages ago. Could have saved the rest of us all those years of suffering through his loathsomeness.”
Penny and Victoria had to laugh.
“You don’t like the two of them very much, do you?” Penny asked.
“No, I don’t,” Florence said, slapping her hand gently on the table. “And don’t you find that we instinctively know whether to like or dislike someone? And that our instincts are usually right?”
She nodded at both women and then looked at her watch.
“I’m sorry, girls, but I’m getting a bit tired.”
“Just one last question,” Penny said. “I think”—she glanced at Victoria, who gave an encouraging nod—“that is, we think Millicent Mayhew had something to do with the death of Alys Jones. What do you think?”
“I think what I’ve always thought,” said Florence grimly. “I think they both murdered her. I think she drove him to it.”
The three women sat in silence, surrounded by the usual restaurant din of conversation and clattering dishes. A waiter walked by balancing a large tray filled with sweets, and two women in smart dresses swished past their table on their way to powder their noses.
“You’ve been so helpful,” Penny said finally as they finished their coffee. “Here’s my contact information, and I wonder if I could have yours. We may need to speak to you again.”
Florence wrote out her information and handed Penny the slip of paper.
“Here you go,” she said. “It’s in the Waterloo area. Do you know it?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Penny said, “but I’d like to give you the money for a taxi home.”
Florence protested weakly, and then took the ￡20 note.
“I’ll just see myself out,” she said, “and thank you for the evening.”
Victoria and Penny followed a few minutes later and saw her hurrying down the street in the direction of the buses in Queen’s Square.
“Come on,” Victoria said. “If we hurry, we can catch the eight-twenty train. Lots to talk about on the way home. We’ll have to decide what to do next.”
“What we have to do next is go to Llandudno and meet Millicent. I hadn’t thought that they both were in on it. I thought it would be one or the other, but it makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, because that explains why she killed Peyton. Because he was the accomplice. As Florence said, ‘He was her creature.’ I think he had decided to tell what he knew, and she killed him to silence him.”
They waited for the light to change and then started to cross the street.
“We just have to figure out how she did it.”