Three
“I’ve got some nice white wine in the fridge. Why don’t you come round and we’ll drink to our new partnership,” Penny said. “Of course, we’ll do something bigger and better later—make it more official. We’ll have a proper launch party when we open the spa.”
Victoria agreed and they set off on the walk through the town to Jonquil Cottage.
“Something’s bothering you, Penny,” Victoria remarked, “and I think it’s to do with that painting. It seems to have really spooked you. What’s the matter? Is it about that artist’s death? Who was she, anyway?”
Penny shook her head.
“I’ll show you when we get there,” she replied, “and tell you all about it. Or at least what I know so far. What was it you were saying about Bronwyn earlier?”
“Oh, that. Right, she wants to know if we’ll help out with the church jumble sale. Sort things out, put prices on them, that kind of thing. It’s not for a while yet, but I told her I would and said I’d ask you. I think she’s also hoping that you’ll donate any of Emma’s things that you don’t want.”
“Damn!” said Penny. “I should have remembered her sale is coming up. We dropped off tons of stuff yesterday at the charity shop. I’ll have to see what else there is. I haven’t done the bedrooms yet, so I’m sure there’ll be loads of clothes there for her. Good stuff, too. Not that old lady polyester rubbish.”
She smiled.
“Good thing you reminded me. Bronwyn would have been very cross with me.”
As the wife of Rector Thomas Evans, Bronwyn was involved in many aspects of town life and carried out the traditional demands of her role with great enthusiasm and empathy.
As she made a mental note to keep the church sale in mind, Penny and her friend turned down the small street that led to the cottage, and a few minutes later Victoria was gazing around the sitting room.
“I can see you’ve made great progress here. Everything looks decluttered, and a new coat of paint will go a long way to freshening everything up. What are you going to do about the floor? I’d go with hardwood, if I were you. Maybe get some of that new bamboo. Very ecological.”
Penny nodded, headed for the fridge, and then handed Victoria a glass of white wine.
“Here,” she said, leading Victoria to the table where the paintings that had been removed from the walls the day before were stacked. “What do you make of this?”
She pointed to the A. Jones painting.
Victoria bent over to take a closer look.
“I see what you mean, but I don’t get it. Would someone do two paintings of the same scene? Why not put everyone in the same painting if they were all there at the same time? I wonder, though. Two couples at a picnic? Wouldn’t it be more usual for a couple to go on a picnic by themselves? Just two people enjoying a bit of privacy, outdoors, over a simple meal?” She gazed at the painting. “Do you think it could be two views of the same couple? And who are they?”
“I don’t know yet, but I do want a closer look at Richard Jones’s painting. Do you think he’d let me borrow it? Or at least photograph it?”
Victoria thought for a moment.
“You know, he might, if you showed him this one and explained it all to him. He knows you’re an artist and he’d understand why you’re interested. But I think you should bring him, um, that one,” she said, pointing at the painting of the pink roses. “You can’t leave him with an empty picture hook behind his desk. He’d be more likely to lend you his painting if you offered to fill up the space with something.”
“You’re right,” said Penny. “I’ll do that. But here, there’s something else.”
She removed the packet of letters from the drawer in the side table and showed them to Victoria.
“I think these letters are from that artist, A. Jones. They’re to Emma. I haven’t read them properly. Gareth found them yesterday in the Welsh dresser, and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to read them. I glanced at one of them, but it seemed invasive to read it. Didn’t feel comfortable. I guess they drum it into us when we’re young that we just don’t read other people’s mail.”
After a moment she sat on the sofa, folded her arms, and then continued. “I wasn’t even sure if I should read them. I mean, really, what would be the point?”
She paused for a moment.
“And, you know, Emma was such a private person, I think she’d be horrified to think that someone was reading her letters. Maybe I should just destroy them.”
“Or,” said Victoria, punctuating her sentence with a little nod, “maybe she left them there for you to find because she wanted you to read them.”
A thoughtful silence descended between them.
“Well, what about this, then,” said Victoria a few moments later. “I’ll make dinner and you can have a good old think about what you want to do about the letters.”
“I like the dinner part, but I’ll leave the letters. To be honest, I think I should be alone when I read them. That is, if I read them.” Penny took a sip of wine and settled further into the sofa, the letters resting on her lap.
Victoria nodded, made her way to the kitchen, and clattered about in the cupboards looking for a large pot.
“Mmm, this is really good,” said Penny about half an hour later, turning over a forkful of pasta tossed with butter and freshly grated parmesan cheese. “You’re a genius at making something from nothing.”
Victoria smiled her thanks.
“You know, there’s something I’ve been wondering about . . .” She fell silent.
“Yes?” prompted Victoria. “What? What have you been wondering about?”
“Well, what kind of person would kill someone in a hit-and-run? How could you drive away, leaving someone injured and lying in the street? How could you not stop and try to help?”
“A selfish, frightened person?” suggested Victoria.
“Or what if the person was drunk and afraid of the police?” Penny mused. “How would that person feel when he woke up the next morning with a bad hangover and realized he’d killed someone? Or, even worse, what if the person wasn’t dead, and died later, but might have been saved if the driver had stopped to help?”
“I think it would depend on the person,” Victoria replied. “I reckon some folks would get themselves down to the nearest police station right away and others would live out the rest of their days as if nothing had happened. And maybe others would be somewhere in between.”
Penny nodded slowly.
“There’s something else. Richard Jones didn’t seem all that upset. If your sister had been killed, wouldn’t you show a bit more emotion?”
“Penny,” said Victoria gently, “this is news to you, but for him it happened a long time ago. She died more than thirty years ago. He got on with his life. He moved on because he had to. He’s learned to live with it.”
Penny nodded.
“And anyway,” Victoria added, “we don’t know how he reacted at the time. He might have been really cut up. But remember, too, he’s of that generation. They don’t show much emotion. They just accept things the way they are and get on with it.”
“I guess you’re right,” Penny agreed. “But I want to find out everything I can about this artist Alys Jones. She and Emma must have meant something to each other or they wouldn’t have corresponded. I’m starting to get very curious about that accident, and I’d like to find out what happened to her.” She shrugged. “So I guess that’s the point of reading the letters. It’s a place to start, and maybe the letters will shed a bit of light on what happened.”
She wiped her lips on her napkin and set it down beside her plate.
“I wish I had the Internet so I could look something up.”
“Well, that’s not a problem,” said Victoria. “You can stop into the library in the morning and use the computer there.”
“I know I can,” said Penny with a touch of impatience and petulance, “but I want the Internet here so I can look things up whenever I want. Like right now.”
“Well, if it’s really bothering you, maybe I can help. I’ll call Bronwyn’s cousin—you know where I stayed that time and where the kids are. Teenagers can’t go five minutes without the Internet. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know where a street is. Here, I’ll write it down for you.”
Victoria placed the call on her mobile and spoke for a few moments. She gestured to Penny to hand her a pen, scribbled a few notes, and then rang off.
“He Googled it and the street came up right away. It’s in Liverpool. And you’ll never guess who lived at number two fifty-one Menlove Avenue.”
She nodded at Penny.
“Go on, guess!”
After a few moments, she added, “Think about it! Liverpool. It was one of them.”
Penny’s eyes widened.
“John Lennon. He lived at number two fifty-one Menlove Avenue with his aunt Mimi. But by 1967, of course, he was long gone and the Beatles were almost over.”
Penny pushed her plate away and folded her hands on the table.
“Right. Let’s see what we’ve got, then. Emma knew an artist or was friends with an artist, who was killed in a hit-and-run. She has a painting by that artist hanging on her wall, and our solicitor, who was the brother of that artist, has a companion painting hanging on his wall. His painting has been in storage and out of sight for years. And then there’s a photo of Emma taken in 1967 in John Lennon’s garden with a fox terrier named Winnie.”
Victoria smiled.
“Well, we don’t know for sure that it was John Lennon’s garden, but it could be the same street. Still, that’s about what it looks like.”
She picked up a few plates from the table, carried them into the kitchen, and set them down on the counter.
“Would you like tea?” she called over her shoulder. “I’m putting the kettle on.”
When there was no answer, she turned around and looked at the table. She was talking to thin air; the table was empty.
From the living room the sound of John Lennon singing “In My Life” filled the small, cozy rooms. As the kettle started to boil in the kitchen behind her, Victoria walked quietly past the table to the sitting room entrance and peered in. She watched as Penny tucked a wayward strand of red hair behind her left ear and then removed a purple ribbon with white polka dots from a small bundle of letters and set the ribbon on the sofa beside her. Taking up the first envelope, Penny set the rest down on the coffee table. She held the letter in her hand, poised to unfold it.
She looked up at Victoria, smiled weakly, and bent her head over the letter.
“Sorry, couldn’t wait.”
A few moments later Victoria set a cup of tea down on the small table near Penny’s elbow and gently touched her shoulder.
“I’ll see myself out,” she said softly. “Call me tomorrow.”
“Mmm. Thanks,” Penny said without looking up but giving her a vague wave of acknowledgment.
Then, as the front door quietly closed, she started again to read the first letter.
Liverpool, Sunday, April 15, 1967
My dear girl, I couldn’t believe my great good luck when on a dull, boring Saturday afternoon, you appeared at my table in a crowded railway station buffet and asked if you might sit down.