A Killer's Christmas in Wales

by Elizabeth J Duncan

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  “Well, yes, there is. I think he’s after Mrs. Lloyd to let him move in with her, and once he gets his feet under the table…”

  “You’ll have to move out? Florence, is that what this is really about?”

  Florence looked at her hands and then raised her lined, careworn face. Penny and Victoria had met her a few months earlier in Liverpool when she had been living in a suburban bedsit and struggling to make ends meet on a tiny pension. Her face had filled out since then, Penny realized, taking years off her appearance. Being with Mrs. Lloyd in her safe, comfortable home must seem as if she’d landed in the lap of luxury.

  “You and Mrs. Lloyd hadn’t known each other very long or very well before you moved in, had you?” Penny asked gently.

  “No. But we were getting along just fine until he came along. We had our routine and I was happy to take on the cooking and do what I could around the place. Making sure everything runs smoothly, like. I’ve settled in now and I want to go on living there,” Florence said. “I gave up my place, such as it was, in Liverpool to move here. I’ll never find another place now at the rent I was paying at my old place.”

  Penny sighed and touched Florence on the arm.

  “I’m sorry, but Victoria will be wondering what’s happened to me. I had better get back to our guests.”

  “Yes, you better had,” agreed Florence.

  “Right. Well, Florence, you know where to find me if you want to talk some more. In the meantime, I don’t know what to tell you. It is Mrs. Lloyd’s money, after all, and she can do with it what she likes.” She brightened. “But if it’s any help to you, the flat over the manicure shop will be vacant in a day or two when Victoria moves out.” Florence gave her a dark look. “No, well, I suppose not.”

  Penny stood up and opened the door.

  “But you’ve certainly given me something to think about, Florence,” Penny said as the two women prepared to rejoin the party. Penny found the conversation unsettling, but she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps something Florence had said didn’t ring true or maybe it was something she didn’t say. But whatever it was, like a wisp of chimney smoke carried away on a wintry wind, it eluded her. And she had to get back to her guests.

  Nine

  “Are you quite sure you want to do this, Mrs. Lloyd?” asked Huw Bowen. “It’s a lot of money.”

  “I’m perfectly well aware of how much it is, thank you, Huw,” replied Mrs. Lloyd stiffly. “And yes, I wish to transfer twenty thousand pounds from my savings account into the joint account Harry and I are opening today. And he’s depositing a cheque for the same amount.” She looked at Harry, who held up a small piece of blue paper, and then back at Bowen. “Now, then, where do we sign?”

  Bowen took the cheque from Harry and examined it carefully. “This is drawn on an American bank and it is not certified,” he said, clipping it to the inside of a beige file folder that contained two or three documents. Looking at Mrs. Lloyd, he said carefully, “You will need to allow thirty days for this cheque to clear. You do understand that you will not have access to this money for that time. It will be as if the money isn’t there.”

  “Oh, we’re not going to be spending it,” Mrs. Lloyd replied. “Not as such. Harry will be investing it when the right opportunity comes along.”

  Bowen took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He wished there was something he could do to stop Mrs. Lloyd from going ahead with this scheme, and although he hoped he was wrong, he feared that she would pay a very high price for her involvement with this man, who had struck him the minute he clapped eyes on him at the bridge game on that frosty November night as being completely untrustworthy.

  “Well, with this account, then, Mrs. Lloyd”-he tapped the documents on his desk-“let’s set it up so that a withdrawal will require both of your signatures. I strongly recommend that you do that.”

  As Mrs. Lloyd hesitated, Saunders smiled at her and gave his head the tiniest shake.

  “No, we’ll have it so that either of us can access the funds,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “It’ll be easier and faster that way. Harry’s business ventures are very demanding and sometimes he has to travel.”

  Bowen put his glasses back on. “I wonder if I might just have a quick word with you in private, Mrs. Lloyd.” He gave Saunders a pointed look and then, pursing his lips slightly and folding his hands on his desk, turned his gaze back to Mrs. Lloyd. She met his eyes with a look of resolved indignation.

  “You know, Huw, I’m starting to think you’re afraid that Harry’s going to do so much better as my financial advisor that you’ll find yourself out of the job.” She sat back in her chair and folded her arms.

  Suppressing a sigh, Bowen pushed a piece of paper across the desk to Mrs. Lloyd and offered her a pen.

  “Very well. If you’ll just sign here, please.”

  Saunders gave him a muted look that Bowen would come to think of later as triumph mixed with a generous swirl of contempt.

  “Right, well, that’s that, then,” said Mrs. Lloyd as she stood up and pulled on her gloves. She jammed the fingers of one hand down between the fingers of the other and then turned around for her heavy wool coat that Saunders had hung on the rack in the corner of Bowen’s office. He removed Mrs. Lloyd’s coat, helped her on with it, and then returned to the rack for his own. He hesitated for a moment seeing two green anoraks but realizing quickly that the top one must be his, lifted it off the rack and put it on. He put his hands in the pockets and pulled out a pair of black gloves.

  “Well, then,” said Bowen, as he opened the door for them. “Good luck,” he said neutrally and then, with a little more emphasis directed to Mrs. Lloyd, “Do call me if you have any questions or if, ah, any problems arise.”

  “Oh, we’re not anticipating any problems, are we, Harry?” Mrs. Lloyd replied.

  A minute later they were standing in the town square outside the bank. The sky had turned a pewter colour and dark clouds rested sullenly on the hilltops.

  “I’m so excited, Harry,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “I just know our investments are going to do really well.”

  “Of course they will, Evelyn.”

  “There’s just one thing that’s bothering me, though. I’m having second thoughts about that joint signing business. It might have been a good idea, just to keep everything…”

  “Now, Evelyn,” Saunders said with a smooth smile, inclining his head toward her, “either you trust me or you don’t. You do trust me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I do, Harry.”

  He gave her a broad, boyish grin, and then as it faded, he consulted his watch. “Now then, will you let me take you to lunch to celebrate our new partnership? I thought perhaps the hotel. Some nice cream of leek soup to warm us up. I know you like that. What do you say?”

  Mrs. Lloyd touched his sleeve, then tucked her arm through his, as they began walking in the direction of the Red Dragon Hotel.

  “I have a better idea, Harry. Florence is going to Liverpool this afternoon, so why don’t you come round for dinner this evening. She’ll have left something nice.” Mrs. Lloyd gave his arm a friendly little squeeze. “And she’ll be stopping in Liverpool for the weekend, so you won’t have to rush off.”

  “That sounds delightful, Evelyn,” Harry replied. “What time would you like me?”

  “Well, let’s say about seven. We’ll have a lovely evening. Oh, I have so been looking forward to this!”

  “Oh, me too, Evelyn, me too.” He gave her a little peck on the cheek and then stood back. “Well, only another hour or so and the markets will be open in New York, so I’d best be off. Let’s hope there are some good mutual funds available at fire sale prices!”

  Mrs. Lloyd laughed and set off for the short walk home. Saunders watched her until she turned the corner, and then he started walking slowly in the other direction.

  “Only me!” Mrs. Lloyd called out as she pushed open her front door. Noticing Florence’s battered, old-f
ashioned suitcase in the hall, she smiled to herself as she pulled off her gloves, stuffed them in the pocket of her coat, and draped the coat over a chair. After a moment she picked up the coat and hung it in the hall closet her late husband Arthur had had put in a few years before he died.

  Mrs. Lloyd walked through to the kitchen where Florence was finishing her lunch. “I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back,” she said, “and I thought you might even have your lunch out, so I didn’t make anything for you. But I can make you a sandwich, if you like. Tea’s just brewed,” she added, pointing at the pot. “Would you like me to pour you a cup?”

  “Well, actually, Florence, that would be perfect,” Mrs. Lloyd replied. “No, I didn’t have lunch. Came straight home after the appointment at the… well, never mind that. I am hungry, though, so a cheese sandwich would really hit the spot. I’ll just go and change my shoes. I really shouldn’t be walking all over the place in these. I wonder what I did with my slippers.”

  Florence buttered two pieces of bread, scraped the cheese slicer across a hefty slab of mature cheddar, added some thin slices of red onion, and cut the sandwich in two. She set it down on the table and sat down to wait for Mrs. Lloyd.

  “Cheese and onion,” said Florence, “just the way you like it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’ll have the onion today, thank you.” Mrs. Lloyd smiled as she opened the sandwich, picked out a few onion slices, and set them down on the edge of her plate. “Harry’s coming for dinner.”

  “I thought he might be, so I’ve left a nice fisherman’s pie in the fridge for you,” Florence said. “All you’ve got to do is heat it up. And there’s a treacle tart for pudding. I was going to make some custard to go with it, but there’s some pouring cream, so you can have that with it, instead.” She paused for a moment and then added as an afterthought, “Custard doesn’t really keep all that well, does it? Gets that nasty skin on it if you don’t put the cling film right down on top of it.”

  Mrs. Lloyd nodded and took another bite. The onion slices were piling up on her plate.

  “Have you ever been to his place, Evelyn?” Florence asked, breaking the silence. “Have you seen where he lives?”

  Mrs. Lloyd stopped chewing and looked at her.

  “It’s just that I was wondering if maybe he might be, well, you know, married. Or otherwise spoken for.”

  “Hah!” said Mrs. Lloyd. “And here’s me thinking that you’ve been thinking it’s my money he’s after.”

  “Well, I did wonder.”

  “Now, let’s just consider that for a moment, Florence, shall we? What is it about me that makes you think that he couldn’t like me just for myself? Am I so unlikable, so unattractive that a man wouldn’t want me just for me? To enjoy my company? To go dancing? To have as a bridge partner?”

  “I’m sorry, Evelyn, I didn’t mean to imply any of that. It’s just that I’ve been worried about you, that’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t need you to worry about me, Florence. You and I have only known each other five minutes and, forgive me if I speak frankly, but it’s really not your place to meddle in my affairs. I’ve given you a lovely home here, at practically no rent in exchange for doing a few simple things about the place and now you’re worried about me having a friendship with a nice man?

  “I think it’s you that you’re really worried about, Florence. I think you’re worried that Harry’s going to be moving in here and where will that leave you? Back in a shabby-” Mrs. Lloyd, looking somewhat aghast at where her thoughts were taking her, stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “That came across as much harsher than I meant it to. I’ll say no more. Least said, soonest mended.”

  Florence gathered herself up with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “Good-bye, Evelyn. I hope you have a lovely weekend. If it’s all right with you, I’ll be back on Sunday afternoon, by teatime, I should think.”

  “Of course, Florence. You get off now and enjoy yourself. You don’t want to miss the bus. Oh, and it’s suddenly got quite cold when I was out. There could be some bad weather coming in.”

  Mrs. Lloyd remained at the kitchen table, and a few minutes later she heard the front door closing quietly. She got up from the table and peered down the hallway. As she expected, the little suitcase was gone.

  * * *

  Now then, Mrs. Lloyd thought, as she ran a bath later that afternoon, I wonder if I should wait until Harry gets here to put the fish pie in the oven, or would it be more welcoming if he were to be greeted by the aroma when he walks in the door? But maybe he won’t want to eat right away and we’ll have a drink first. The timing is always tricky on something like this.

  Oh dear me.

  Never mind the fish pie. What should I wear? I don’t want to seem too eager. But not too casual and not overdressed, either. Still, I don’t want something for every day, like a skirt and blouse. Or do I?

  She added some fragrant lavender bath salts to the warm water and then settled in for a nice, long soak. She lay back, resting her head on a towel, and thought about those scenes she had seen on television in which a young beautiful woman, eyes closed, relaxed in a soothing bath with candles all around the tub. Mrs. Lloyd closed her eyes and thought about scented candles. When she opened her eyes, the water had turned a tepid grey and her fingertips looked like prunes.

  Wrapped in a warm bathrobe, she slid her garments along the clothes rail assessing each one as it passed by. Too tight. Too severe. Too old looking. He’s seen that. I hate that old thing-must give it to the charity shop. I look like hell in trousers. There’s a button missing on this blouse and anyway it pulls across the bust. One by one she assessed the items in her wardrobe and found nothing to her liking.

  She sat down on her bed and sighed. She was regretting those hurtful things she had said to Florence. I’ll ring her later, she thought, and put things right with her. And then she remembered that Florence couldn’t afford a mobile phone and had not left a telephone number where she could be reached.

  Mrs. Lloyd stood up and returned to the task of rummaging through her closet, finally taking out a black skirt and a tailored white blouse. I’ll dress that up a bit with my pearls and put on some black stockings. She rummaged around in her drawer, found a new pair of tights, and started getting changed. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black shoes, checked the time on her bedside alarm clock, and after taking one last look around her bedroom to make sure it was invitingly tidy, closed the door behind her. She took a few steps down the hall and then returned to her bedroom. There was something she had forgotten to do.

  She sat down on her bed and picked up the photo of her late husband, Arthur, that she kept on her bedside table. She looked fondly at his kind, handsome face, gazing cheerfully back at her from its silver frame, never growing any older, always watching over her as she slept.

  She gave the image a little kiss and then gently placed the photo in the top drawer of her nightstand. After a moment’s thought she twisted off her wedding ring, placed it on top of the photo, and then closed the drawer.

  * * *

  The heaviness of the afternoon sky, filled with fast-moving, menacing clouds had given way to an ominous evening, and Mrs. Lloyd glanced out the window before closing the curtains against the darkness. The lamps in her sitting room cast a cozy, comforting light, and she turned on the radio, choosing a station playing soft background music. She lit several candles and grouped them on the coffee table. She stood back and surveyed the room. Deciding that it looked welcoming and attractive but not too obviously seductive, she headed to the dining room to check on the table. Florence had left everything very nice indeed, Mrs. Lloyd had to admit. The silver shone, the dishes were carefully set out, and a centrepiece of white roses gave everything a serene but somehow seasonal look. Satisfied with all the arrangements, she entered the kitchen to see to the dinner.

  At ten minutes to seven she put the fish pie in the oven to heat and then returned to the living roo
m. She reached in her handbag for a lipstick and, using the little mirror in her compact, applied it carefully, smacking her lips together and giving them a little rub. She patted down her skirt and, after a quick glance around the room, sat down on the sofa and idly thumbed through the Christmas issue of The Lady. A few moments later she tossed the magazine aside.

  Seven o’clock. He should be here any minute now, she thought, aching with delicious anticipation.

  Fifteen minutes later, as the aroma of fish pie began to seep out from the kitchen, Mrs. Lloyd picked up her mobile phone and rang Harry. There was no answer. Had he forgotten? Had she been clear about the day and that she was expecting him tonight?

  Mildly anxious, she fiddled with the dial on the radio until she heard a voice.

  “That was Mary Hopkins and her wonderfully appropriate ‘Snowed Under,’ which is what we’re going to be tonight with a low front moving in, bringing with it heavy snow for much of the northwest,” said the radio announcer. The voice continued, “Police are advising motorists to take to the roads only if their journey is essential, as between four and eight inches of snow are expected to accumulate overnight.” A whiteout in South Wales led to a twenty-six-mile tailback on the M4 during rush hour, the voice added.

  Oh damn, thought Mrs. Lloyd, switching off the radio. That’ll be what’s keeping him. Of course, if he can just get here, he’ll have to stay the night.

  She strode over to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered out into the empty street. Large flakes of snow were falling, swirling, and catching the sodium orange light from the streetlamp as they tumbled to earth. The snow was beginning to pile up on the window ledge and Mrs. Lloyd found the whole notion of being snowed in with Harry for a day or two unbearably romantic.

  It had been so many years since the town, or the country for that matter, had experienced a really severe winter that she could barely remember the last one. Sometime in the 1980s, would be her best guess. Of course, back when she was a girl the winters had been much worse, but somehow everyone survived. Was there a possibility with a severe snowstorm that the electricity might go off, she wondered.