A Killer's Christmas in Wales

by Elizabeth J Duncan

  Built in the thirteenth century by King Edward I as one of a series of castles across North Wales, Conwy Castle sits in an authoritative position on a rocky outcrop on the banks of the River Conwy, set against the mountains of Snowdonia. Roughly rectangular in shape, with four massive towers along each long side, the castle has no equal for visual impact.

  Alwynne parked her car, and the two women entered the restaurant where eight other members of the Stretch and Sketch Club, including the two latest additions to the group, Glynnis Bowen and Brian Kenley, the photographer from Yorkshire, soon joined them.

  “We’ll have about an hour and a half for lunch,” Penny told them, looking down the table. “The castle closes at four and we want to have plenty of time to look around, sketch, and take some photographs before we start to lose the light.” A waiter in a jaunty red jacket brought menus to the table, and the group began to discuss their orders. Two hours later, lunch over and the account settled, they walked to the castle visitor’s centre and prepared to buy their admission tickets.

  “Oh, a group, is it?” asked the ticket seller. “I’ll give you the special rate, as it’s getting late in the day.” Money paid in and tickets distributed, the artists set off to explore the castle.

  “The castle closes at four,” the ticket taker reminded them as they disappeared through the modern glass door and stepped back seven hundred years into the ruins of a fearsome, dark-stoned fortress that had not lost its power to cast a magical spell.

  * * *

  Florence Semble trudged along the platform of the Chester Station. She glanced up at the electronic announcement board and was happy to see that the Llandudno train was on time and due in eight minutes. She sat down on a bench to wait.

  Ten minutes later, the turquoise train approached the station, and as it slowed down, Florence picked up her suitcase and shuffled forward with the other passengers preparing to board. When the train had come to a complete stop, the doors opened and she stood to one side as two hooded teenagers jumped down and slouched off toward the exit.

  Holding the handrail with one hand and her suitcase with the other, she hauled herself on board as quickly as she could. The carriage was quite full, and she was relieved to see an aisle seat about halfway down. As she struggled to lift her case into the overhead compartment, a young man came to her rescue, shifting it easily and quickly into place. She smiled her thanks and sat down just as the doors closed and the engine started making the huffing noises that signaled the train was about to depart.

  Moments later, it gathered up speed and soon had crossed the invisible border into Wales, leaving England behind. Something about the rhythmic movement of a train always made her want to go to sleep, so wrapping her arms around her handbag, she leaned back in her seat, rested her head against the headrest, and closed her eyes.

  Her eyes opened wide a few moments later when the man in the seat directly behind hers began to speak in an accent and a voice she recognized.

  Florence pushed her woolly hat up over her ears so she could hear better and scrunched down in her seat, which was tall enough to shield her from the view of the passengers behind. She turned her body slightly, ignoring the glare from her seatmate, so her ear was up against the narrow divide between her seat and the one next to it.

  “Yes, I do come from America, as you call it,” the man behind her was saying. “California. I work for an electronics firm. Just over here on business. Arrived a couple of days ago.”

  The woman said something that Florence couldn’t quite catch.

  “Well, my firm does sensitive work for a certain United States government agency, but I can’t really talk about it. Let’s just say I travel the world on top-secret missions.” He gave a little chuckle. “I’ve already said too much. Tell me about you. Where are you headed?”

  Florence thought the woman said Deganwy, but she spoke so softly Florence wasn’t sure she had heard correctly.

  “And will your husband be meeting you at the station? It looks as if we might get more snow. Hope you don’t have far to go?”

  The woman murmured something.

  “Oh, live near the school, do you? My mother was a teacher. I have such admiration for teachers.”

  You lying bastard, thought Florence. Her brain was racing at warp speed as she tried to figure out what to do. Should she make herself known and let him know she’d overheard everything and that she was going to expose him for the fraud he was? But something told her better not, as least not yet. She shrank farther down in her seat and listened to his patter as the woman sitting beside him became increasingly quiet. Finally, overcome by boredom and lack of interest, Florence surmised, she no longer responded to him. Florence couldn’t see if she was looking out the window, reading, or pretending to be asleep, but she had certainly managed to send a message that as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

  Florence smiled to herself. Nice try, old son. You win some, you lose some, eh, Harry?

  The train rolled on to Llandudno, slowing as it approached the next station.

  “Well, this is where I get off,” Saunders was saying. “It was nice meeting you.”

  This can’t be Llandudno, Florence thought, checking her watch, and sure enough the signs on the station platform read Conwy. Why was Saunders getting off here? Surely it would make more sense for him to go to Llandudno and make his way from there to Llanelen or wherever he was going.

  In an instant she made her decision. She rose out of her seat, slid into the aisle, and careful to keep her head turned away from Saunders, reached into the overhead bin and tugged at her suitcase. She followed him down the aisle, her suitcase bumping against her leg.

  As the station announcer intoned, “Anyone alighting from the train should take extreme care as the platform is slippery,” Florence stepped cautiously onto the platform just behind him.

  He made his way to the station exit and then, once he was on the street, paused for a moment to get his bearings and then turned in the direction of the castle.

  Where on earth is he off to, Florence wondered, as she walked a little way behind him, keeping a steady eye on the back of his green anorak. She was not bothered that he would recognize her even if he did turn around. He hadn’t paid much attention to her when they’d met in Evelyn Lloyd’s home, today she was wearing a hat, and as she had learned a long time ago, women her age are almost invisible to the rest of the world. Florence had long ago accepted that no one takes any notice of an elderly woman, except for the occasional well-brought-up person who might, say, offer some assistance with a suitcase on a train.

  Florence watched as Saunders entered the castle visitor’s centre. She crept after him and once inside busied herself picking through a selection of Welsh dragon key chains, playing cards with pictures of the castle on their backs, pencils, and bookmarks. She heard Saunders ask for a single admission ticket and waited until he had taken it, stepped away from the counter, and followed the arrow.

  “The castle closes at four,” the woman told him.

  Florence rummaged about in her bag for some change and approached the counter.

  “How much is a senior’s ticket?” she asked. “That much?” She winced when told the cost.

  “Well,” said the kindly clerk, “as it’s getting a bit late in the day, I’ll let you in for a pound, but don’t tell anybody.”

  Florence slid a coin across the counter and accepted her ticket.

  “Thank you. I appreciate this.”

  “No problem,” the clerk replied, pulling out a notepad from under her counter. “The castle closes at four o’clock.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Lloyd finished telling her story to an astonished Bunny, who didn’t know whether to be upset because her friend had been hurt or because of the amount of money involved and was feeling pained for both in equal measure.

  “Oh, Evelyn,” she said, her voice filled with warm concern. “How could you have been so…”

  “It’s all r
ight, Bunny. You can say it. Stupid.”

  The two old friends looked at each other, and Bunny reached out to give Evelyn a comforting hug. At the tenderness of the gesture, Mrs. Lloyd’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, Bunny. I know I’ve been such a fool. But he was so charming and he made me feel like I was the only woman on earth. Special, like. I remembered things I hadn’t experienced in years. How good it felt to have a man admire me, tell me that I looked nice, open a door for me, give me a nice dinner. I enjoyed being seen out and about with a man. I liked being thought of as half of a couple. And he seemed so sophisticated, not like the men you get around here.”

  Bunny inclined her head as she listened. “But what did you really know about him, Evelyn? You’d only known him for, what, a few weeks?” She shook her head and winced. “And to give him so much money. How could you? What came over you? What on earth were you thinking? How did all this happen so quickly?”

  “I trusted him,” Mrs. Lloyd said simply, as if that explained everything. They remained looking at each other for a few moments, and then Mrs. Lloyd gave a little shrug and broke eye contact.

  “It’s still early and I don’t feel like going home yet. Shall we walk on for a bit, maybe stroll past the castle?”

  “I’d like to go in,” replied Bunny, “if you’re up to it. I haven’t been inside for years and I’ve never seen it in winter. Let’s just have a wander round, shall we? When I was a child, I used to try to imagine what it must have looked like when it was built. I pictured the queen sewing in her apartment all hung with tapestries, with her ladies gathered about her while the king was busy planning his war with his military advisors, or whoever he would have planned wars with. Of course, there would have been huge fireplaces with Irish wolfhounds or some such gigantic dog lying in front of them.”

  Mrs. Lloyd managed a tight smile.

  “Oh, Bunny, you always did have such a wonderful imagination. I can almost picture it. Yes, all right, let’s go in. Anyway, the views from the wall walks are lovely. You can see for miles.”

  “The castle closes at four,” advised the attendant as the two women moved toward the glass doors that opened to a wooden walkway that led to the modern, upward path that would bring them to the castle entrance.

  Twelve

  Mrs. Lloyd and Bunny entered a narrow enclosure, or barbican, and then continued on into the ruins of the castle proper. The roof and floors had disappeared centuries ago, leaving the dark grey stone walls, green with lichen in places, standing open to the sky.

  The women talked quietly as they walked slowly through the outer ward, referring to the guidebook Bunny had bought in the gift shop, until they reached what Bunny said was the hall range.

  She pointed to their right.

  “Although it now appears as one long room, the interior was divided into at least two sections-the chapel and the great hall,” she read. As they prepared to move toward the middle gate, the cross wall that divided the castle into what had been its public and private areas, they spotted Penny Brannigan seated on a low stone wall, making rapid, sweeping marks in her field sketchbook. She looked up as they approached.

  “Oh, Mrs. Lloyd, imagine seeing you here,” she said as she looked from one to the other. “Hello, Bunny.” A slight frown creased her brow. “I think I just saw Harry Saunders. Were you meant to be meeting up with him?”

  Mrs. Lloyd exchanged a quick glance with Bunny, and both of them took a step toward her.

  “Did you, Penny? How long ago? Where was he going? I mean, what direction was he headed?”

  Penny waved her hand in the direction of the stone wall that ran across the width of the castle. “I think he went through there,” she said. “I didn’t have a chance to speak to him.”

  Mrs. Lloyd put a hand on Bunny’s arm.

  “Wait here. I need to speak to him on my own.” She hurried off in the direction Penny had indicated, leaving Penny and Bunny staring after her.

  “I hope she catches him up,” Bunny said.

  “Well, when she finds him, he may not be alone,” Penny replied. “Just after he passed me, Florence came along. I thought at the time something was up, but she hurried right past me. Took no notice. I’m not even sure she saw me.” After a moment she added, “Is everything all right? What’s going on?”

  “Evelyn has something important she needs to discuss with him. She’s been ringing him for days, trying to get in touch.” She peered at Penny’s sketch. “Do you mind if people look at your work while you’re doing it?”

  “I don’t mind if they take a quick look at it, but I don’t really like someone watching over my shoulder while I’m trying to concentrate,” Penny said.

  “Oh, right,” said Bunny, stepping back. “Look, I’ll just go and sit on that bench over there and wait for Evelyn to return.” Bunny looked up at the towering castle walls.

  “This place is so massive, she could be anywhere.”

  “It’s not really as big as it seems, once you understand how it’s all laid out,” Penny replied, making a shading motion on her sketchbook. “Of course, we’re really just seeing its footprint. When it was built, with all the different levels, then, it would have been enormous.” She rubbed her hands. “And busy, too, with everyone running up and down the stairs all day long.”

  “Here on your own, are you?” asked Bunny.

  “No, I’m with some members of my sketching club, but we’re all over the place. I haven’t seen any of them, but they’ll be around, somewhere. Some of them could be back there, I suppose, looking at the remains of the royal apartments,” she said, gesturing toward the inner ward.

  She had just returned to her work, as Bunny settled down on the nearby bench to study her guidebook, when a primal sound ripped through the peace and stillness of the vast space. Penny dropped her pencil and turned toward the source of what had now become an urgent scream. At that moment a man emerged, waving his arms, through the entranceway to the Great Hall opposite her. Although he was some distance away, she could hear him clearly.

  “Ring 999! Someone’s fallen from the wall walk!”

  Bunny jumped up, her face white with fear and confusion. Penny snapped her sketchbook closed and, telling Bunny to stay where she was, reached into her handbag for her mobile. After a few words with the emergency operator, she rushed over to Bunny.

  “Can you go and see who it is,” Bunny wailed. “Oh dear God, please let it not be her.” Penny thrust her sketchbook into Bunny’s arms and bolted.

  She raced across the wooden bridge that led to the narrow circular staircase of the prison tower that would take her to the wall walk high above. Holding on to the rope hand railing, she clambered up the stone steps as fast as she could until, panting slightly, she reached the top and stepped out into the fading afternoon light. A strong gust of icy wind greeted her, and she clung to the cold stones of the ancient tower for support. A small group had gathered a short distance away, and one of them was pointing over the low wall to the frozen ground below.

  She inched along the narrow wall walk, fighting back vertigo, and leaned over the outer wall as far as she dared. She could make out what looked like a man in a green anorak, lying on his side facing away from the castle, his left leg crumpled and bent outward at a terrible angle. He did not move.

  “The police and ambulance are on their way,” she told the small crowd. “I think you should all just stay where you are until they arrive.” She noted a few members of the Stretch and Sketch Club in the group, including Alwynne Gwilt, who was clutching photographer Brian Kenley’s arm. His camera dangled from a strap around his neck. She made a mental note; he might have captured something important and the police will certainly want to examine the digital photos he had taken.

  Down the road from the castle, in the two-storey grey stone police station that faced Lancaster Square, Detective Sergeant Bethan Morgan was wrapping up a crime prevention presentation to a group of seniors.

  “So, ladies, remember wh
en you go to the supermarket, to leave your handbag at home. Just take as much money as you think you’ll need or a debit or credit card and keep them in your pocket. Because while you’re turned this way”-Bethan twisted away from the old leather handbag she had placed on a table-“looking at the mince on sale and your handbag is behind you in your shopping trolley, it’s an open invitation to a thief.”

  She stopped as a police officer entered the room, smiled at the pensioners, and signaled he wanted a word with her.

  Bethan listened and then nodded.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, PC Jones tells me I’ve been called out, so we’re going to have to leave it there for today,” Bethan told her grey-haired audience. “Just remember, thieves are opportunists and if you don’t give them an opportunity, they can’t take what’s yours.” She gave them a reassuring smile. “Sorry, I’ve got to run, but Constable Jones here will see you out.”

  As she prepared to leave, Jones called after her, “The detective chief inspector said to tell you he’ll get there as soon as he can.” Bethan held up a hand to show she’d heard him and was gone.

  Pulling on her fluorescent-yellow high-visibility jacket as she went, she walked quickly across the paving stones of Lancaster Square and sprinted down Rose Hill Street, rounding the corner at the Guildhall, and burst into the castle’s visitor centre. After flashing her warrant card to the woman at the ticket sales desk, who had just been told that someone had fallen off the wall walk, Bethan prepared to enter the castle.

  “The castle closes at four o’clock,” the woman called after her.

  “Not tonight it probably doesn’t, love,” Bethan shot back over her shoulder as she sped through glass doors that would take her to the wooden bridge that gave access to the castle ramp.