A Killer's Christmas in Wales

by Elizabeth J Duncan

  The list went on for about eight more items.

  These are all things that people have lying about in their sitting rooms, Penny thought. Ordinary household things without much real value. My brooch doesn’t fit this list.

  She left the papers on a side table and went through to the kitchen. She looked in the fridge to see what she had, and after realizing there was not much there except an elderly tomato, some cheese with a bit of mold on the rind, and a few other sad items, she checked the freezer, hoping for a ready meal.

  In luck, she found a chicken breast with a side of vegetables, so she put that in the microwave and set the timer.

  While she waited for it to heat up, she returned to the sitting room and looked at the list again.

  I’m sure the police have thought of this, she thought, but one item that might belong on this list is Mrs. Lloyd’s letter opener.

  She looked at her watch, and as it had just gone nine, she decided it would not be too late to ring.

  A few moments later Florence picked up the telephone, answering in the old-fashioned way of giving the number.

  “Florence, it’s Penny, here. Yes, sorry to bother you so late, but I’ve just had a thought. Could you and Mrs. Lloyd put your heads together and try to figure out exactly when your letter opener went missing?”

  After Florence reassured her they would have another go at trying to remember the last time they’d seen it, Penny rang off, and just as the bell on the microwave signaled her meal was cooked, the telephone rang.

  It was Gareth, hoping she was all right and telling her not to worry about the snowflake brooch. We will get it back, he said confidently. Just a matter of time. In reply to her question about the Conwy Castle case, he told her he was going to issue an appeal to the public to see if anyone would come forward with information that could help confirm the identity of Harry Saunders or provide information on his movements on the day he died.

  “What do you think he was doing at the castle?” Penny had asked.

  “I think he had arranged to meet someone. To me, that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  They talked for a few more minutes, and then Penny raised the subject that was never far from her thoughts.

  “I’ve been thinking about the skeleton of the woman’s body that was found in our spa,” she said. “Anything new there?”

  And then she answered her own question.

  “Of course not. If there had been, you would have told me.”

  Seventeen

  Every year the Stretch and Sketch Club put on an event to raise funds. The money might be used to pay an honorarium to a special guest speaker, provide group entry fees to a local exhibit, or take out an advertisement in the local paper announcing an exhibit of their own work.

  For this year’s fund-raiser, the group had teamed up with the Llanelen Players, the local amateur dramatics society, to give a reading of Dylan Thomas’s much-loved A Child’s Christmas in Wales. The Stretch and Sketch Club had agreed to handle the logistics of the performance, including booking the community centre, ticket sales, and refreshments while the actors took care of the performance, and both groups would share the profits.

  At seven fifteen the community centre doors opened and a small but steady queue offered five-pound notes to the ticket sellers, Penny Brannigan and Alwynne Gwilt, seated at a small table.

  “Looks like a very good turnout despite the weather,” Alwynne said to Reverend Thomas Evans as she accepted the ten-pound note he handed her. “Indeed,” he said, “Bronwyn and I prefer staying home with Robbie on rainy nights, but we wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

  “So glad you could come.” Penny smiled at them.

  “Well, we’re here to support you, Penny, you know that,” Bronwyn said, giving her a warm, affectionate look. “And it’s been some time since we’ve been out to see the Players, so it’s high time we did.”

  “I think there are still some good seats over there on the left,” Penny said, pointing down the hall. “Enjoy the performance.”

  By eight o’clock, when the performance was scheduled to begin, all but one or two seats had been filled and eager chatter and laughter filled the room. Chairs had been placed to one side for Stretch and Sketch volunteers, although Penny and Alwynne remained seated at the ticket table in case any latecomers arrived. The community centre did not have a formal stage with curtains, but a raised platform at one end served the purpose.

  The crowd rustled as it settled, obscuring the opening sentences of the piece and then there was stillness as the actor’s clear voice emerged:

  “I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”

  The audience members looked at one another and smiled at the beauty of the words and all the rest to come, so familiar and dear to them.

  As the prose poem neared its end, Penny slipped out of her seat and crept into the kitchen where Stretch and Sketch Club newcomers, Glynnis Bowen and photographer Brian Kenley were setting out food and drink. There were bowls of walnuts and glasses of sherry, just as in the poem, and plates of mince pies and slices of rich, dark, brandy-soaked Christmas cake with marzipan icing, a traditional Welsh cake known as Bara Brith, and fancy cheeses and oat cakes and cream crackers.

  “The refreshments look wonderful,” Penny said to Glynnis, who had organized them. “The play’s almost finished, so they’ll be here any minute.” Glynnis handed Brian a large stack of napkins and a tray. “Well, we’re ready”-she smiled-“aren’t we, Brian?”

  “We are indeed.”

  “Huw not here with you tonight?” Penny asked.

  “He said he had a few things to attend to and that he’d be along in time to close up,” Glynnis said. “I’m expecting him any minute.”

  “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Penny, who then slid into her seat beside Alwynne just as the play came to its conclusion.

  “Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”

  After a moment’s silence the room filled with wild, enthusiastic applause as Mrs. Lloyd got to her feet to lead a standing ovation.

  “Wasn’t that wonderful!” she exclaimed to Florence. “Now you’ll not be getting entertainment like that in Liverpool.”

  “Certainly not,” agreed Florence, “nothing like it.”

  If Mrs. Lloyd was not shy about leading the ovation, she was also not shy about leading the audience to the space around the kitchen’s serving hatch where the refreshment tables had been set up. The audience was encouraged to help themselves to refreshments while Brian Kenley circulated in a gentlemanly way, holding a half-full plate of mince pies in one hand and a half-full plate of Christmas cake in the other. He approached Penny, who was talking to Victoria. “I’m just going to set these down for a minute, Penny,” he said, “and put everything on one plate. They’ll look better that way.”

  “Well, let me help you,” said Victoria with a smile, helping herself to a mince pie. Here’s one less you’ll have to shift.”

  As Victoria lifted the mince pie from the centre of the plate revealing a bright yellow daffodil, Penny let out a little gasp. Recovering quickly, she took a pie herself and signaled to Victoria that she needed a word.

  Holding a small paper plate under her mince pie, Victoria allowed herself to be led off to one side of the hall.

  “What is it?” she said as she took a bite. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “That plate, the one with the daffodil on it. Bethan showed me the list of things that have been stolen from around here recently, and that plate is on the list.”

  “Mprgh,” said Victoria through a mouthf
ul of mince pie, which she then swallowed. “Penny, you’ve got to be joking. Do you have any idea how many plates there must be around here with daffodils on them? Everybody’s got one. I’ll bet you anything”-she looked around the room for a familiar face-“I’ll bet you Bronwyn over there’s got one. Or Mrs. Lloyd, she’ll have one for sure. So what are you saying?”

  “Well, the plate belongs to someone in our Stretch and Sketch Club,” said Penny, “because we organized the refreshments. So I’m going to stick around and see who that plate belongs to. See who it goes home with. Come on.”

  Victoria groaned.

  “Do we have to? We’ve just opened the spa and I’m really tired. We’ve had a couple of long, tiring days and another big day coming up tomorrow. Those display windows aren’t going to judge themselves, you know. Mrs. Lloyd loved her manicure, by the way. She was well chuffed to be the first client and was in heaven when she learned her manicure was free. Nice one, there.”

  Thinking back to the manicure she had given Dorothy Martin, Penny realized that Mrs. Lloyd hadn’t technically been the first customer, but close enough.

  “Well, if you won’t wait with me, that’s fine, you go. But I’m staying here until I find out who owns that plate.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Victoria, stifling a yawn. “I guess I can find something to do while I wait.”

  “Wait? We’re going to go in the kitchen to help with the washing up so we can keep an eye on that plate.”

  “I’ve just thought of something,” said Victoria. “Did you actually touch the plate?”

  “No,” said Penny. “I didn’t. Why?”

  “Because when I was a girl if my mother was bringing squares or cakes to a church social, say, she always put a piece of tape on the bottom of the plate with her name on it. That way, she’d know which one was hers.”

  “Did she have trouble recognizing her own plate?” Penny asked as they walked back toward the refreshment area.

  “No, but there was another woman who used to have trouble recognizing that the plates belonged to other people. With the tape on the bottom, my mum could say to her, ‘Oh I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve mistaken my plate for yours. See here, there’s a little piece of tape on the bottom with my name on it.’ So easy to mix up… one plate looks so much like another.”

  Penny laughed. “Oh, right. My plate has violets on it and yours has daffodils. I can barely tell them apart!”

  Victoria smiled at her and shrugged. “Well, it’s all about saving face, isn’t it? And there’s no accounting for plate envy.”

  As the crowd began to thin out, thanking their hosts for a lovely evening before heading out the door, Penny and Victoria entered the kitchen. Huw Bowen, who had arrived soon after the performance ended, was sipping a glass of sherry while he talked to Brian Kenley. Glynnis Bowen, up to her elbows in the washing-up bowl, had her back to them. She turned around and said to Kenley, with the slightest hint of sharpness, “Have you brought in all the dishes that need washing up, Brian?”

  “I’ll go,” volunteered Penny. “No problem, Brian, you’re all right.” With a slight nod at Victoria to keep an eye on things in the kitchen, Penny returned to the refreshment area. A few audience members, apparently working on their second sherry, lingered to talk to neighbours they hadn’t seen for a few days or to make arrangements to get together soon with a friend for cake and coffee. Mrs. Lloyd and Florence, Penny noticed, seemed to have left.

  Several half-empty trays and plates remained on the serving table, so she piled the food on three plates and set three empty ones aside. As she handled the daffodil plate, she ran her hand underneath it and felt a sticky little tab. Turning the plate over and pretending to look at the manufacturer’s label, she noticed what looked like a small strip of white adhesive medical tape, and just as Victoria had suggested, there seemed to be some writing on it. She held it up to the light, closer to her eyes, and tried to read it. The letters were blurred, probably from having been washed a few times, but she managed to decipher something that looked like Rhys Hughes. Who’s she when she’s at home, Penny wondered. Or he. I suppose a man can own a plate.

  She put the three plates together, carried them into the kitchen, and set them down beside Glynnis Bowen.

  “Thank you, Penny,” said Glynnis, as she slid the plates into the sudsy wash water.

  Penny gave Victoria a meaningful glance and a slight nod.

  “Well done,” she said softly. “You were right. There was a name on the bottom, but I didn’t recognize it. Now we just have to wait and see who collects the plate.”

  “And how long’s that going take?” Victoria whispered back. “And what are we supposed to do in the meantime? Just stand here?”

  “You’re right,” said Penny. “I’ll speed things up.”

  She joined Glynnis at the sink and, after picking up a dish towel that was sitting beside the draining rack, selected a plate from the rack, dried it, and then carried it over to the table and set it down carefully. She repeated this with two more plates.

  When the daffodil plate arrived in the rack, Penny picked it up and gave it a brief swipe with the drying cloth and then turned toward the table. With a quick glance at Victoria, she let the plate slip from the towel. It crashed to the floor, shattering into several pieces. At the instantly recognizable sound of kitchen breakage, all conversation stopped and everyone turned in surprise toward the source of the sound. As Victoria knelt down and began picking up the broken shards, Penny turned to the others in the kitchen.

  “Oh, how clumsy of me!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll replace it. Do we know who owns it?”

  “It’s mine, but don’t worry about it. These things happen.”

  But Brian Kenley’s words did not match his facial expression. He looked almost as shattered as his plate.

  Eighteen

  The little group stood for a moment in the kitchen and then, as the sound of rain began to rattle the windowpanes, resumed their work. Alwynne arrived in the kitchen carrying plates of leftover food and empty glasses on a tray. She set everything down on the counter near Glynnis.

  “Everyone’s left,” she said. “And this is the last of the food. Not sure what to do with the rest of these mince pies,” she said. “Don’t know who brought them. Would someone like to wrap them up and take them home?”

  “Why don’t you have them?” Glynnis said. “There’s a box of plastic wrap just over there.”

  “Well, if no one else wants them, I’d be glad to have them,” Alwynne said, looking around the room. “Or my husband will be glad to have them, I should say. Have to wrap them up well to get them home in this rain, though.”

  The group worked quickly to finish the cleanup to Huw Bowen’s satisfaction and then trooped out, with him bringing up the rear so he could lock up behind them.

  A cold, sharp rain assaulted them as they emerged into the dark street. Brief good nights were said as everyone went their separate ways, the Bowens hurrying off toward the car park; Alwynne gratefully accepting a lift from Brian Kenley; and Penny and Victoria, seen as two bobbing umbrellas, setting off at a fast pace to walk to Victoria’s flat in the spa by the river.

  The rain bounced off the pavement, finding its way into the small stream that gurgled along the side of the road toward the drains.

  “Don’t say anything until we get to yours,” Penny said. “I have to concentrate on keeping my feet dry and I can only think about one thing at a time.”

  Victoria did not reply and the two walked steadily but quickly past silent shops through the dark, deserted streets. The rain, large, heavy drops against the orange glow of the streetlamps, did not let up, and occasionally they had to lower their umbrellas in front of them to protect their faces from the steady, driving downpour. Every few minutes a car splashed by, causing them to leap into a doorway or huddle against the side of a building to avoid being sprayed. After about ten minutes of hard, steady slogging, hunched against the r
ain, they reached the River Walk and turned toward the spa.

  Crouched in darkness on the bank of the rapidly rising River Conwy, the spa loomed out of the darkness to greet the two women as they pressed on for the last moments of their sodden walk. Victoria led the way up the path and then to a side door that bypassed the front reception area and opened near the kitchen and back storeroom. She fumbled about in her bag, put the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and switched on the light. Shaking the rain off their umbrellas before entering, the two stepped out of the night and into the welcoming warmth just as the rain began to transition into icy pellets of sleet.

  “Let’s just leave all our wet things down here,” Victoria said. “We can hang them overnight in the reception area and keep all the wet in one place. We’d better take our shoes off, as well.”

  “Right,” said Penny. “Here, give me your coat and I’ll hang it up. The umbrellas, too.” She padded down the corridor, hung up the coats, left the umbrellas open to dry on the doormat, ducked into the supply room, and then returned to Victoria, who was unlacing her shoes. “Let’s get upstairs and get dry,” she said to Victoria, handing her a fluffy white towel she had picked up in the supply room. “My feet are soaked. Hope you’ve got a spare pair of socks you can lend me.”

  A few moments later, their hair towel dried and feet in warm, dry socks, they settled into the new flat Victoria had created on the top floor of the spa building. During the day it was filled with light and gave wonderful views over the River Conwy to the green hills beyond.

  “Right, let’s see where we’re at,” said Penny. “Let’s go over what we know so far.”

  “Which isn’t very much,” said Victoria, handing Penny a glass of white wine and setting down a small plate with cheese and oat crackers on it. “I must say, I was really surprised when you deliberately broke that plate. That was the last thing I expected you to do.”