by Cathy Ace
‘And she managed to completely change the way the public thought about the miniature form,’ said Alexander gently.
Gwen sighed. ‘She certainly did that, which she said was all that mattered to her. And Nathaniel did very well too. A lot better than her. Poor thing, she couldn’t seem to get the commissions he did; even though the critics liked her work, it just didn’t catch on like his did. She wanted to make the stuff of normal life into art that would appeal to normal people, as she put it, whereas Nathaniel wanted to make art on a grand scale, using grand themes. He was the one who got all those commissions from public bodies to make works that were on public display, and she ended up with her work selling to private buyers with fat wallets and no real social conscience. It was the ultimate irony, she said. Ate into her, it did. I could see it changing her. She’d never been a bitter girl; not an ounce of spite in her. But the way she’d talk about gallery owners, wealthy buyers, and even her brother, changed so much. Hid inside her work, she did, toward the end. I worried about her.’ Gwen looked furtively at the table in front of her. ‘Then … well, you know.’
Christine allowed the woman’s fresh tears to fall for a moment or two before saying, ‘How about Alexander and I pop upstairs to see what’s up there?’
The grieving mother smiled. ‘Yes, you do that. There’s a lot of stuff by both of them upstairs. Go on with you now, I’ll make a pot of tea. Be careful coming down those stairs, mind you – try coming down backwards, they’re that steep, it helps.’
The stairs were, indeed, a challenge, and Christine was glad Alexander was behind her offering the promise of a soft landing should she need one. Once in the room in question, the dark-stained wide-plank floorboards, whitewashed walls and minimal furnishings allowed the works to sing aloud. Pieces of varying sizes filled the walls, all signed by the siblings.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Christine. ‘I prefer her work to his. And yet he was the one who was famous?’
‘I see what you mean, but his appeals more to me. It’s more – powerful. But both of them were good. What a waste. What a loss,’ said Alexander.
They spent some time looking at more works by the brother and sister in a large, leather-bound portfolio displayed on a bed, which was just a frame with wooden slats.
Many of the pieces signed by Nathaniel were dated within the period since Lizzie’s disappearance, but before his arrest. It seemed to Christine he’d treated the view of Oxwich Bay from the window of that very room in much the same way Cezanne had treated Mont Sainte Victoire – as his obsessive subject … drawn, sketched and painted many dozens of times.
Having taken time to enjoy the works in the second room upstairs, Christine took Gwen’s advice and descended to the ground floor rump-first.
‘I’m in here now,’ called Gwen from the sitting room. ‘Want a cuppa?’ She’d done more than make tea – she’d also put out a plate full of sweet treats.
‘Welsh cakes,’ she said proudly. ‘Made them myself, not from the shop, they aren’t. Hope you like them. Tuck in.’ They all did. The conversation flowed with the tea, and Christine enjoyed seeing Alexander alight with the enthusiasm he felt for the work of both the Llewellyn siblings. It became clear to Christine that, although Gwen was knowledgeable about both Nathaniel’s and Lizzie’s output, she wasn’t a recognized expert, nor a known and respected valuer whose opinion about the miniatures would carry any weight. Indeed, as Lizzie’s mother, her opinion about the attribution of any unsigned pieces would be highly suspect.
‘As I mentioned, we met with an expert at a gallery in London yesterday,’ said Christine. ‘His name is Jeremy Edgerton. We showed him these photocopies of the miniatures and he said they might be by your daughter, but he wasn’t prepared to confirm as much. Do you think you could talk to him about them?’ She was hoping Gwen would agree.
‘If that stuck up, high-and-mighty Mr Lah-di-dah Edgerton wants to speak to me ever again, he can climb down from his Olympus in London and come here. Not that I’m saying I’d let him set foot in the place if he was doing it for himself, but I would, I suppose, be prepared to let him come and see Lizzie’s works that I have here, if it was for you, and to have these miniatures authenticated.’
‘You don’t like him then?’ asked Alexander through crumbs of Welsh cake.
Gwen smiled. ‘Highly perceptive of you, young man.’
‘Dare I ask why you’re so anti-Edgerton?’ ventured Christine.
Gwen folded her arms over her flat chest. ‘He put on an exhibition of Lizzie’s work a few years back. About nine months or so before she went missing. Never invited me, did he? And I was the one who’d spent time putting all the background notes and photos and so forth about Lizzie’s life together for the blessed thing. Not that I wanted more than a thank you – no money, you know – but no, not even a mention or an invitation. Rude, that’s what it was. Just plain rude. I’d done all the research, all the work, and he took all the glory. I thought it was a terrible thing to do, not invite me, her mother. If it hadn’t been for me, the blessed exhibition might never have happened; Edgerton was the epitome of the sort of person Lizzie had come to think of as representing the establishment she’d grown to hate, but I knew the exhibition was the only way to help her keep selling work so I talked her into it. Had a right up and down about me helping out, she and I did. Tears. Tantrums. Throwing things.’ Gwen looked up. ‘Her, not me, of course. But I did it anyway. And it paid off. Sold a lot of stuff for her, he did, even if she thought she was doing a deal with the Devil. I’d never missed any of her showings around here, even when she didn’t want me there, I went, but that one? No invite.’
‘She didn’t want you at her local shows?’ asked Christine.
‘They’d never been her favorite thing to do. It was always hard for Lizzie to talk about her work, and what it meant to her. She’d made it clear she didn’t want Nathaniel at any event where her work was on display years earlier, but she’d always let me go. Grudgingly. Then she stopped showing her work altogether. The exhibition at the Edgerton Gallery was her last ever. I heard she was there for about ten minutes, then flounced off. She … she found it hard to cope with people sometimes. Nathaniel was always the more outgoing one, though I have to be honest and admit neither of them developed what you could refer to as excellent social skills.’
Silence.
‘It would be very useful if Edgerton were able to see what we’ve seen here, Mrs Llewellyn. There are some pieces upstairs by Lizzie that bear a striking resemblance to some of those in the books that have been found. That might swing it. If he could come down squarely on these miniatures being by Lizzie’s hand, it could mean a great deal to the person who owns the books in which they appear.’
Gwen half-unfolded her arms. ‘I dare say you’d have to be able to give him something to prove provenance too,’ she said quietly. ‘You say you don’t know where those books came from, before they turned up at the bookshop?’ Christine shook her head. ‘Well, I can’t help with that. I’ve never heard of your Daisy Dickens, but, if you need something to prove to Jeremy Edgerton the miniatures are by Lizzie, I think I can offer you something pretty convincing.’
‘What exactly?’ Christine felt excited.
‘Well, this one—’ Gwen indicated one of the miniatures – ‘and this.’ She leaned heavily on a stout walking stick as she crossed the room to the back wall, where she opened the double doors of a tall, built-in cupboard. Mounted in a simple clip-frame, inside was a three-foot round version of exactly the same scene of Swansea Bay on what seemed to be a simple piece of white cardboard, and the piece was signed by Lizzie.
‘See, there? That’s definitely by her. No one’s ever seen that except Nathaniel and me. Well, I suppose the police and all those other people will have seen it too, but you know what I mean. She did it that last time she stayed here. I put it in that frame myself, and locked it up in here.’
Christine was elated. ‘That’ll do it. They both have to be by your d
aughter. Maybe the original miniature was in her mind when she created this larger piece.’
‘No question,’ added Alexander.
‘So I suppose you’d better bring him here, then, because this one is not leaving my sight, and I’m certainly not about to haul it all the way up to his place in London,’ said Gwen with resignation. ‘If he’ll come, that is.’
‘I’ll make him come, somehow,’ said Christine gently. ‘I’m sorry, this must be terribly difficult for you.’
Gwen smiled. ‘Yes, my dear, it is.’ She nibbled her lip. ‘My real problem is that I’m the only person who doesn’t believe Nathaniel killed his sister, see? Since they found him guilty they’ve stopped listening to me. Not that they ever did before; I’m his mother, so I’m bound to not believe it of my own child, that’s what they think. But they’re wrong. See now, Lizzie I could have believed it of, but not him. When they were alone, boy oh boy, she’d let her brother have it. Nathaniel told me about their fights, and she had a terrible temper on her, even as a child. But Nathaniel? Soft as butter, he was, since he was a boy. Only time he ever said a bad word about anyone was when that lot on the telly goaded him into saying some not nice things about Lizzie. Lapped it up, she did, as though all she was interested in hearing was every little criticism of her work. It’s a terrible thing, to have everyone look at you in the street, or in the shops, as though you raised a murderer. But I honestly don’t believe I did. I don’t know who killed my Lizzie, but I do know, in my heart, it wasn’t my Nathaniel. And nothing I can do to stop them saying it.’
Christine shuffled uncomfortably and half-glanced at Alexander.
Gwen raised her head, gasping with excitement as her eyes lit up. ‘Hang on a minute – now there’s a thought! You’re a detective, aren’t you?’ Christine nodded apprehensively. ‘Right then. I’d like to take you on, hire you – or whatever it is people do. Could you and your colleagues find out who really killed my daughter? Because I know my son didn’t. Never looked for anyone else, the police didn’t. Said it was an open-and-shut case. I begged them, I did, but they didn’t take any notice of me.’
Christine’s sympathy for the woman led her to say something she almost immediately regretted, ‘Of course I’ll discuss the possibility of taking on your case with my colleagues.’
As Gwen Llewellyn wrapped her little arms around Christine in a tight hug, Alexander rolled his eyes and Christine shrugged at him.
‘What else could I say?’ she mouthed.
ELEVEN
With no need to make their way to the office for their usual Monday morning meeting, Mavis and Althea were enjoying the comfort of the morning room at the Dower House as they caught up with work.
‘And is Carol all set up with her spyware at the shop?’ asked Althea eagerly, sipping tea. Mavis nodded her reply as she petted McFli. ‘I bet she’s got some wonderful gadgets. The sort of thing they have at MI5 and MI6. Do you think there’s an MI7 they never mention?’ Althea stared hopefully at her friend and colleague. ‘Probably an MI8 and 9 too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Ach,’ said Mavis indulgently. ‘We’re not spying on people at all, Althea. We’re simply using equipment to watch people at our client’s premises. It’s all above board.’
‘I know we don’t have lots of street cameras around here, like they do in the cities and suburbs, but they have a few in Hay-on-Wye already, I hear. They say they’re for the traffic. Do you think that’s true?’ Althea sounded unconvinced.
‘The police might have cameras in Hay, but we have no access to them,’ said Mavis, ‘however, with the owner’s permission, and by announcing to people that they will be filmed when they are on his premises, we can do what we are doing. But let’s move on. What have you discovered during what you grandly described as your telephone research, Althea?’
Althea arranged herself more comfortably on the sofa and took a moment to acknowledge that McFli was being a good boy. ‘I’ve had such fun! I’ve talked to quite a number of people I haven’t spoken to for some years, and a few I thought were dead. Always nice to know they’ve just forgotten to send a Christmas card rather than having actually dropped off the perch.’ Althea paused, staring down at McFli with a wistful expression.
‘And?’ prompted Mavis.
‘Ah yes, I made notes,’ replied Althea, tipping her handbag onto the sofa cushion and triumphantly pulling a little writing pad out of the jumbled mess. ‘Most of them remembered Daisy from the old days, when she was younger – as one would expect given her seat – but most hadn’t seen or heard much from her once she married. His name was George Drayton, though he’s dead now, I’m told. That said, I did speak to one person who received a birthday card from Daisy a few years ago, and in it she mentioned the area she was moving to live after her husband’s death. It’s quite close by really. Three Cocks. Aberllynfi is the Welsh name, Three Cocks is the English name. There’s been a coaching inn there for over five hundred years – the Three Cocks Inn. Hence the name. Very important junction area when the steam trains used to run that way, I believe.’ Althea paused and wrinkled her nose with glee. ‘Funny name for a place though, I’ll admit it.’
‘I think that’s enough of the schoolgirl humor for today,’ said Mavis sternly. ‘Did you get an address, or just a general area?’
Althea’s nostrils flared as she tried to stifle a giggle. ‘Just the area. She said in the card she wrote that she was taking a little cottage there. However, I got it from another old chum that she’d subsequently moved to a retirement home. She probably stayed in that area, because it’s swarming with old folks’ homes thereabouts,’ replied Althea.
‘Would Daisy have been likely to be wealthy when she moved there?’ asked Mavis. ‘Would she have favored an up-market place, do you think?’
‘My source said her husband left her pots of money – no children, you see – and she did like the good things in life, so I expect it would have been a pretty posh one,’ replied Althea.
Mavis glanced around the grand room in which the two women were sitting. ‘Posh is a relative term, I’d say.’
Althea nodded. ‘I know what you mean, dear. Even at my age I still sometimes think I should pinch myself that I’ve lived the life I have, given my background.’
‘As you’ve mentioned several times before, a mother born in Wales of Welsh and English parents, and a father born in England to a Scots and Irish couple, managed to produce you – a girl who grew up on the outskirts of London with enough spirit and drive to drag herself from suburban poverty to the stage in the West End of London where she met her duke and became a duchess. Like a fairy tale.’ Mavis tried to move the conversation back to the topic in hand. ‘I’ll give the information to Carol and see what she can come up with. That’s most helpful, Althea, dear. Anything more?’
Althea looked disappointed. ‘Not really, though I thought that was quite a bit. I got it from two different people, and I know how you like to have information from more than one source.’ Althea tilted her head in challenge.
‘Aye, it’s the proper way to investigate, right enough. It can save a lot of wasted time and energy too,’ Mavis paused. ‘What about where Daisy was born? Did anyone know if she was definitely still alive or, even dead? Any of that information might help Carol with her searches. She’s no’ having much luck.’
Althea shook her head with disappointment. ‘We’re all pretty sure she was from Swansea, but that doesn’t mean that’s where she was born. No one was certain she was dead.’
Mavis’s expression softened as she smiled at her friend’s hopeful face. ‘I’ll tell Carol in any case. Christine too. I think Christine and Alexander will manage very well together researching those miniatures.’
‘They usually manage pretty well together,’ replied Althea. ‘Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, eh?’ Her eyes glittered with mischief. ‘Say no more, say no more,’ she added in a comic voice and accent.
‘I’m beginning to see what your son means about this Monty Python t
hing becoming a little annoying,’ said Mavis wearily.
TWELVE
Tuesday 24th June
‘You awake?’ Alexander spoke quietly, hoping he wouldn’t disturb Christine if she hadn’t fully awoken when his phone had rung. When she grumbled into the pillow, pulling the duvet over her head, he smiled and shut himself in what could only be described as the world’s smallest en suite bathroom; he had to stand in the shower stall to be able to have his conversation, or else sit on the loo. He chose the shower.
It wasn’t a call he’d wanted to have; one of the chaps he had looking after his interests in London was telling him the people with whom he’d requested a sit-down to discuss the houses he wanted to buy, didn’t want to play ball. He kept his voice down so Christine wouldn’t hear his side of the conversation.
‘You’ve got to get them to say yes, Jim,’ he hissed. ‘You mean he’ll only talk to me? OK, I’ll phone him. I’ll get out of here so I can speak freely. If he won’t consider negotiating on those properties, I don’t know what I’ll end up having to do.’