by Cathy Ace
Mavis twigged. ‘Ah, Monty Python. Got it. No, I don’t mean Alexander is like anybody who stole from the rich to give to the poor, I just mean I think he might have a peculiar idea about right and wrong.’
Althea sat up and wiped her damp hands on her backside. ‘They’re complex concepts. Highly subjective.’
‘Not where the law is concerned.’
‘“The law is a ass,” that’s what Dickens said, and he might have had a point.’
Mavis walked across the room to sit beside Althea. ‘Monty Python and Dickens, before tea-time? Something bothering you?’
Althea looked Mavis squarely in the face and replied, ‘Yes. You. You know Bryn Jenkins is making overtures toward you, and you seemed to be enjoying his company immensely at dinner last night. But you haven’t said anything about him to me. About how you feel about him. I thought we were best friends.’
Mavis was genuinely shocked. ‘But there’s nothing to tell. He’s a pleasant enough man, I’ll grant you, but more than that? Nothing. He’s happy with his lot; pleased his daughter lives with him; he’s a good head for business – canny when it comes to a deal; bit of a bible basher. That’s it. And I can tell you he’s made no “overtures” toward me, as you put it. He’s no’ even tuned to middle C, as far as I can tell.’
‘But you two had your heads together all through dinner. I saw you. You even had the odd giggle. I thought you were enjoying yourself.’
‘I was, dear. It’s not as though I’m averse to the company of men.’ Mavis sighed. ‘Mine has been a life of quiet duty; raising my sons, nursing in the forces, running the barracks for retired soldiers. Nowadays I make sure this agency works well. I am, like Bryn, happy with my lot. My marriage was a solid one. I am not a seeker after frivolity.’
‘But you could do with a bit of fun, Mavis. You’re young yet.’
Mavis wondered why Althea was pursing this line of thought. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, dear? Any health issues?’
Althea rose. ‘I’m as fit as a fiddle. It’s just that I have a Big Milestone coming up, and it’s making me think; would I have done anything differently when Chelly died if I’d known then I’d have all these years ahead of me? I hit my late sixties and thought it was all behind me – marriage, life, discovering new places, new people. Then you four arrived here, and poof! It all changed for me. You helped me realize there were new horizons even at my age. I hope your settling down here with me doesn’t make you miss out on opportunities you wish, in a decade or so, you’d taken.’
Mavis watched as the dowager poured herself a cup of tea. ‘That’ll be stewed and cold. Let me ring for Lindsey to get Cook to make a fresh pot.’
‘It’ll be fine. I’m not as particular about my tea as you. You’re deflecting.’
‘Have you been reading books on psychology?’
‘One or two. I’m enjoying learning new things. You might enjoy getting to know new people. Seeing new places. You and Bryn could travel.’
‘Ach, I’ve traveled.’
‘I don’t mean as a nurse with the army, I mean as a tourist – seeing nice things, not horrible wounds.’
‘I didnae see so many of those, I’m pleased to say.’
‘That’s not my point. You’re deflecting again.’
‘Ach, this is a pointless conversation. I am happy, Althea. I do not need a man in my life to feel complete. Should I feel I require more than my own company I have good friends – yourself most of all – and the knowledge that my being will continue in the genetic code I have passed to my grandchildren. That is more than enough for anyone. I do wish, however, to do something useful with my time. Solving cases that bother folks – even if they are not “important enough” to be given attention by the police – is something I feel good about doing. Look at this case, for example: we have the chance to allow a woman, Val, to strike out and get herself a home and feel a freedom in her life she gave up to help out her father. That’s a good thing to do, and not something the police would have the slightest interest in helping with.’ She noticed that Althea looked deflated, so moderated her tone. ‘I don’t mean to snap, but I have a headache, dear.’
‘I miss my Chelly, Mavis. It’s times like this I miss him the most.’
‘Times like what?’
Althea slumped. ‘I agreed with Henry and Stephanie to celebrate my eightieth birthday at the Chellingworth Summer Fete. I do so hate to be the center of attention – though it’s something I have learned to deal with over the past fifty-odd years.’
‘It’ll be a lovely celebration, my dear. You’ll glow with it, I know you will.’
‘That’s not the problem. The problem is I know they’re only going to be cheering because I’m still on my perch. They’re celebrating the fact I’m not dead yet, not the fact I’ve achieved something while I’m alive. That’s what birthday celebrations are – a big party to congratulate a person on not being dead.’
Mavis could tell her friend was holding something back. She waited quietly.
After a moment Althea sighed heavily and said, ‘And that’s another thing. This place. The Dower House. Look around – it’s quite beautiful. Everything a woman needs for her final years, when her husband has shuffled off his mortal coil and left her without a real role to fill, her son having taken the title. It’s nothing more than a gilded cage. Think about all the old women living out their useless, fussy lives here before me. Our discussions about that old folks’ home have made me see this place in a new light. That’s what this is, really, isn’t it? Dower Houses are no more than the original form of somewhere for the younger generation to stow away the old biddy and forget about her.’
Mavis thought for a moment about how best to respond. ‘It’s no’ a bad grannie annex,’ she said, trying to get Althea to look up and acknowledge the sparkle in her eyes. She’d honed her skills in dealing with the infirm, then the elderly, throughout her nursing career but didn’t usually need to call upon them at all with Althea. Her friend’s pink eyes told her maybe this was a day when she should.
Organizing fresh tea and a towel to rub-down McFli, and having managed to negotiate an early dinner, Mavis settled with Althea to try to buff the approaching evening to a rosy hue.
TWENTY-THREE
Wednesday 25th June
Jeremy Edgerton looked annoyed, and Christine was none too happy. She, Alexander and the gallery owner were standing in front of a massive piece of what she could only describe as ‘junk’ – because that was what exactly it was, all squished into the shape of a cube – displayed as the centerpiece of a much-vaunted exhibition at Edgerton’s premises off Bond Street.
‘But it’s not convenient,’ the ruddy-faced man was whining, ‘not today. I must be here for the opening at 7pm. It’s critical. The press, the artist, key buyers – it’s all arranged. The caterers will be here within the hour. You must see it’s impossible for me to accompany you to the Welsh coast this afternoon.’
Alexander whispered something into the man’s ear. Edgerton’s expression changed from annoyance to terror, then compliance. ‘Just a matter of a few hours?’ he squeaked. Alexander nodded. ‘Back by five?’ Again, Alexander nodded. Christine was puzzled; she hadn’t the faintest idea how it was possible for the three of them to drive to and from Gower, and allow for a useful amount of time while there, in so short a time.
Edgerton straightened his bow tie and said, ‘I expect my assistant can cope with the caterers, but I need ten minutes to brief people properly. I’ll be with you momentarily. Wait here.’ He scurried toward a hidden office.
‘How on earth are we going to manage that?’ asked Christine. ‘He’ll never be back in time.’
‘I have a plan,’ said Alexander quietly.
‘And does that plan involve a helicopter and a couple of fast cars?’ quipped Christine.
Alexander smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, it does.’
‘What?’
‘We leave from the heliport in Battersea a
nd land at Swansea Airport. I have a car booked at that end to take us to the Llewellyn cottage. Depending on the weather – which looks not too bad at the moment – the flight should only take about an hour, and we’re in Gower when we land. If we give him an hour with the Llewellyn artworks, we’ll be back here before you know it.’
Christine admitted to herself she felt a mixture of pride and misgiving. ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? How could you be so sure he’d say yes?’
Alexander winked.
‘What did you whisper to him? Did you threaten him?’ She felt her tummy tighten.
‘With what could I possibly threaten the owner of one of London’s pre-eminent art galleries? Dear old Jeremy lives a blameless life, with a stain-free history. Just like you and me.’
Christine allowed the meaning of his words to sink in. ‘So you’ve got something bad on him, and threatened to go to the tabloids with it?’
Her companion’s entrancingly light eyes narrowed. ‘Not much chance of getting anything past you, is there?’
Christine didn’t enjoy her range of emotions. ‘How on earth did you manage to pull all this together so quickly? I didn’t even mention this meeting until we were having breakfast this morning.’
‘I’m good at making fast decisions.’
It was a slightly cowed Jeremy Edgerton who joined them at the door and urged fleetness of foot. ‘If we’re going to do this, then let’s get going,’ he snapped.
Alexander silenced him with one glance, then held open the door for Christine to exit. ‘Our car will be here presently,’ he said.
Christine didn’t enjoy the trip; she wished she could have, but she didn’t. She wasn’t annoyed because Alexander had taken over – she knew he was better equipped financially to be able to make the whole thing happen – that wasn’t it; she just felt a bit inadequate. The views of London as they flew over it were spectacular, and she didn’t take her eyes off the magnificence of the landscape changing beneath her for one moment. She’d never seen it that way before. Despite the dreadfully noisy, and frankly less-than-comfortable, environment, the most marvelous thing was that they flew so low – relative to an aeroplane.
The bumpy landing at Swansea Airport and the hurried journey in the chauffeured car Alexander had booked behind them, Christine, Alexander and Gwen Llewellyn were all finally standing around Jeremy Edgerton as he peered at Lizzie’s signed and framed work on the wall of the cottage in Gower, sucking his thumb.
The excruciating silence was pierced by the whistle of Gwen’s kettle. She scurried off to make tea, the tension clearly too much for her. By the time Edgerton turned from the painting, the tea was ready. Three pairs of eyes stared at him, the atmosphere vibrating with anticipation.
‘Congratulations,’ he said, ‘you have yourselves a collection of almost thirty miniatures made by the impressive, and I dare say, desperately under-appreciated, artist Lizzie Llewellyn. There are a couple of other people I’d like to bring to see this particular piece, as well as the portfolio you have upstairs, Mrs Llewellyn, and the original miniatures, of course, but – and I hope this doesn’t sound as though I’m blowing my own trumpet too loudly – it’s my word and opinion that will hold most water. Despite the fact I’ve not had the pleasure of seeing more than photocopies, I can say I am more than likely going to be able to confirm your miniatures are by the hand of Lizzie Llewellyn, Miss Wilson-Smythe. I am sure your client will be delighted. May I also say I would be happy to present them to the market, if that’s what your client chooses to do with them?’
Christine suppressed a cynical chuckle; of course the man would like to get his foot in the door to make a potential profit.
‘I’ll pass the news, and your kind offer, to my client. However, whatever my client might choose to do, they will require an official attribution. When might they expect that to happen?’
The gallery owner looked at his watch impatiently. ‘If we could just get back to London so I’m on the spot for tonight’s opening, I can get in touch with my esteemed colleagues – one of whom I will see at this evening’s event – and we can make arrangements to return here, together, at a more convenient time. The originals will, of course, have to be inspected.’
‘Why don’t you just take photos of this one here on the wall, then you won’t have to come back and bother me again. It’s not like I’m getting anything out of this – not for all my inconvenience.’ Gwen sounded irritated and glared at Edgerton as she spoke.
Christine gave the matter some thought. ‘Hang on for two minutes while I make a quick phone call?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but dashed out of the cottage and phoned Stephanie Twyst. She returned a few moments later.
‘On Saturday July 5th, the annual summer fete is being held at Chellingworth Hall, the ducal seat of the Twyst family in Powys. I have an invitation from the duchess herself for all of us to meet at the hall that day. I’ll bring the original miniatures along with my client – should they choose to attend – and we’ll make sure you have adequate transportation for yourself and this framed piece, Mrs Llewellyn. The duchess has offered to send the family’s Bentley for you, which should suffice.’ Gwen glowed. ‘I’m sure you can manage to convey yourself and your colleagues to Powys, Jeremy. Why not bring your team to the hall, meet the duke and duchess – and maybe enjoy a private tour of their wonderful artworks? Maybe you and Mrs Llewellyn could even discuss an exhibit of Lizzie’s works, and possibly a book about her. I understand she has furnished you with valuable background information pertaining to her daughter before now.’
Jeremy’s eyes gleamed with the light of a possible commission. ‘I’d be thrilled to get behind such an undertaking. After all, I would think everything would be up for discussion with your client. Surely all he’s really interested in doing is bumping up the value of the books containing the miniatures?’
Christine couldn’t resist. ‘Did I say my client was a man, Jeremy?’ She was unreasonably delighted when Jeremy blushed.
‘Well, no, I suppose you didn’t. Why? Is it a woman?’ He sounded horrified.
‘If my client chooses to meet with you at Chellingworth Hall, you’ll have the chance to find out,’ was all Christine was prepared to say.
‘Best we get back to London now, don’t you think?’ said Alexander, looking at his watch.
‘I’ll join you in the car in just a moment,’ said Christine. ‘Before I leave I need a private word with Mrs Llewellyn, if you don’t mind. You go ahead. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Thursday 26th June
Christine had been inside several jails, by way of curiosity and research; the places where people were housed on a temporary, or at least short-term basis in police stations, weren’t, to her mind, too awful. But she’d only seen the inside of a prison on television, so wasn’t at all prepared for the two things that most affected her as she made her way through the various layers of security at HM Prison Swansea – the smell, and the sounds. Her nose wrinkled as she reckoned disinfectant could only be expected to do so much when it came to disguising the engrained stench of thousands of men inhabiting a confined space with little by way of ventilation, throughout a period of pretty much 150 years. She told herself she’d get used to that in a little while, so tried to put it to the back of her mind. But the echoing of heavy gates and doors clanging closed and being locked? That was something she’d keep with her forever. She knew she was merely visiting, so wondered why the sounds hit her in the pit of her stomach and made her feel more desolate, more truly alone and abandoned than she had ever felt before. Even before she met Nathaniel Llewellyn he had her sympathy, which she told herself was unprofessional.
As Christine sat in the interview room awaiting the arrival of the convicted man, she peered longingly at the few inches of barred window set into the upper part of one wall of the room. The cries of seagulls she could picture swooping on the ocean breeze beyond the twenty-foot-high walls taunted even her
. She found it hard to imagine how the sound of those gulls made the inmates feel. ‘Hopeless’ was the word that came into her mind, swiftly followed by ‘trapped.’
As the heavy door swung open, the man who entered seemed to embody the words she’d just conjured; the robust, swaggering Nathaniel Llewellyn she’d seen enthusing about the new age of grand public art he was spearheading in Britain when the BBC cameras had been rolling was gone – she saw only a rake-thin, bow-backed man with a shaved head and patches of red, flaky skin on his face that gave him the air of a vagrant. Christine was shocked, and tried to hide her emotions as he took his place across the table from her.
‘How’s Mam?’ were his first words. His expression was that of a small, lonely boy.
Christine gathered herself. ‘She’s fine. I saw her yesterday. She sends her love.’
‘Send mine back,’ he said, his voice lacking any emotion.
‘I will.’
‘She knows I didn’t do it. It must be killing her, this. Are you sure she’s alright?’
Knowing she couldn’t reach out to touch or comfort the trembling man, Christine said, ‘We haven’t got long, Nathaniel. Only an hour. Your mother tells me you couldn’t have murdered your sister’ – the words sounded as harsh as the act they described – ‘and the agency I work with has agreed to investigate her claims. I met with your barrister yesterday evening in London, and he’s given me access to the papers he used at your trial. I spent hours poring over them last night, but I still have a long way to go. I’ve come here today so you have the chance to tell me anything – anything – that might help our investigations. Face to face. Just you and me. The jury found you guilty. There’s no need to hold anything back now. We need something new – something that wasn’t presented in court. Some little fact you might have recalled, or insight you might have remembered. Maybe something you thought wasn’t relevant at the time. Nathaniel, can you help us?’