by Rhys Bowen
“Your husband fell and hit his head,” D.I. Hughes moved to stand between her and the drawing room door. “In there.” He put out a hand to restrain her as she started forward. “He’s dead, I’m afraid. I’d rather you didn’t go in yet.”
“Ifor? Dead?” She put her hand up to her mouth to stifle whatever sound had been about to come out. She looked bewildered. “But I must go to him.” She started forward again.
D.I. Hughes stepped between her and the door. “If you don’t mind, we’re waiting for the police doctor to examine the body.”
Mrs. Llewellyn stood staring at the closed door. “I can’t believe it,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t seem possible, does it? Not Ifor…”
“Have you been away, Mrs. Llewellyn?” Evan asked, taking the bag she still clutched in one hand.
“What? Oh yes. I went up to London for a couple of days.” She continued to stare at the door. “Was he drinking again? Damned drinking—I told him to lay off but…” She put her hand to her mouth again and fought to compose herself. “It was an accident, definitely, was it?” she asked suddenly.
“How do you mean?” D.I. Hughes looked up sharply.
It seemed as if she hesitated for a second before she said, “I mean, he didn’t take his own life, Officer. I’m strong. You don’t need to spare me unpleasant details.”
D.I. Hughes looked surprised. “You think your husband might have had intentions of taking his own life?”
She composed herself and shook her head firmly. “Of course not. Ifor loved life. Everybody knew that. But he does—he did—occasionally get morbid when he’d been drinking.”
“I can reassure you that this wasn’t suicide, Mrs. Llewellyn,” D.I. Hughes said. “It was a very unfortunate, tragic accident.”
“Well, I suppose that’s one blessing.”
“Do you have somewhere you can go tonight?” D.I. Hughes asked her, sounding almost human for once. “Any relatives or friends nearby?”
“Nobody,” she said. “We know nobody around here anymore. I don’t know why he wanted to come back here—godforsaken place. I told him he was mad. It was just a whim, of course. Ifor always got whims—like a large child really. I don’t know what he ever saw in the place.”
“You have children, I believe?” The D.I. enquired gently. “They’re not here with you?”
“No. No, they’re not. Neither of them are here. They’re back in Italy.” She looked around again as if she was in a strange place and had no idea where she was. “I must call them right away. How am I going to tell them? They won’t believe it.” She shook her head. “Just like me. I’m finding it hard to believe at the moment. I thought that Ifor was indestructible. He always boasted that he’d outlive us all, in spite of what his doctor told him…” This time she couldn’t hold back the tears. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I really must phone my children.”
“If I were you I’d wait awhile, Mrs. Llewellyn.” Evan put out a restraining hand. “Get a grip on things, right? Think out how you’re going to tell them. You don’t want to upset them more than necessary, do you?”
She nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t think I could be coherent at the moment. I don’t exactly know what to do…”
“Maybe you should go and lie down for a while,” Sergeant Watkins suggested. “This has been a terrible shock for you.”
“How could I possibly lie down, knowing that my husband’s body was in the house?” She demanded, her composure cracking for a moment.
D.I. Hughes turned to Evan. “Is there somewhere around here she could spend the night, Evans? She can’t stay here. Our men are going to be coming in and out and she needs a good night’s sleep. I’ll have Dr. Owens give her a sedative.”
“There’s the Everest Inn, sir. You know, the new hotel up the road. It’s very nice, I hear.”
“Excellent. I’ll have a woman P.C. come up to get her settled.”
“Why don’t I make her a cup of tea, sir?” Evan asked.
“Splendid idea. Give us the key to the station and we can get our phoning done down there so that Mrs. Llewellyn isn’t disturbed more than necessary. Then I can be on my way.”
“Oh and Mostyn Phillips, sir. He’s sitting outside in a red Mini.”
“I noticed that on the way in,” D.I. Hughes laughed dryly. “I didn’t think there were any of those running anymore. Alright, Sergeant. Go and get Mr. Phillips and bring him into the station. You can take his statement there.”
“Right you are, sir,” Sergeant Watkins said with a resigned look to Evan.
Evan walked down the hall and put a tentative hand on Mrs. Llewellyn’s shoulder. “If you show me where the kitchen is, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. The best thing for shock, tea is.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “You’re very kind,” she said and pushed open a swing door into a large tiled kitchen. Evan sat her at the kitchen table. She allowed herself to be positioned, like a doll. Then he put on the kettle.
“So you’re from around here, too, are you, Mrs. Llewellyn?” he asked as he found the tea caddy and the sugar.
“From Colwyn Bay originally. I couldn’t stand the place. When I left to go to college in London, I swore I’d never go back.” She shuddered. “I should have followed my instincts.”
“And you live most of the time in Italy?”
“I do. Ifor’s at La Scala for part of the year, but then he’s always traveling and making guest appearances. I don’t always go with him…” Those last words were heavy with meaning. Evan felt sorry for her. It couldn’t have been easy being the wife at home, seeing pictures of her husband on a yacht with an Italian diva or a Danish princess.
Evan poured the milk and tea into a cup then added a heaped spoonful of sugar. He’d have added a heaped spoonful of brandy if he’d known where to find some—he was sure that even medicinal brandy was frowned on in the Powell-Jones household, and Ifor’s medicinal Jameson now lay soaking into the carpet. Evan paused as he stirred the tea. Something about the whiskey and the carpet … something that wasn’t quite right? His mind ran over the details of the scene again, then he shook his head and handed Mrs. Llewellyn the cup.
“There you are. You’ll feel better after a good cuppa.”
She managed a weak smile as she took it.
Evan perched on the edge of the kitchen table beside her. “Mrs. Llewellyn—what made you think that your husband might have killed himself?”
She seemed to wake up from a trance again. “I don’t know what made me say that. Shock, I suppose. You don’t talk rationally when you’re shocked, do you? Ifor would be the last man in the world to inflict harm on himself. He thought the world of himself, didn’t he?”
“But something must have made you say it.”
“I suppose it was because he was rather put out at something I told him before I went up to London.” Her clear gray-green eyes held Evan’s in a steady, almost challenging gaze. “I told him I was considering leaving him. I was going to London to consult a lawyer.” She paused and stirred her tea, the spoon tapping rhythmically against the bone china. “Ifor didn’t take that too well. It came as a complete surprise, you see. He never thought I’d leave him, not after all this time.”
“And would you have?”
“I don’t know. When it came to it, he’d probably have talked me into staying again. He usually got his own way in the end—except for this time.” She looked up from her tea again. “In spite of everything you’ve read, Constable, I think my husband needed me, maybe even loved me in his way.”
She took a tentative sip of tea then got to her feet. “I must call the children now, before they get a garbled version from strangers. I’ll do it in my room upstairs, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, I understand. You don’t mind going upstairs by yourself?”
“Oh no,” she said quickly. “I’d prefer it, thank you. I won’t take long. Our daughter will be devastated, poor child. She adored her fath
er. It was reciprocated, of course. He thought the world of her. Not an easy kind of love to take though—but that was how Ifor was. He either loved or hated. There was no in-between.”
“And your son?” Evan asked quietly.
“Justin will be as shocked as I was to hear about his father’s death,” she said, gazing steadily at him.
Chapter 9
Mrs. Llewellyn seemed more composed when she came back down the stairs, in fact she looked almost relieved. “My son is going to try for the first flight out of Milan in the morning,” she said. “He wants to be here for me as soon as possible. He has always been very … concerned for me. My daughter will come as soon as she can. She’s not sure yet. She has work commitments, you know.”
She sat down at the table again, picked up the teacup, then made a face.
“It must be cold by now,” Evan said. “I’ll pour you a fresh one.”
He had just handed her the new cup of tea when there was a tap at the door and Sergeant Waktins came in, accompanied by a slim young redhead in police uniform.
“Mrs. Llewellyn, this is Police Constable Connie Jones,” Sergeant Watkins said. “So if you’d like to get some things together, she can see you safely over to the Everest Inn for the night.”
Mrs. Llewellyn stood up, again with that mechanical, puppetlike quality. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll get some things together.”
“Maybe you’d like me to come with you and help you pack,” P.C. Jones suggested, taking her arm. “I’d imagine this house feels very big and empty at the moment.”
“Thank you, but I can manage,” Mrs. Llewellyn said stiffly. “I won’t be long.”
“Poor thing, she looks completely out of it, doesn’t she?” P.C. Jones said. “It must be a terrible shock for her, coming home to find her husband dead.” She started down the hall. “I think I’ll go and keep an eye on her. I wouldn’t want to be upstairs alone in this big house if that were me.” She glanced at Sergeant Watkins, “And don’t go making any remarks about women being scared. You said yourself in the car that this house gave you the creeps.”
Watkins grinned. “I wasn’t going to say a thing,” he said.
P.C. Jones went out, leaving Watkins and Evan in the kitchen together. “So you sing in a choir,” Watkins commented, a broad grin on his face. “I never knew that before. You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, boyo. What do you sing—boy soprano?”
“Give over, Sarge.” Evan wrinkled his face in embarrassment. “I got dragged into it because they didn’t have any baritones who could even keep a tune. And it’s only for the eisteddfod. After this weekend the only singing I do is in the shower.”
He broke off as they heard the tap of high heels coming down the linoleum-clad stairs. “We’re off then,” P.C. Jones called. “We’ll be up at the Everest Inn if you need us. Dr. Owens is supposed to be sending up a sedative for Mrs. Llewellyn when he comes. You’ll remind him, won’t you?”
“Right you are,” Watkins called as Evan took the cup and saucer over to the sink and washed them up.
“Very domesticated,” Watkins chuckled. “You’ll make some girl a lovely husband one day. Although if you’ll take my advice, boyo, you break a couple of bits of good china the first few times you wash up and you’ll never be asked to do it again. It’s worked like a charm for me.”
Evan smiled and put the cup back on the dresser. “Did you get a statement from Mostyn Phillips?” he asked.
“Yes. All done. I sent him home. He looked like death warmed over. I thought he was going to pass out on me any second. It took awhile because he was so upset, but he just corroborated what you’d told us. Lucky you were there to find the body or some idiot might have moved it.”
There was a tap on the half-open front door and P.C. Dawson, the police photographer, stuck his head inside. “Okay if I come in and start shooting?” he asked, then grinned. “That’s probably a tactless thing to say, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is, you cheeky bugger,” Watkins said, going to open the drawing room door. “It’s in here.”
“It’s bloody cold in here,” Dawson complained. “Do we have to have all the windows open?”
Evan glanced at Watkins. “It’s hard to please everyone, isn’t it?” he asked as he went to close the window. “When will Dr. Owens be here?”
“Soon, I hope. Of course the D.I. went back to his dinner party and left me to take over. I’ve called in extra men for first thing tomorrow morning. I’d imagine all the press in Europe are going to flood into Llanfair once this news breaks, so don’t plan on getting a weekend off.”
“That’s okay,” Evan said. “I don’t suppose the choir will be singing now, without Ifor. Maybe that’s a good thing. We sounded pretty awful. Poor old Mostyn—he really thought he had a chance of winning for once with Ifor as his star soloist.”
Flashbulbs went off as Dawson photographed the body from all angles. Evan stood looking down, trying to think what had made him feel uneasy. Something was wrong but he couldn’t think what.
“Jameson,” Dawson commented. “Do you reckon he drank himself silly and passed out?”
A picture was forming in Evan’s mind—Ifor standing at the bar beside him, knocking back tot after tot of Irish whiskey. He could see Ifor clearly, his face alive, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he threw back his head and laughed that big laugh and … the glass was in his right hand!
This glass lay only a few inches from his outstretched left fingers. Evan tried to recall again. Had he ever seen Ifor with the glass in his left hand? He was sure he hadn’t.
“Right, that’s me done,” Dawson said. “Now if I hurry and get these developed, I can be in the Prince of Wales before closing time.”
“Maybe I’ll ride back with you,” Sergeant Watkins said. “Evans is here to let the doctor in. There’s nothing more for me to do here. We’ll go and see if P.C. Jones has got Mrs. Llewellyn settled and then we can bugger off.”
“Hold on a minute, Sarge.” Evan was still staring at the body. Just shut up. Don’t say anything, a voice was nagging in his head. He didn’t want them to think he was trying to be clever again and make more of this than there really was. On the other hand, it was an important detail and he couldn’t let it go unnoticed.
“What is it?” Watkins asked from the doorway.
“There’s something that’s not quite right here.”
“Oh no,” Watkins said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re going to say that this wasn’t an accident and he’s got some rare flower sticking out of his ear that proves he was really killed up the mountain and dragged here. No more murders in Llanfair, thank you kindly, Evans.”
“I’m sorry, Sarge. It may be nothing,” Evan said, “but I felt I should bring it up because it doesn’t make sense.”
“Okay. I’m going to take the bait and I’ll probably regret it—what doesn’t make sense?”
“I stood beside him in the pub several times. He held his drink in his right hand. So why is his glass lying next to his left hand?”
Watkins snorted. “I really don’t think that’s a biggy,” he said. “Any number of reasons. He had the bottle in his right hand so he picked up the glass with his left.”
“But it looks as if the bottle was on the table and he knocked it over when he fell,” Evan said.
“He was probably blind drunk,” Watkins said. “When you’re totally blotto you’d grab the glass with the nearest hand, wouldn’t you?”
Evan shrugged. “Maybe. I just thought it was odd, that’s all.”
“Not odd enough to stop me from popping off home,” Watkins said. “I’ve been working late all week. I’m going to get it from the wife as it is for spoiling her Friday night. At least now I’ll be in time to make her a cup of cocoa.”
“Very domesticated.” Evan couldn’t resist a smile.
After Watkins and Dawson had gone, Evan remained in the room, staring down at the body. If you were right-handed, didn’t you automat
ically reach for anything with your right hand? Evan tried to reconstruct the scene in his mind. What had made Ifor fall into the fireplace? If he’d been staggering around and bumped into the sofa, he wouldn’t have fallen in that direction at all. If he’d tripped over something, he’d have needed something to trip over—the edge of the hearth rug, a sofa leg and in either case he’d have fallen parallel to the fireplace, not directly into it. And if he’d passed out, it was unlikely he’d have been standing. He’d merely have slumped in his seat. There had to be a secondary cause.
Evan’s brain was now working in high gear. There could have been an added medical factor. “In spite of what the doctors told him.” That was what Mrs. Llewellyn had said, wasn’t it? Maybe Ifor had a major health problem that they didn’t know about. He could have suffered a heart attack. He’d been sitting on the sofa with the little drinks table in front of him. He’d felt the chest pain coming on, stood up, and pitched forward. That would make sense, apart from the glass in the wrong hand. No doubt Dr. Owens would be able to clear it all up when he arrived.
* * *
The resident Home Office pathologist was a colorless middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and a perpetually sad face. Evan imagined you’d get a face like that if all you did was to examine recently dead people.
“Evans, isn’t it?” he asked, walking briskly past Evan into the house.
“That’s right. This way, sir.”
“So what have we got here, Constable?” he asked as Evan showed him into the room. “Ah, very nasty,” he commented. “Vicious-looking fender, isn’t it? I’ll get Forensic to take samples from that knob in the morning, just to confirm.” He knelt down and began to examine the body, jotting down notes in his little book.
“Severe trauma behind the right ear. Skull fracture…” he muttered as he wrote. “Been dead about two, two and a half hours, I’d say.” He looked up at Evan. “You were the one who found the body, were you, Evans?”
“Yes sir. That was around eight-fifteen.”