Elizabeth Duncan - A Killer's Christmas in Wales

“I thought of that,” said Florence, “but she’s just gone to Spain for six weeks. On holiday, like.”

“Well, listen, Florence, if you’re that concerned, maybe you should suggest that she come home.”

Florence pinched her lips together. “I don’t know how I would contact her. I have no idea where she’s staying and I don’t have her mobile number. And if I tried to get it, Evelyn would want to know why.”

Penny acknowledged the truth of that.

“What makes you think he’s after her money?” Penny asked.

Florence groaned. “You’ve met him! What’s he like? Comes across with all that charm, but I see him for what he is, even if no one else can. There’s so much about him that’s not right.” She leaned forward. “He says he’s from some posh family in Florida. Old money. Ha! He’s got about as much class as a reclaimed brick. He makes you feel like you want to count your fingers after you’ve shaken hands with him.”

She gave her fingers a little twiddle and then raised a hand to her cheek.

“You know, I came from a very poor family and we didn’t have much, but my mother always used to tell us that good manners cost nothing. She made sure we grew up knowing what a butter knife is for and little things like that. Now the first time that Saunders character came to the house he didn’t seem to know enough to use a coaster. What kind of civilized person puts a wet glass down on a nice wooden table? And last night, when he came for dinner, he cut his bread roll in half and buttered the whole thing. Just slathered it on!”

She sat back with a triumphant look.

Penny inclined her head. “And the bread roll is important because…”

“Because anyone his age who came from a fancy Palm Beach background would have been taught that you break a little piece off your bread roll and butter that. You don’t slice the thing in half.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Well, yes, there is. I think he’s after Mrs. Lloyd to let him move in with her, and once he gets his feet under the table…”

“You’ll have to move out? Florence, is that what this is really about?”

Florence looked at her hands and then raised her lined, careworn face. Penny and Victoria had met her a few months earlier in Liverpool when she had been living in a suburban bedsit and struggling to make ends meet on a tiny pension. Her face had filled out since then, Penny realized, taking years off her appearance. Being with Mrs. Lloyd in her safe, comfortable home must seem as if she’d landed in the lap of luxury.

“You and Mrs. Lloyd hadn’t known each other very long or very well before you moved in, had you?” Penny asked gently.

“No. But we were getting along just fine until he came along. We had our routine and I was happy to take on the cooking and do what I could around the place. Making sure everything runs smoothly, like. I’ve settled in now and I want to go on living there,” Florence said. “I gave up my place, such as it was, in Liverpool to move here. I’ll never find another place now at the rent I was paying at my old place.”

Penny sighed and touched Florence on the arm.

“I’m sorry, but Victoria will be wondering what’s happened to me. I had better get back to our guests.”

“Yes, you better had,” agreed Florence.

“Right. Well, Florence, you know where to find me if you want to talk some more. In the meantime, I don’t know what to tell you. It is Mrs. Lloyd’s money, after all, and she can do with it what she likes.” She brightened. “But if it’s any help to you, the flat over the manicure shop will be vacant in a day or two when Victoria moves out.” Florence gave her a dark look. “No, well, I suppose not.”

Penny stood up and opened the door.

“But you’ve certainly given me something to think about, Florence,” Penny said as the two women prepared to rejoin the party. Penny found the conversation unsettling, but she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps something Florence had said didn’t ring true or maybe it was something she didn’t say. But whatever it was, like a wisp of chimney smoke carried away on a wintry wind, it eluded her. And she had to get back to her guests.

“Are you quite sure you want to do this, Mrs. Lloyd?” asked Huw Bowen. “It’s a lot of money.”

“I’m perfectly well aware of how much it is, thank you, Huw,” replied Mrs. Lloyd stiffly. “And yes, I wish to transfer twenty thousand pounds from my savings account into the joint account Harry and I are opening today. And he’s depositing a cheque for the same amount.” She looked at Harry, who held up a small piece of blue paper, and then back at Bowen. “Now, then, where do we sign?”

Bowen took the cheque from Harry and examined it carefully. “This is drawn on an American bank and it is not certified,” he said, clipping it to the inside of a beige file folder that contained two or three documents. Looking at Mrs. Lloyd, he said carefully, “You will need to allow thirty days for this cheque to clear. You do understand that you will not have access to this money for that time. It will be as if the money isn’t there.”

“Oh, we’re not going to be spending it,” Mrs. Lloyd replied. “Not as such. Harry will be investing it when the right opportunity comes along.”

Bowen took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He wished there was something he could do to stop Mrs. Lloyd from going ahead with this scheme, and although he hoped he was wrong, he feared that she would pay a very high price for her involvement with this man, who had struck him the minute he clapped eyes on him at the bridge game on that frosty November night as being completely untrustworthy.

“Well, with this account, then, Mrs. Lloyd”-he tapped the documents on his desk-“let’s set it up so that a withdrawal will require both of your signatures. I strongly recommend that you do that.”

As Mrs. Lloyd hesitated, Saunders smiled at her and gave his head the tiniest shake.

“No, we’ll have it so that either of us can access the funds,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “It’ll be easier and faster that way. Harry’s business ventures are very demanding and sometimes he has to travel.”

Bowen put his glasses back on. “I wonder if I might just have a quick word with you in private, Mrs. Lloyd.” He gave Saunders a pointed look and then, pursing his lips slightly and folding his hands on his desk, turned his gaze back to Mrs. Lloyd. She met his eyes with a look of resolved indignation.

“You know, Huw, I’m starting to think you’re afraid that Harry’s going to do so much better as my financial advisor that you’ll find yourself out of the job.” She sat back in her chair and folded her arms.

Suppressing a sigh, Bowen pushed a piece of paper across the desk to Mrs. Lloyd and offered her a pen.

“Very well. If you’ll just sign here, please.”

Saunders gave him a muted look that Bowen would come to think of later as triumph mixed with a generous swirl of contempt.

“Right, well, that’s that, then,” said Mrs. Lloyd as she stood up and pulled on her gloves. She jammed the fingers of one hand down between the fingers of the other and then turned around for her heavy wool coat that Saunders had hung on the rack in the corner of Bowen’s office. He removed Mrs. Lloyd’s coat, helped her on with it, and then returned to the rack for his own. He hesitated for a moment seeing two green anoraks but realizing quickly that the top one must be his, lifted it off the rack and put it on. He put his hands in the pockets and pulled out a pair of black gloves.

“Well, then,” said Bowen, as he opened the door for them. “Good luck,” he said neutrally and then, with a little more emphasis directed to Mrs. Lloyd, “Do call me if you have any questions or if, ah, any problems arise.”