Elizabeth Duncan - A Killer's Christmas in Wales

Alwynne parked her car, and the two women entered the restaurant where eight other members of the Stretch and Sketch Club, including the two latest additions to the group, Glynnis Bowen and Brian Kenley, the photographer from Yorkshire, soon joined them.

“We’ll have about an hour and a half for lunch,” Penny told them, looking down the table. “The castle closes at four and we want to have plenty of time to look around, sketch, and take some photographs before we start to lose the light.” A waiter in a jaunty red jacket brought menus to the table, and the group began to discuss their orders. Two hours later, lunch over and the account settled, they walked to the castle visitor’s centre and prepared to buy their admission tickets.

“Oh, a group, is it?” asked the ticket seller. “I’ll give you the special rate, as it’s getting late in the day.” Money paid in and tickets distributed, the artists set off to explore the castle.

“The castle closes at four,” the ticket taker reminded them as they disappeared through the modern glass door and stepped back seven hundred years into the ruins of a fearsome, dark-stoned fortress that had not lost its power to cast a magical spell.

Florence Semble trudged along the platform of the Chester Station. She glanced up at the electronic announcement board and was happy to see that the Llandudno train was on time and due in eight minutes. She sat down on a bench to wait.

Ten minutes later, the turquoise train approached the station, and as it slowed down, Florence picked up her suitcase and shuffled forward with the other passengers preparing to board. When the train had come to a complete stop, the doors opened and she stood to one side as two hooded teenagers jumped down and slouched off toward the exit.

Holding the handrail with one hand and her suitcase with the other, she hauled herself on board as quickly as she could. The carriage was quite full, and she was relieved to see an aisle seat about halfway down. As she struggled to lift her case into the overhead compartment, a young man came to her rescue, shifting it easily and quickly into place. She smiled her thanks and sat down just as the doors closed and the engine started making the huffing noises that signaled the train was about to depart.

Moments later, it gathered up speed and soon had crossed the invisible border into Wales, leaving England behind. Something about the rhythmic movement of a train always made her want to go to sleep, so wrapping her arms around her handbag, she leaned back in her seat, rested her head against the headrest, and closed her eyes.

Her eyes opened wide a few moments later when the man in the seat directly behind hers began to speak in an accent and a voice she recognized.

Florence pushed her woolly hat up over her ears so she could hear better and scrunched down in her seat, which was tall enough to shield her from the view of the passengers behind. She turned her body slightly, ignoring the glare from her seatmate, so her ear was up against the narrow divide between her seat and the one next to it.

“Yes, I do come from America, as you call it,” the man behind her was saying. “California. I work for an electronics firm. Just over here on business. Arrived a couple of days ago.”

The woman said something that Florence couldn’t quite catch.

“Well, my firm does sensitive work for a certain United States government agency, but I can’t really talk about it. Let’s just say I travel the world on top-secret missions.” He gave a little chuckle. “I’ve already said too much. Tell me about you. Where are you headed?”

Florence thought the woman said Deganwy, but she spoke so softly Florence wasn’t sure she had heard correctly.

“And will your husband be meeting you at the station? It looks as if we might get more snow. Hope you don’t have far to go?”

The woman murmured something.

“Oh, live near the school, do you? My mother was a teacher. I have such admiration for teachers.”

You lying bastard, thought Florence. Her brain was racing at warp speed as she tried to figure out what to do. Should she make herself known and let him know she’d overheard everything and that she was going to expose him for the fraud he was? But something told her better not, as least not yet. She shrank farther down in her seat and listened to his patter as the woman sitting beside him became increasingly quiet. Finally, overcome by boredom and lack of interest, Florence surmised, she no longer responded to him. Florence couldn’t see if she was looking out the window, reading, or pretending to be asleep, but she had certainly managed to send a message that as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

Florence smiled to herself. Nice try, old son. You win some, you lose some, eh, Harry?

The train rolled on to Llandudno, slowing as it approached the next station.

“Well, this is where I get off,” Saunders was saying. “It was nice meeting you.”

This can’t be Llandudno, Florence thought, checking her watch, and sure enough the signs on the station platform read Conwy. Why was Saunders getting off here? Surely it would make more sense for him to go to Llandudno and make his way from there to Llanelen or wherever he was going.

In an instant she made her decision. She rose out of her seat, slid into the aisle, and careful to keep her head turned away from Saunders, reached into the overhead bin and tugged at her suitcase. She followed him down the aisle, her suitcase bumping against her leg.

As the station announcer intoned, “Anyone alighting from the train should take extreme care as the platform is slippery,” Florence stepped cautiously onto the platform just behind him.

He made his way to the station exit and then, once he was on the street, paused for a moment to get his bearings and then turned in the direction of the castle.

Where on earth is he off to, Florence wondered, as she walked a little way behind him, keeping a steady eye on the back of his green anorak. She was not bothered that he would recognize her even if he did turn around. He hadn’t paid much attention to her when they’d met in Evelyn Lloyd’s home, today she was wearing a hat, and as she had learned a long time ago, women her age are almost invisible to the rest of the world. Florence had long ago accepted that no one takes any notice of an elderly woman, except for the occasional well-brought-up person who might, say, offer some assistance with a suitcase on a train.

Florence watched as Saunders entered the castle visitor’s centre. She crept after him and once inside busied herself picking through a selection of Welsh dragon key chains, playing cards with pictures of the castle on their backs, pencils, and bookmarks. She heard Saunders ask for a single admission ticket and waited until he had taken it, stepped away from the counter, and followed the arrow.

“The castle closes at four,” the woman told him.

Florence rummaged about in her bag for some change and approached the counter.

“How much is a senior’s ticket?” she asked. “That much?” She winced when told the cost.

“Well,” said the kindly clerk, “as it’s getting a bit late in the day, I’ll let you in for a pound, but don’t tell anybody.”

Florence slid a coin across the counter and accepted her ticket.

“Thank you. I appreciate this.”

“No problem,” the clerk replied, pulling out a notepad from under her counter. “The castle closes at four o’clock.”

Mrs. Lloyd finished telling her story to an astonished Bunny, who didn’t know whether to be upset because her friend had been hurt or because of the amount of money involved and was feeling pained for both in equal measure.