Elizabeth Duncan - A Killer's Christmas in Wales

“I’m certainly not fussy, and I’d appreciate that very much,” Dorothy said.

“Well then,” said Penny. “Come through and we’ll get started.”

The two women conversed for about fifteen minutes on their shared experiences as North American expatriates living in the U.K. Penny admitted she’d never really acquired a taste for curry, and Dorothy said that even after all these years she was still quite shocked by the strange ingenuity of British crime.

“In the States, people just tend to shoot each other and get it over with, but here they’ll fiddle with the electricity so the missus will electrocute herself while she’s trimming the hedge.”

“Yes!” Penny said. “I’ve noticed that myself. In fact, we’ve just had a murder here at Conwy Castle that you might have heard about. A man, an American in fact, went off the wall walk with a letter opener in his back. Two ladies who might have connections to the case have asked me to see if I can find out anything.”

“I’ve solved a few murders myself, oddly enough,” said Dorothy. “Why don’t you fill me in and I’ll see if anything comes to mind.”

After listening carefully while Penny described the events at the castle and mentioned Detective Chief Inspector Davies’ role, Dorothy thought for a moment. Then: “This is really going to be a difficult one. Open space and everyone coming and going. But, you know, I’ve always found in our kind of murder that often the important thing is not what’s present at the scene but what isn’t there. Or sometimes your lead will come from someone whom you would expect to behave in a certain way but instead does something that’s really out of character.”

As Penny applied the finishing top coat, Dorothy smiled at her.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Penny, but your eyes lit up when you mentioned that policeman of yours. I married mine, and it was absolutely the right thing to do. We’re very happy, Alan and I.”

“That’s the second time today someone has hinted at that.”

“Well, no pressure then!”

Penny helped Dorothy gather up her belongings and then showed her out.

“Let me know how you get on, Penny,” she said. “Alan and I are heading home to Sherebury for Christmas, but if you’re ever out our way, we’d love to see you. You and Gareth, too, of course.”

Penny thanked her and waved as Dorothy went on her way. She spent a few moments organizing her office, thinking about her brooch, and for the hundredth time regretting the momentary carelessness of leaving her handbag unattended on the reception desk. She was now paying dearly for that.

Somehow she managed to get through the day with her missing brooch always lurking just beneath her thoughts, waiting to surface again the moment a crack in her concentration appeared. In the evening, grateful for an enthusiastic Eirlys who had taken great care in arranging the nail varnishes on their display shelves, they had finished the final preparations for the new manicure salon. The job done, Penny saw Eirlys safely home and then continued on to her own cottage.

As she pushed open the door, something jammed under it caught her attention. She bent over and picked up a plain beige envelope which she carried through to the kitchen. Setting her bag down on the countertop, she noticed the envelope was not addressed to anyone. She ripped it open and pulled out two sheets of paper, stapled together, with a yellow Post-it note stuck on the first page.

She read the message on the Post-it note.

Told him about brooch, he was upset for you, he’ll be in touch. Here’s photocopy of the report on recent thefts.

Bethan

Penny smiled at the underlined for you. She hadn’t thought for a moment that Gareth would be angry at her, but he must be disappointed.

She peeled off the Post-it note and sat on the sofa to read the report. Written in official police language, the gist of it was that various items had been reported missing from several Llanelen stores, including a charity shop and two or three private residences.

She looked at the list of missing items: a plate with a daffodil pattern; a biography of John Lennon; a small Royal Doulton figurine in the shape of a shepherdess in a blue dress; one candlestick, part of a pair; a small framed print of Lloyd George’s cottage…

The list went on for about eight more items.

These are all things that people have lying about in their sitting rooms, Penny thought. Ordinary household things without much real value. My brooch doesn’t fit this list.

She left the papers on a side table and went through to the kitchen. She looked in the fridge to see what she had, and after realizing there was not much there except an elderly tomato, some cheese with a bit of mold on the rind, and a few other sad items, she checked the freezer, hoping for a ready meal.

In luck, she found a chicken breast with a side of vegetables, so she put that in the microwave and set the timer.

While she waited for it to heat up, she returned to the sitting room and looked at the list again.

I’m sure the police have thought of this, she thought, but one item that might belong on this list is Mrs. Lloyd’s letter opener.

She looked at her watch, and as it had just gone nine, she decided it would not be too late to ring.

A few moments later Florence picked up the telephone, answering in the old-fashioned way of giving the number.

“Florence, it’s Penny, here. Yes, sorry to bother you so late, but I’ve just had a thought. Could you and Mrs. Lloyd put your heads together and try to figure out exactly when your letter opener went missing?”

After Florence reassured her they would have another go at trying to remember the last time they’d seen it, Penny rang off, and just as the bell on the microwave signaled her meal was cooked, the telephone rang.

It was Gareth, hoping she was all right and telling her not to worry about the snowflake brooch. We will get it back, he said confidently. Just a matter of time. In reply to her question about the Conwy Castle case, he told her he was going to issue an appeal to the public to see if anyone would come forward with information that could help confirm the identity of Harry Saunders or provide information on his movements on the day he died.

“What do you think he was doing at the castle?” Penny had asked.

“I think he had arranged to meet someone. To me, that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

They talked for a few more minutes, and then Penny raised the subject that was never far from her thoughts.

“I’ve been thinking about the skeleton of the woman’s body that was found in our spa,” she said. “Anything new there?”

And then she answered her own question.

“Of course not. If there had been, you would have told me.”

Every year the Stretch and Sketch Club put on an event to raise funds. The money might be used to pay an honorarium to a special guest speaker, provide group entry fees to a local exhibit, or take out an advertisement in the local paper announcing an exhibit of their own work.

For this year’s fund-raiser, the group had teamed up with the Llanelen Players, the local amateur dramatics society, to give a reading of Dylan Thomas’s much-loved A Child’s Christmas in Wales. The Stretch and Sketch Club had agreed to handle the logistics of the performance, including booking the community centre, ticket sales, and refreshments while the actors took care of the performance, and both groups would share the profits.

At seven fifteen the community centre doors opened and a small but steady queue offered five-pound notes to the ticket sellers, Penny Brannigan and Alwynne Gwilt, seated at a small table.