Elizabeth Duncan - A Killer's Christmas in Wales

“Looks like a very good turnout despite the weather,” Alwynne said to Reverend Thomas Evans as she accepted the ten-pound note he handed her. “Indeed,” he said, “Bronwyn and I prefer staying home with Robbie on rainy nights, but we wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

“So glad you could come.” Penny smiled at them.

“Well, we’re here to support you, Penny, you know that,” Bronwyn said, giving her a warm, affectionate look. “And it’s been some time since we’ve been out to see the Players, so it’s high time we did.”

“I think there are still some good seats over there on the left,” Penny said, pointing down the hall. “Enjoy the performance.”

By eight o’clock, when the performance was scheduled to begin, all but one or two seats had been filled and eager chatter and laughter filled the room. Chairs had been placed to one side for Stretch and Sketch volunteers, although Penny and Alwynne remained seated at the ticket table in case any latecomers arrived. The community centre did not have a formal stage with curtains, but a raised platform at one end served the purpose.

The crowd rustled as it settled, obscuring the opening sentences of the piece and then there was stillness as the actor’s clear voice emerged:

“I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”

The audience members looked at one another and smiled at the beauty of the words and all the rest to come, so familiar and dear to them.

As the prose poem neared its end, Penny slipped out of her seat and crept into the kitchen where Stretch and Sketch Club newcomers, Glynnis Bowen and photographer Brian Kenley were setting out food and drink. There were bowls of walnuts and glasses of sherry, just as in the poem, and plates of mince pies and slices of rich, dark, brandy-soaked Christmas cake with marzipan icing, a traditional Welsh cake known as Bara Brith, and fancy cheeses and oat cakes and cream crackers.

“The refreshments look wonderful,” Penny said to Glynnis, who had organized them. “The play’s almost finished, so they’ll be here any minute.” Glynnis handed Brian a large stack of napkins and a tray. “Well, we’re ready”-she smiled-“aren’t we, Brian?”

“We are indeed.”

“Huw not here with you tonight?” Penny asked.

“He said he had a few things to attend to and that he’d be along in time to close up,” Glynnis said. “I’m expecting him any minute.”

“Right, well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Penny, who then slid into her seat beside Alwynne just as the play came to its conclusion.

“Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”

After a moment’s silence the room filled with wild, enthusiastic applause as Mrs. Lloyd got to her feet to lead a standing ovation.

“Wasn’t that wonderful!” she exclaimed to Florence. “Now you’ll not be getting entertainment like that in Liverpool.”

“Certainly not,” agreed Florence, “nothing like it.”

If Mrs. Lloyd was not shy about leading the ovation, she was also not shy about leading the audience to the space around the kitchen’s serving hatch where the refreshment tables had been set up. The audience was encouraged to help themselves to refreshments while Brian Kenley circulated in a gentlemanly way, holding a half-full plate of mince pies in one hand and a half-full plate of Christmas cake in the other. He approached Penny, who was talking to Victoria. “I’m just going to set these down for a minute, Penny,” he said, “and put everything on one plate. They’ll look better that way.”

“Well, let me help you,” said Victoria with a smile, helping herself to a mince pie. Here’s one less you’ll have to shift.”

As Victoria lifted the mince pie from the centre of the plate revealing a bright yellow daffodil, Penny let out a little gasp. Recovering quickly, she took a pie herself and signaled to Victoria that she needed a word.

Holding a small paper plate under her mince pie, Victoria allowed herself to be led off to one side of the hall.

“What is it?” she said as she took a bite. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“That plate, the one with the daffodil on it. Bethan showed me the list of things that have been stolen from around here recently, and that plate is on the list.”

“Mprgh,” said Victoria through a mouthful of mince pie, which she then swallowed. “Penny, you’ve got to be joking. Do you have any idea how many plates there must be around here with daffodils on them? Everybody’s got one. I’ll bet you anything”-she looked around the room for a familiar face-“I’ll bet you Bronwyn over there’s got one. Or Mrs. Lloyd, she’ll have one for sure. So what are you saying?”

“Well, the plate belongs to someone in our Stretch and Sketch Club,” said Penny, “because we organized the refreshments. So I’m going to stick around and see who that plate belongs to. See who it goes home with. Come on.”

Victoria groaned.

“Do we have to? We’ve just opened the spa and I’m really tired. We’ve had a couple of long, tiring days and another big day coming up tomorrow. Those display windows aren’t going to judge themselves, you know. Mrs. Lloyd loved her manicure, by the way. She was well chuffed to be the first client and was in heaven when she learned her manicure was free. Nice one, there.”

Thinking back to the manicure she had given Dorothy Martin, Penny realized that Mrs. Lloyd hadn’t technically been the first customer, but close enough.

“Well, if you won’t wait with me, that’s fine, you go. But I’m staying here until I find out who owns that plate.”

“Oh, all right,” said Victoria, stifling a yawn. “I guess I can find something to do while I wait.”

“Wait? We’re going to go in the kitchen to help with the washing up so we can keep an eye on that plate.”

“I’ve just thought of something,” said Victoria. “Did you actually touch the plate?”

“No,” said Penny. “I didn’t. Why?”

“Because when I was a girl if my mother was bringing squares or cakes to a church social, say, she always put a piece of tape on the bottom of the plate with her name on it. That way, she’d know which one was hers.”

“Did she have trouble recognizing her own plate?” Penny asked as they walked back toward the refreshment area.

“No, but there was another woman who used to have trouble recognizing that the plates belonged to other people. With the tape on the bottom, my mum could say to her, ‘Oh I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve mistaken my plate for yours. See here, there’s a little piece of tape on the bottom with my name on it.’ So easy to mix up… one plate looks so much like another.”

Penny laughed. “Oh, right. My plate has violets on it and yours has daffodils. I can barely tell them apart!”

Victoria smiled at her and shrugged. “Well, it’s all about saving face, isn’t it? And there’s no accounting for plate envy.”

As the crowd began to thin out, thanking their hosts for a lovely evening before heading out the door, Penny and Victoria entered the kitchen. Huw Bowen, who had arrived soon after the performance ended, was sipping a glass of sherry while he talked to Brian Kenley. Glynnis Bowen, up to her elbows in the washing-up bowl, had her back to them. She turned around and said to Kenley, with the slightest hint of sharpness, “Have you brought in all the dishes that need washing up, Brian?”