by Cathy Ace
Clemmie was at least giving the matter some thought, which relieved Henry. ‘It’s true,’ she said, almost grudgingly, ‘when you and I first arrived at the commune outside Arles, I recall my style was heavily influenced by some of the members of the Cambrian Academy. Of course, I was quickly able to rid myself of such parochial influences, and fell happily into the bosom of the masters at the commune.’
Henry bit his tongue. He knew only too well how even the most scandalous interpretation of his sister’s last statement would be correct.
‘I found my own muse quickly, and followed it where it led. I could have been a unique female voice in the world of art, you know, Nurse Thomas,’ observed Clemmie.
‘I like that Lizzie Llewellyn myself – you know, the one who was killed by her horrible brother,’ pronounced the nurse, to the surprise of all in the room. ‘I’m pleased to hear they’re taking down that monstrosity he built that they plonked in the middle of Castle Gardens, in Swansea.’
Stephanie smiled. ‘If you’re a lover of all things Llewellyn, you might like to join us here before the fete, Nurse Thomas. We have a group of experts coming in from London to look at, and hopefully authenticate, a collection of miniatures by Lizzie, that were discovered in some books in Hay.’
Henry was taken aback by how Nurse Thomas changed, right in front of their eyes. She actually blushed. ‘Oh, thank you, Your Grace, but I don’t know if I could. I love her stuff, yes, and I’ve seen a good bit of it over the years – but to be with people whose job it is to understand everything about it? I don’t know about that.’
‘You never think twice before telling me off, so why on earth would you be nervous to meet such people?’ snapped Clemmie. ‘I dare say none of them is the offspring of a duke even if they have the odd “Sir” with them. You’re quite at home here in the stately pile; make the most of it. You could even attend sans uniform, then they’d think you were one of us.’
Nurse Thomas looked scandalized. ‘Now that wouldn’t be proper, Your Ladyship. That would be like lying to their faces, that would.’
Henry felt compelled to respond, ‘No different than Mother gadding about the place in that disguise of hers earlier this week, I wouldn’t have said. That was great fun, wasn’t it? I say, I know we wanted to have this chat without her being here, but has anyone seen Mother about the place recently? It seems she’s rather gone to ground. I told the MacDonald woman I couldn’t track Mother down, and she said she’d look into it. Never told me what’s what, though. Any of you any the wiser?’ Shrugs greeted his queries. ‘Oh well, I’ll give her a tinkle later on. Now – can we please make some plans about who will say what, for how long, and when? I expect that’s all you need to know for now, isn’t it, dear?’
Stephanie agreed it would be enough to be going on with, ‘Tudor Evans was voted by the committee as the person who should speak about the dowager’s role in the community through the decades.’ Henry saw his wife wince as she spoke.
‘Was it a difficult decision, dear?’ he asked as soothingly as possible.
Stephanie forced a smile. ‘We had to have a secret ballot to choose whether he or Marjorie Pritchard should do it. It was a tie; it shouldn’t have been possible, but it was a meeting when Mr Probert was ill, so we had an even number around the table. It meant I had to cast the deciding vote. I’ll be honest, I didn’t know what to do for the best – whatever I said I was going to displease half the people in the room.’
‘But you voted for Tudor Evans in any case?’ asked Henry.
Stephanie blushed. ‘I tossed a coin.’
‘Best thing for it,’ commented Nurse Thomas.
Stephanie rallied. ‘What it means is that you can focus on speaking about your mother as your mother, rather than in her role as duchess, dowager or local benefactor. I’m sure Tudor will do a good job of covering all that side of things. And I have a plan for a few surprise guests up my sleeve too.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Friday 27th June
Christine padded around the kitchen of her Battersea flat making coffee as quietly as possible. She didn’t want to wake Alexander. She opened the door to her tiny balcony and stepped out into the cool morning air, the buzz of traffic on the road in the background, her thoughts filling her head with a dizzying set of conundrums.
Neither she nor Alexander had mentioned his meeting in Soho the previous evening, and she’d been unable to talk to him about the Llewellyn case, so conflicted was she about her thinking. Instead they’d ‘enjoyed’ small talk and dinner, then had drifted to sleep in each others’ arms, as though all was right with the world, when Christine knew everything was very wrong.
‘I brought my own,’ said Alexander as he joined Christine on the balcony with a mug of coffee. ‘Penny for them?’
‘It’s this case,’ lied Christine. She hurriedly tidied away her concerns about the type of men to whom she’d seen Alexander hand what was undoubtedly an envelope full of cash the previous evening.
‘Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.’
Staring him down, Christine asked, ‘Do you understand hate, Alexander?’
He placed his mug on the wrought-iron tabletop. ‘That’s a big question for so early in the morning. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m trying to work out if a sister could hate her brother so much she’d fake her own death just so he’d be convicted of her murder, or if a brother could hate his sister so much he’d actually kill her.’
Alexander sipped his coffee. ‘Which one of them loves their mother the most?’
Christine nodded. ‘That’s what I’m trying to work out, too.’
‘When you do, I think you’ll have your answer.’
‘You’re right.’
‘As always. You left out “as always” at the end of that statement.’ Alexander threw Christine his most winning smile.
Did I? she thought as she sipped her own coffee, smiling and winking.
Alexander let it pass. ‘So, what will you do about it?’
‘I have to make some phone calls, then get on the road to Wales.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Let me get on with it alone?’
‘You mean leave?’
‘Do you mind?’
‘I always mind leaving you. It’s easier when I know we have a plan to be together again.’
‘I have to do this alone.’
‘You’ll call me? We’ll make a date?’
‘I will. We shall.’
Alexander leaned forward and kissed the top of Christine’s head. ‘I’ll be gone in five minutes.’
‘Thanks.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Carol lay in the bath and lazily drizzled hot water from a sponge over her belly. Her body would never be the same again, she knew that much, but at least it had done something useful – it had created Albert. She’d been a ‘chubby little girl,’ then a ‘youngster with big bones’ and had finally grown into ‘a substantial woman.’ She knew pretty much every euphemism for ‘overweight’ that existed.
Hauling herself out of the indulgent early-morning soak she’d been able to enjoy because of David’s work schedule, she told herself she was living the life she’d dreamed of having; a loving husband, a healthy son, a wonderful home in rural Wales and, to top it all, a form of employment that not only allowed her to use her brain and skills, but also to do good for other people.
She perked up a bit as she massaged the stretch marks on her belly with some oil Annie’s mother Eustelle had sent from London, claiming it would work wonders. Carol suspected it was no more than scented coconut oil, but she did as instructed and dutifully rubbed it for a few minutes, then wiped it off with a cotton cloth. Eustelle had been most insistent about the cloth being cotton.
By the time she presented herself, pink and glowing, in the kitchen, the place was empty. David had written a message on the kitchen’s blackboard to say he and Albert were off for a walk along the riverbank to see the ducks at the millpond, and Carol n
oted Bunty had installed herself beside the Aga, her favorite spot. She tidied around a little, but realized she had some work to do, and would need to pull on some tidy clothes and be ready for a Skype meeting at 10 a.m. with her colleagues. By the time Mavis called, she was raring to go. Annie and Mavis were at the office with McFli and Gertie, while Carol squished her feet in her slippers under her own kitchen table and Christine was using the speakerphone in her vehicle.
Mavis called the meeting to order and invited Carol to speak.
She began, ‘Thanks to some excellent work by Althea yesterday, I have been able to establish that Honoria Estella Sophronia Davies died on January 12th this year. Her will is being held at the probate registry in Cardiff. I’ve ordered a copy online and it should be with us in no more than ten working days.’
‘Why can’t they just email it when you ask for it, like everything else in the world these days?’ asked Annie. ‘You can order it online, why don’t it just show up right away?’
‘Procedures,’ replied Carol.
‘Just another way for people to get all puffed up about their self-importance,’ said Annie. ‘Ah well, we’ll have it soon enough, I s’pose. Then we can find out if she did leave everything to the Cruickshanks and we can be sure Bryn and Val really own the books that are going to be worth a fortune. Right?’
Mavis agreed. ‘It’s a pity we couldn’t have found out about “Daisy’s” real names earlier and therefore have had that information before the meeting at the Chellingworth fete. Might it speed things along if someone popped into the office in Cardiff and had a wee word with the good people who work there, do you think?’
All the eyes on her screen – including those of the two dogs in the distant barn – focused on Carol. She shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine it would make any difference at all. But if someone wants to volunteer to go there, then I don’t see that it can do any harm.’
‘Do you want me to swing by there on my way back from London?’ asked Christine. ‘If you text me the address I could be there in a couple of hours. Is it right in the middle of Cardiff? The traffic could be a bit of a challenge on a Friday.’
‘It’s at the Magistrates’ Court there. I’ll dig out the exact address and get it to you. Thanks for that,’ said Carol.
‘Good for you, Chrissy, or should we call you Mobile Unit One?’ mugged Annie.
‘I feel a bit like it,’ said Christine heavily. ‘I’ve put a few miles on this beast in the past couple of weeks, that’s for sure. Anyway, it’s all worth it to help people. Speaking of which, kudos to Althea. I’ve gathered from various messages she went undercover at the old folks’ home and dug up some useful information. Good for her. What’s she up to now? Coming back to the fold today?’
‘She told me in a text she was planning an early night last night,’ said Carol, ‘and today she’s going to be rehearsing for her bit at tonight’s performance at the home. By the way, we’re all invited, and I think we should all go to support her. It could be quite amusing to see Althea, as Gladys Pugh, reciting Dylan Thomas’s Fern Hill.’
‘Ha! OK – I’ll try to make it,’ said Christine.
‘Bringing Alexander?’ asked Annie as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
‘No,’ replied Christine simply.
‘I hope Althea treats herself to a wee lie-in,’ commented Mavis. ‘She did a very good job yesterday, whatever misgivings I might have had, so she’s due a bit of a rest. I have an appointment with one of the partners at the legal firm in Brecon where that slippery Mr William Williams works today, but I should be back in plenty of time to collect you, Annie, to take you along. Unless you’d rather have Carol give you a lift? What time does it all start, Carol?’
‘The concert party starts at six, but there’s tea beforehand, from four onwards. We could all get there for about four thirty, how would that suit? See how your meeting goes, Mavis, and we can decide later who’ll give Annie a lift, OK?’
Everyone agreed.
‘There we are then,’ pronounced Mavis. ‘I’m tied up today, and Christine’s also spoken for, so what will you be filling your day with, Annie, my dear, and you, Carol?’
‘Before we get too bogged down, I want us to make a group judgement call,’ said Christine. ‘Carol, have you brought Mavis and Annie up to date with all our findings about Lizzie Llewellyn?’
Carol replied, ‘I’ve sent the package of information I gathered after we spoke yesterday. Everyone should have the photos of the building Lizzie couldn’t have drawn if she died when she’s supposed to have done. Is there anything else?’
Christine told her colleagues about her meeting with Baz the tattoo artist. She didn’t mention the reason she hadn’t typed everything up the previous evening was because she’d been having a strained dinner-date with Alexander.
Mavis was the first to speak. ‘I know we’re all now thinking there’s a much greater chance that Nathaniel Llewellyn did not, in fact, kill his sister at the time he was supposed to have done, but I must say, Christine, this further insight into the girl’s character does make me wonder if she’s got it in her to have planned the whole charade just to be cruel.’
‘Seems like she’d have to be completely barking mad to do it,’ said Annie. ‘Vindictiveness on steroids.’
Mavis responded, ‘I think we should now consider calling on the police in the matter of the Lizzie Llewellyn case. Would you no’ agree, ladies?’
Carol held her breath before she answered, counting to five. ‘I see why you say that, but I don’t know what we’ve really got to give them, Mavis. I know we’ve got the miniature that is supposedly by Lizzie’s hand of a building that didn’t look exactly the way she’s drawn it until after she was presumed to be dead. And she seems to be a person with a wicked temper. But listen to what I just said – “supposedly,” “presumed” and “seems.” I know you’re the one who’s presented our cases to the local constabulary in the past, Mavis, and maybe they’d give our suppositions a bit more weight than others would. But this case doesn’t fall within their jurisdiction. You’d have to deal with the people at HQ in Bridgend, I think. Or maybe the CID people in Swansea? I’m not sure. Let me check on that.’
‘Hold your horses,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t think we go to the police ourselves with what we’ve got right now. Why don’t we ask Althea and all her top-brass connections to get hold of someone with enough fruit salad on their lapels that anyone below them will listen to us.’
Mavis and Carol stared at each other through cameras and screens. ‘She’s not wrong, Mavis,’ said Carol at last, with a heavy sigh.
‘Good thinking, Annie,’ said Christine.
‘Aye, you’re right. Well said, Annie.’ Mavis patted Annie on the shoulder. ‘So I’ll phone Althea and get her involved in this case too. But, before I do that, let’s get our ducks in a row, and make the strongest case we can so we’re ready to present it as soon as we have the chance. Let’s begin. Carol – you’re good at this, why not outline what we’ve got?’
‘Right-o, here we go. We have the miniature of the Great Hall in Swansea; even though it’s not been formally attributed to Lizzie, that process is as good as done. If, as that drawing suggests, she wasn’t dead when everyone thought she was, the next step is for us to explain away all the evidence presented in court that “proved” she was dead. That amounts to two key elements – the blood at the scene, and the testimony of Mrs Wynne Thomas that she saw Nathaniel.’
Mavis spoke up, ‘As a medical professional I would say the pathologist’s report, and testimony, could go either way. On the stand she admitted it was possible for a person to lose that much blood and survive, and I agree. What I’d add is that to do it points to a cold-hearted planner – someone who would be prepared to risk themselves to carry out a plot that would, possibly, result in their death.’
‘From what I’ve been hearing about Lizzie, I’d say she might be that determined, that obsessed with causing her brother to suffer,’ said Christi
ne. ‘Any idea about the exact logistics, Mavis?’
Mavis sighed. ‘If I were to do it I’d have a container handy, and would allow for two or three rounds of bloodletting to gather the amount I desired. There didn’t seem to be agreement on exactly how much blood was found at the scene, but the estimates were in the realm of one to two pints. One pint is what they take when you donate blood, and, if Lizzie were capable of doing it, a needle and tube into the correct spot on her arm would allow her to collect a pint, then take a rest, drink fluids and recover, then repeat the process for another half pint, then another. She’d have been very weak, at least, possibly dizzy and a little disoriented.’
‘Would she have been able to drive, do you think?’ asked Annie. ‘Not being able to do it meself, I’m not sure how many of your wits you’d need about you to manage it.’
‘I’d no’ fancy it myself,’ said Mavis.
‘Shame,’ said Annie. ‘See, I’d imagined her stuffing a red wig on her head, dressin’ up like her brother and sticking something into the back of his car when she knew that Thomas woman would be out and about with her dog – and she’d have known that ’cos she used to live there after all – and setting him up that way.’
‘She could have done so between each drawing of blood,’ said Mavis, hesitantly. ‘Take one, rest up, drive around, then return and take more. She could have made sure to put some blood, and some of her own hair and skin cells, in the back of his car at the same time.’
‘Good idea, Mavis,’ said Carol. ‘Then there’s only one problem left – how on earth did she get away from the place after she’d done it all, without being seen.’
‘How’d she get there in the first place?’ asked Annie ‘Car? Train? Did her brother pick her up somewhere?’
Carol replied, ‘There was nothing about that in the trial documents.’
‘There was in the papers Ollie gave me,’ said Christine. ‘Nathaniel picked her up at Swansea railway station. She didn’t have a car.’
