But the worst part had been when she had asked Huw what he thought had happened.
“May I speak frankly?” he had asked, and when she nodded, he had said, “I think he’s gone for good, Evelyn, and he’s taken your money with him.” Along with my self-respect and position in this town, Mrs. Lloyd thought.
“And what’s more,” Huw had added, “I think it’s time we called in the police and I am advising you to do that.”
But why, Mrs. Lloyd had asked. He hadn’t done anything illegal, and besides, she didn’t want the whole town knowing about this.
“That’s exactly how these men operate,” Huw had replied. “They work quickly to build trust and then trick sensible, intelligent women into giving them money, and they count on the fact that their victims, for one reason or another, usually shame and embarrassment, will not go public with it. And it’s that silence that allows them to move on to their next victim. And the one after that.”
But Mrs. Lloyd was not ready to call in the police and told her financial advisor that she wanted to give it another day or two, just in case there was a simple explanation.
But still, hoping against hope that everything might yet turn out all right, in her own mind she feared the worst. And she had another long day, filled with stomach-churning dread, to get through. She needed to talk to someone, someone she could trust.
As she turned into Rosemary Lane, she decided that as soon as she took her coat off, she would call her longtime friend Bunny from the old post office days and see if she was free for lunch tomorrow. Somewhere different, Conwy, maybe. It wasn’t far. And while she didn’t think she’d be in the mood for Christmas shopping, a look round the shops might be nice. She might pop into that kitchen-supply place and buy Florence something for the kitchen as a Christmas present, since she liked cooking and baking so much. Looking forward to a little outing always made things seem brighter, Mrs. Lloyd told herself. Taking charge of the situation was the thing to do. And besides, Bunny would not only understand but, being a practical person, might be able to suggest something. Anything.
But the first call she made when she got home was to Saunders. He didn’t answer, but how could he? The ringer on his mobile phone had been switched off and the device lay at the bottom of a rubbish bin on a platform of the Chester railway station covered with a banana peel, a couple of sandwich wrappers, a dirty nappy, and a half-empty can of ginger ale.
Eleven
The next morning, as the sun tried valiantly to assert itself through a pale battalion of dense, grey clouds, Penny and Alwynne Gwilt set off on the twenty-minute drive up the valley to Conwy where the Stretch and Sketch Club had been able to change their reservations at a local restaurant for the group’s Christmas lunch. The narrow rural road wound on, bordered on each side by stone fences, hedges, and the occasional cluster of holly bushes bearing bright red berries. Fields, green just a few days ago but now blanketed in snow, sloped away into the distance.
“It’s nice that our two new members were able to come today,” Alynne remarked as she slowed down to take a sharp turn. “Brian and Glynnis.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about her,” Penny replied. “I don’t know her very well, but she seems, well, I’m not sure if sad is the right word but down in the dumps.”
“She didn’t used to be like that,” Alwynne replied. “She used to be quite lively and great fun. But I think living with Huw Bowen would take it out of most women. He’s a good man in many ways, I guess, but he can be domineering and demanding. Maybe it’s the banker in him, but everything’s got to be done just so. I think that would be very hard on any woman, living with that day after day. Still, I expect they have no more of the ups and downs of married life than the rest of us.”
“Why did she marry him, do you think?”
Alwynne gave a little shrug and glanced at her companion in the passenger seat. “Why does anyone marry someone? Maybe she thought he was her last chance. She was in her late thirties when they married. She gave up her job-used to be a teacher at the high school.”
She pointed out the window as the battlemented outline of Conwy Castle came into view.
“I’ve seen that view all my life and it never fails to amaze me, the sheer size and strength of it,” said Alwynne. “It gives a whole new meaning to the word intimidating.”
The little car squeezed through the upper gate, the main landward entry into the town and one of only three arched gateways in the well-preserved stone walls that encircled the town. They inched along narrow one-way streets until they reached the restaurant, located in the looming shadow of the great medieval fortress.
Built in the thirteenth century by King Edward I as one of a series of castles across North Wales, Conwy Castle sits in an authoritative position on a rocky outcrop on the banks of the River Conwy, set against the mountains of Snowdonia. Roughly rectangular in shape, with four massive towers along each long side, the castle has no equal for visual impact.
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.