“Let me see. There’s Bethan, and you, and Gareth, of course. And they’re going to bring Jimmy with them from Llandudno…” Their voices trailed off as they drifted down the hallway to their beds.
The rain, driven by heavy wind, continued to lash furiously against the building, turning its dark grey stone black and glistening. But its deep walls had stood strong and sheltering for almost two hundred years, and after this night’s storm had passed, and all the storms to come, the building would go on for another two hundred years.
In the morning, Penny drank a quick cup of coffee with Victoria and then left for the charity shop that had reported the stolen items.
Last night’s storm had blown itself out and the frosty morning air felt crisp and fresh on her face. Her breath condensed into tiny clouds ahead of her, and she was just starting to feel the benefit of starting the day with a brisk walk when she arrived at her destination.
“Good morning,” she said to the woman behind the charity shop counter. “I’m wondering if you can help me. Do you happen to know if someone called Rhys Hughes, I think it was, donated a plate with a daffodil pattern?”
The woman behind the counter called to her colleague in the back to join her.
“Now that’s a very odd question,” the first woman said. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that I came across a plate with that name on the bottom, and I wondered if it had come from your shop, that’s all.”
The two women exchanged glances.
“Well, it wasn’t Rhys, but Rose Hughes. She might have had her Welsh name, Rhosyn, on the plate that you saw, so it could have looked like Rhys. She died recently and her family brought in a few boxes of her things.”
The second woman joined the conversation. “Where exactly did you see the plate? Do you know who owns it?”
Penny smiled at them.
“Unfortunately, the plate got broken. Well, truth be told, I broke it. I’m trying to figure out where it came from so I can replace it. Do you have anything else available that would be similar, I wonder?”
“Actually, you’re in luck,” said the second woman. “That plate had a companion from the ones in the Rhosyn Hughes donation. Not quite the same, mind you, but close enough. It’s on this shelf over here. Let me get it for you.”
“About the owner,” said the first woman, somewhat anxiously, “if you find out who owned the plate, would you mind letting us know? It could be important.”
“Yes, I will,” said Penny, taking out her wallet to pay for the plate that the second woman was wrapping up. “Do you mind putting an extra bit of cushioning on that?” Penny asked her. “I can be a little clumsy at times and we wouldn’t want anything to happen to this one.” She gave each of the women a bright, conspiratorial smile. “Wasn’t it lucky for me that you had a similar plate? Thank you very much.”
The two women waited until she had left the shop, and then the first one asked, “Do you think we should call the police? She knows more about that plate than she’s letting on.”
“Not sure what we’d say to the police, exactly,” the second one replied. “Let’s think about it. I’ll slip out and get a couple of Bakewell slices. You put the kettle on and we’ll discuss what to do over a cup of coffee.”
“See, I told you I wouldn’t be long,” Penny said, popping her head round the door of Victoria’s office. She held up the well-wrapped plate. “Got a replacement.”
“Good.” Victoria looked up from her computer. “I need you to go through those invoices, and Eirlys wants a word in the manicure salon. Oh, and I’ve had an interesting résumé come in for the hairdresser’s position. A man, so we need to discuss that. I’m thinking we should get him in for an interview. Goes by one name only, like Madonna or Cher. Calls himself Alberto.”
“Right, I’ve just got some phone calls to make, but I’ll check in with Eirlys and then get on with things.”
Victoria took a closer look at her friend. “You look excited. What’s up? You’re on to something. Tell me.”
“I’m going to ring Brian Kenley and see if I can pop in and see him this morning.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if he’s got anything to do with the theft of my brooch, but you can understand how much I want it back.”
Victoria nodded. “I do understand, but don’t forget Gareth and Bethan will have made it their top priority, so why not just leave it to them? They’ll find it. Gareth told you they would and they will.”
“Well, let’s just say I’m helping them with their inquiries, in a good way. Anyway, I’ll get Brian’s number from the Stretch and Sketch membership list and see what happens.”
She ducked out into the hall and returned in a few minutes, holding a modest but charming spray of pale pink roses that she had picked up at the florist on the way over and set down outside Victoria’s office.
“These are for you for putting me up last night.”
“Just plain putting up with you, more like.” Victoria laughed. “Right, I’ll hold the fort. Off you go.”
Penny left for the second time and then reentered, and this time she sat down in the visitor’s chair that faced Victoria’s desk.
“It’s just a theory, and it might be half-baked, but I think Mrs. Lloyd’s letter opener was stolen, and whoever stole it used it to kill Saunders. I don’t think Florence or Mrs. Lloyd would have had the strength to do it-Saunders might have put up a struggle up there on the parapet-so it had to have been someone else.”
“But Brian Kenley? Surely not. I can’t picture it.” Victoria’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? If you think he killed Saunders, why would you be going over there by yourself to confront him, deliberately putting yourself in harm’s way?”
“Because I can’t picture it myself, either, but I think somehow he’s linked to both the thefts and the murder, through the plate.” She thought for a moment. “It may be that he just doesn’t know it. I’d really like to talk to him. And, of course, look at the photos he took that day at the castle.”
“The police have probably seen those photos.”
“Right, but they don’t know the people in the photographs. I do. I might spot something that they missed because it didn’t mean anything to them. Something that might be significant, but they just didn’t see it.” She thought back to what Dorothy Martin had said to her during her manicure. “Something or someone who should have been there who wasn’t, or just something out of place… not quite right.”
“Well, be careful, and good luck,” Victoria said. “You can tell me later how you got on.” She held up the local newspaper. “Oh, and we’ve got to get on with that window judging. There’s a piece in here about us doing it. Great publicity for the spa.”
Nineteen
Just after eleven Penny walked slowly up the path that led to the front door of Brian Kenley’s pebbledash bungalow a few streets from the town centre. The small garden, filled with dead black roses, had been damaged by the wind and rain of the previous night, and several hydrangea bushes were lying crushed and broken on the dark, damp earth.
Just as she was about to knock, the door opened and Brian Kenley invited her in.
Tall and thin, with an almost gaunt look about him, Kenley gave her a thin, superficial smile. He cleared his throat and gave a wheezy chuckle.
“Hello, Penny. Do come in.”
He tapped his chest. “Sorry, I have a touch of bronchitis and this damp weather isn’t helping.”
He led Penny down a short, narrow passageway that opened into a small sitting room and gestured toward a chair that faced the front door. As she sat down, holding her package on her lap, Penny noticed a small suitcase leaning against the wall.