Murder on the Hour (23 page)

“Let's think about that whilst we enjoy our dinner.”

They kept the conversation light and neutral throughout the meal. When their coffee was served Davies studied the half of the map that Haydn had provided, and the drawings taken from the slate fencing in Bluebell Wood.

“You can't do anything with a silly map like this unless you have the starting point, and it seems to start with this thing here that looks like a bee, except the stripes go the wrong way.” He folded the papers but instead of returning them to her asked, “Do you mind if I hang on to these?”

Penny shook her head. “That's fine. I've got copies.”

He tucked them in his pocket and signaled for the bill.

“Will there be someone in the police department who can decipher that?” she asked.

“I don't think so. I expect it will take someone with local knowledge to work it out.”

“In that case, I've just thought of someone who might be able to help with this,” said Penny as Davies withdrew a credit card from his wallet.

“Who?”

“Our friend the rector. Thomas likes puzzles.”

“Why don't you ring them and invite them for Sunday lunch tomorrow? They can bring Robbie and we'll find a nice country pub somewhere. The Black Bull, maybe.”

After a brief conversation, Penny pressed the button to end the call.

“Bronwyn says Robbie isn't feeling well so they'd prefer to stay home. She wonders if we could have the pub lunch another time and would we like to have Sunday lunch at the rectory tomorrow? Bronwyn was planning to stay home from church, anyway, because of Robbie. I said we would. Twelve thirty. Is that okay with you?”

“It's just fine. Shall I pick you up or meet you there?”

“I'll meet you there. I like a walk in the morning.”

After he'd dropped her off at home, she thought about Gareth, and how happy she was that he'd invited her to work on the case with him. It was starting to feel like old times, the same only different. And for some reason, better.

 

Thirty-three

The morning walk through the timeless landscape of fields and grey stone walls edged at this time of year with purple wildflowers and ferns invigorated her and she arrived at the churchyard gate where Gareth was waiting for her flushed with a sense of well being. Together, they walked to the rectory.

“Come in, Penny and Gareth. Lovely to see you both. Glad you could make it. Come through.”

With her cairn terrier Robbie at her heels, Bronwyn Evans led them into her tidy sitting room with its lovely leaded windows that overlooked the river and offered them a sherry.

“Thomas should be home from church in a few minutes,” Bronwyn said. As Robbie started barking, Penny commented that she was glad to see he was feeling better and Bronwyn gave them a little grin and said, “That'll be him now.”

The door to the kitchen opened and closed and a moment later Thomas Evans appeared in the sitting room. He extended his hand to Gareth and smiled a greeting at Penny as his wife reappeared in the doorway. “We're ready if you'd like to come through to the dining room,” she said to Penny and Gareth. “Thomas will have a quick wash and be right with us.”

The old-fashioned dining room was dark, compared to the adjoining sunny kitchen. The walls had been papered in a deep magenta, somewhere between a burgundy and rich red. An oak sideboard took up one wall and the oak table in the centre of the room with eight chairs had been set for four. At the entrance to the sitting room a longcase clock ticked away the seconds. As the group took their places around the table, the clock struck one.

Bronwyn carried in a large white platter with two chickens on it, surrounded by roast potatoes. She set this in front of her husband, then returned to the kitchen for vegetables, gravy, and bread sauce.

When she was seated the rector said grace and began to carve the chicken.

“I tucked a little rosemary under the skin,” Bronwyn remarked. “A little of that goes a long way, but I do think it adds a nice flavour.”

“Jessica Hughes had a sprig of rosemary in her wedding bouquet yesterday,” said Penny as she passed her plate to the rector.

“It's for remembrance, rosemary is,” said Bronwyn. “I wonder who she was remembering. Sometimes a bride will do that if she has lost a parent, say.”

“It was an interesting wedding,” said Thomas. “The groom is quite a bit older than Jessica. A horse breeder, apparently. I'm not sure the parents completely approved. Her mother in particular didn't seem completely happy.”

“No, she wasn't,” said Penny. “We were at the farm in the morning helping them get ready.”

The meal continued with easy conversation, and while Bronwyn served coffee and a lemon tart, Davies reached into his jacket pocket and produced the maps.

“I wonder if you'd have a look at these,” he said to Thomas. Penny explained the history of the two maps—one from Haydn Williams and the other from a slate fence—and Thomas took out his reading glasses. He moved his plate and cutlery to one side, and smoothed the maps in front of him. “Let me see then,” he murmured. Bronwyn finished pouring coffee and took the pot to the kitchen, and then returned to peer over her husband's shoulder, her hand resting lightly on it.

The rector traced the little drawings with his finger, studying each one as he went.

“Right,” he said, after a few minutes. “They're two halves of a map made by a couple of local boys, you say.”

“We're especially confused by the first figure that looks like an insect, or possibly a bee,” said Davies.

“I don't think that's an insect,” said Thomas. “I think it's a swaddled baby. When I first saw it, it put me in mind of the little marble tombstone of the infant Sydney Wyn, laid to rest in 1639 in the chapel of our very own church, right here in Llanelen.” He took off his glasses and looked from Gareth to Penny and then back again.

“So if I'm not mistaken, the trail on your map starts right here in the church. Why don't we finish our coffee and then see where the map takes us?” He took a sip of coffee. “Assuming I'm right, of course. I may be completely off base. But we'll find out.”

He beamed at his wife. “That was a lovely lunch, my dear. You quite outdid yourself.”

 

Thirty-four

Thomas, Penny, and Gareth walked along the short path that led from the rectory to the church. Gravestones on either side indicated fairly recent burials and on their left, the River Conwy sparkled in the warm afternoon sunshine.

A century or two ago, the Wynne chapel was part of the main body of St. Elen's church attached to the chancel but at some point an elaborate wooden rood screen with the amusing motif of pigs eating acorns had been installed to separate the two. The chapel was accessible now only through its own entrance. The carved, arched wooden door creaked on its black iron hinges as the rector pushed it open and they stepped down onto the uneven stone floor straight into the fifteenth century.

Sunlight streaming in through mullioned windows, set high up in the thick stone walls on all four sides of the building, did its best to push the darkness to the dusty corners. The air had a close, almost mossy smell from centuries of old wood, incense, and candle smoke, a distinctive odour often found in old churches sometimes referred to as, “God's breath.” The atmosphere was pleasant and peaceful with a sense of solitude and quiet reverence. The birdsong in the churchyard faded into stillness.

As their eyes adjusted to the reduced light, they made their way past the bottom half of a stone sarcophagus, said to be part of the coffin of a medieval Welsh prince. The walls were covered with engraved brasses and pieces of statuary, carvings, and monuments sacred to the memory of men and women from various branches of the Wynne family who had lived and died hundreds of years ago.

The rector pointed to a memorial depicting an infant in swaddling clothes, the vertical yellow veined folds in its marble garments speckled with sunlight.

Penny and Gareth exchanged a quick glance. “You're right, Thomas,” said Gareth. “This could be the first drawing on the map.”

On each side of the figure was carved a shield and beneath the sculpted child was the inscription:
Here lieth the bodie of Sydney Wyn daughter to Owen Wyn Esq. which was borne the 6th of September and departed this life the eight of October fallowing Anno Dni 1639.

And on top of the shield on the right lay a sprig of dark green rosemary.

“Oh,” exclaimed the rector. “Isn't that interesting! We were just talking about rosemary and look at that.” He picked it up and brushed its needle-like leaves across the palm of his hand. “It feels quite fresh,” he said. “I suppose Jessica could have left it here yesterday after her wedding as a tribute to her family.” He shrugged. “Right, well about that map, then. What would you like to do?”

“Well, why don't we have Penny pace it out and see what happens?” said Davies. All three pored over the map. “It says one hundred after the first drawing, so I'm guessing that means one hundred steps.”

“But starting from where?” asked the rector. “The door of the chapel or the baby memorial?”

“Let's try the memorial,” said Penny. “After all, that's what he drew. If he'd meant the door, surely he would have drawn an arch to represent the chapel door?”

The two men murmured agreement, so Penny positioned herself beside the memorial. “And I have to remember to take child-size steps,” she said. As she took the first step the rector counted one. By sixteen she had reached the door of the chapel.

“Which way now?” she asked.

“To your left,” said Davies. “You're meant to keep the river on your right.” He looked around. “It's hard to say, but I think these figures are sheep and it may be that when this map was drawn the area on the other side of the river was common land with grazing rights. Where the cricket field is now.”

Penny was now on the black asphalt path that ran through the churchyard with the rectory just ahead of her. The door opened and Bronwyn came out with Robbie. She waved at Penny and the two joined the little group.

“How's it going?” she asked.

“We're on step sixty-seven,” said the rector. “There doesn't seem to be any instructions as to what we're meant to do now.”

“Let me see the map again,” said Bronwyn. She studied it for a moment and then looked toward the rear of the church. “I think you should go over there,” she said, pointing at a rhododendron bush.

“And why do you think that, my dear?” asked the rector.

“Because this little drawing,” she tapped her finger on a circle with dots on top of a rectangle, “looks like a clock.”

“Of course!” exclaimed the rector. “How could I have missed that?”

“What is it?” asked Davies.

“Just keep walking Penny,” said Bronwyn. “Here, Robbie and I will guide you. Thomas, let us know when we reach one hundred.” Bronwyn rotated Penny's body slightly and she paced a few more steps.

“One hundred!” called out the rector. “Stop!”

Penny had reached the grave of John Owen, the town's famous clockmaker who was laid to rest in the churchyard in 1776. “So somewhere around here is whatever the boys thought worth burying and recording the spot?” asked the rector.

“It looks that way,” said Davies.

The rector surveyed the churchyard. “But it could be anywhere! How on earth would you find it?”

“Or maybe nothing's buried here at all,” mused Davies.

“Well, what are you going to do now?” asked the rector.

“I'm not sure yet,” said Davies. “But we won't be doing anything officially just now. Thank you, everybody. I think that's good for today.”

The five of them, counting Robbie, walked back to the rectory. “We need to get ready to go out,” the rector apologized. “We've got a hospital visiting appointment at three. One of my parishioners has asked to see me. Something's troubling her and people often find as the end approaches that they need to get something off their chest.”

Penny and Gareth thanked them for lunch and departed.

“Well, that was a most interesting experience,” said Thomas as he and Bronwyn tidied up the kitchen.

“Never mind that,” said his wife. “What's up with those two? Are they back together, do you think? I was dying to ask Penny, but didn't think I should. But I was very surprised when she called and invited us to lunch. I wonder if there's any hope that they might rekindle whatever it was they had.”

“I'm not sure,” said Thomas, “I don't think they're together in a romantic way, but he's devoted to her. That much is obvious, even to me.”

 

Thirty-five

Shortly before eight the next morning Bronwyn and Robbie set off on the first of their daily walks, leaving Thomas to prepare breakfast, ready for their return. He was looking forward to a quiet Monday, first catching up on parish business and then catching up on his sleep with an afternoon nap.

Just as he spooned a couple of dollops of his wife's favourite marmalade into a small glass bowl, the kitchen door opened and Bronwyn stuck her head in. “Thomas, you'd better come and see what's happened in the churchyard.”

He set the bowl at her place on the table. “Why, Bronwyn, what is it? Is it Robbie? Has something happened to Robbie?”

“No, Thomas, Robbie is just fine. But either giant moles invaded overnight or someone's been digging up the churchyard. Come right now, Thomas. You're going to want to see this.”

He hurried out into the churchyard and followed his wife to the grave of John Owen. Half a dozen large, deep holes had been dug at the base of the church and around the grave.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “We'd better get these holes filled in. A visitor could trip over one or fall into it and sprain an ankle or something.”