Murder on the Hour (6 page)

The appraiser, a woman in her fifties with carefully lacquered hair, nodded and then continued. “The colours are beautiful,” she said, “and still bright. We find with a lot of these quilts that unfortunately they've been kept in a sunny bedroom and over time become very faded.”

“It was on my mother's bed,” Catrin said, “and she kept the blinds closed.”

“I see.” The woman stood beside the quilt and held it with one hand. A small frown flitted across her face and she squeezed the quilt in several places and then examined the side seam more closely. She let go of the quilt and said something in such a low voice to Catrin that Penny, who was a little distance away, couldn't catch it. She then resumed her appraisal in a normal speaking voice for the benefit of those who had gathered around.

“I would say this is an early twentieth-century quilt, pre–World War I. Definitely handmade, and by someone who had a talent but not too much experience. A young woman, perhaps, and this could very well be her first effort. It has a lovely freshness and is in remarkably good condition. You say it's been in your family?”

Catrin nodded. “As long as I can remember.”

“I would place a value on this quilt of about three hundred pounds.”

Catrin smiled, hoping her disappointment did not show. “Thank you very much,” she said as brightly as she could manage. The appraiser helped her fold the quilt and wrap it up in the plastic dry cleaner's bag. Catrin retreated from the appraiser's table as the next person stepped up with an article to be evaluated, and when she spotted Penny, headed over to her.

“Three hundred pounds the appraiser said it was worth,” Catrin said. “I'd hoped it would be worth more.”

“There will be a lot of disappointed people here today, I'm afraid,” said Penny. “But three hundred pounds isn't so very bad, is it?”

“I guess not,” muttered Catrin.

“Are you going to wander around for a bit and see what the others have brought?” Penny asked.

“No, it's a bit awkward with this bundle and besides, I've got to get home. There's a woman coming to see the room. I've decided to rent out my parents' old bedroom while I decide what to do about the house. Renting out the room will bring in some extra money and the woman will be a bit of company for me in the evenings. If it all works out, of course. Still got a bit of last minute cleaning and tidying up to do. Naturally, I want the place to look its best.”

“Oh, right,” said Penny. “Well, good luck. I'm sure you'll find someone suitable.”

*   *   *

Catrin got off the
Antiques Cymru
shuttle bus in the town square, and, carrying her wrapped up quilt in both arms, walked home. It was almost lunchtime. What a terrible waste of time the morning had been. All that queuing, and then to be told the quilt had so little value. She hoped the woman who had answered her ad in the newsagent's window would take the room. She hated the idea of sharing her kitchen and bathroom with a stranger, but really, what was the alternative? She'd been thinking everything through for weeks and this was the best idea she could come up with. Her little part-time job didn't bring in enough income. Still, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Mrs. Lloyd, after all, took in a lodger, and by all accounts that arrangement had worked out just fine. And Mrs. Lloyd didn't even need the money.

At the thought of the bathroom, she picked up her pace. She'd have to make sure it was sparkling when she showed it to the woman. She checked her watch. Time was getting a little tight. She didn't like to eat in a hurry, so decided to skip lunch and get on with the tidying up and cleaning.

A few moments later she reached her grey, pebble-dashed house and bunching the quilt under one arm to get her key out of her coat pocket, let herself in. She glanced at the carpet in the sitting room and decided she'd better run the Hoover over it. Catching sight of a couple of things that did not belong in the sitting room, she set the quilt on a chair, scooped up the out-of-place items, and took them upstairs with her.

She sprayed the tub with foaming bubbles and leaving them to work their cleaning magic, she pulled off her yellow rubber gloves and laid them over the sink and went downstairs to lay out a tray so she and her potential lodger could get to know each other better over a cup of tea. She filled the kettle and set it to one side. When she realized she had no biscuits to offer the woman, she sighed and then shrugged. Tea would have to do. She surveyed the kitchen, so familiar to her, trying to see it as a stranger would. Of course it hadn't been modernized in decades, but she hoped the woman would think it was at least clean and functional. She'd spent ages scrubbing away the grease left from years of frying meat. Meat! Should she tell the woman the kitchen was vegetarian? She'd see how things went and then they could discuss it.

About halfway upstairs to finish cleaning the bathroom a knock on the door stopped her. Oh, damn, the woman was early. She plastered what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face, walked down the stairs, and flung open the front door.

“Hello, Catrin.”

She took a step back, raising a hand to her chest.

“Oh, it's you,” said Catrin. “Well, you'd better come in, then.”

A few minutes later, as the carriage clock that had been her parents' silver wedding anniversary gift chimed the three-quarter hour, Catrin Bellis realized she had just made the worst mistake of her life.

 

Nine

The grounds of Ty Brith Hall were filling up; the number of people was expected to peak sometime around lunchtime. Penny battled her way around long lines forming in front of evaluators' tables and through large groups of spectators until she reached the table designated for fine art. She saw Florence waiting in the queue, with one or two people ahead of her.

“Hello, Florence,” Penny said. “Thought I'd see how you're getting on.”

“Well, I haven't really got on, yet,” said Florence. “But the line seems to be moving quickly, so it shouldn't be much longer.” She peered anxiously at Penny. “I must admit, I'm a little nervous,” she said. “I don't think I'm wasting the evaluator's time. I'm sure they must be worth something…” Her voice trailed off as she realized it was her turn.

“Would you like me to come with you?” Penny asked.

“Yes, if you've got time, I'd appreciate that,” Florence replied.

The appraiser smiled at both women, his dark blue eyes lingering just a little longer on Penny. “Hello, I'm Michael Quinn,” he said in a soft Irish accent. He was tall and slim with dark hair lightly flecked with grey. He appeared to be in his late forties, with a casual air of authority about him that Penny found intriguing.

“Who's brought what for me today?” he asked, interrupting her appraisal of him.

“I've brought you some sketches,” said Florence, handing him the ticket she'd been given at the reception desk.

He took it from her, flashed a businesslike smile, and said, “Right, well then, let's lay them out on the table and see what you've got.”

Florence pulled a large brown envelope out of her carrier bag and withdrew the contents. “I'll put these out first. There's another envelope with some others.”

She set down about a dozen sheets of stiff sketching paper, covered in pen and ink drawings. Quinn drew in his breath, covered his mouth with his hand and then gently ran it over his chin as his eyes roamed greedily over the drawings. “There's more?” he asked. “You mentioned you had something else.”

“Oh, yes,” said Florence, reaching for her carrier bag. “They're in here.” She fumbled with her bag. “Penny, if you wouldn't mind gathering these ones up, I'll just…” Her hands shook as she opened her bag and while Penny scooped up the drawings on the table, Florence laid out ten more. These were also pen and ink, but bolder and more defined as if coming from a more confident hand.

Quinn blinked, took a deep breath, and picked one up. After examining it for a moment, addressed Florence. “Thank you. Can you tell me how or where you got them?”

Florence answered his question and they spoke for a few more minutes.

“All right, then, Florence,” he said. “I'd like to have you back for an on-camera evaluation.” Quinn waved to a man standing nearby wearing a purple sash. “Here's one of our stewards. If you'll go with him, he'll take you to the holding area where you can get a nice cup of tea and a biscuit and they'll explain the next steps to you. Is that all right with you?” He turned his attention to Penny and spoke in a lowered voice. “Are you with her? I think it would be a good idea if she had someone with her during the evaluation.”

“I'm helping organize the event today,” Penny said, introducing herself. “I'd be glad to stay with her.”

“Good. I'm just going to confer with one or two of my colleagues and do a bit of research. We'll see you back here, later, then.” He gave Penny one last warm smile before disappearing into the crowd and she turned her attention to Florence.

“Someone else I know had his clock brought in, so I'm heading over to,” she checked the appraiser categories on her clipboard, “Clocks, Watches, and Scientific Instruments to see how he's doing.” As the steward approached to escort Florence to a holding area, she added, “I'll find you later.”

After a quick word with a segment producer, she found Haydn Williams sitting on his own beside his longcase clock and looking a little forlorn. He'd been notified a few days ago that he had been selected for filming and the
Antiques Cymru
crew had arrived at his farmhouse yesterday to dismantle the clock and transport it safely to the site.

“Hello, Haydn,” said Penny. “The producer tells me they've scheduled your interview next. They're aiming to have the interview end just before the hour so the clock can strike.”

A few moments later Daniel Casey got the signal from the segment director and filming of the appraisal began.

“What we have here,” he began, “is a beautiful example of an iconic longcase clock made in this very town. Let's just take an overview of the clock and then we'll look at some of the details that can help us date it.

“The clock is about seven feet high and its case is made of oak, probably felled in what is now the Gydwyr Forest that overlooks the town and then brought down by horse and cart. The case would probably have been made by a local cabinetmaker, the same fellow who made coffins for the locals.

“The wooden part of the clock at the top that covers the dial is called the hood, and it slides out so the mechanical parts can be serviced.” He raised his hands, about a foot apart, and gestured at the top of the clock. “This hood is especially fine. It's got some lovely shaped cresting, a column on each side and then on top, three brass finials. The centre finial features an eagle, which was once a symbol of the town.

“Now, let's take a closer look at the dial.”

He pointed to the name JOHN OWEN engraved in capital letters at the top of the clock's face. “This clock is undoubtedly the work of John Owen, a master eighteenth-century clockmaker.

“Now for the dial. The centre section is matted brass. They stopped matting the faces of these clocks about 1770, so we know this clock is earlier than that.” He also pointed out the sunflower engraving on the centre section, the small lines between two circles to mark the minutes, and the size of the clock face. “So from all these elements taken together, we can date this clock at 1765.

“The mechanism is still in good working order—and this is of critical importance—the mechanism is original to this clock. Every piece of this clock is original and it all belongs together. Sometimes we see a beautiful case but it's fitted with another mechanism. But not here. It's all original and everything is as it should be. It was made to a very high standard and perfectly preserved.”

He turned to Haydn. “Have you ever had it valued?”

Haydn shook his head.

“Well, on a good day, with the right people in the room, I would place an auction value on this clock of twelve thousand pounds. It's a beautiful piece of local history. Thank you so much for letting us have a look at it today.”

Haydn blinked, struggled to say something, and finally came up with, “I'm gobsmacked.” He stayed very still for a moment as he'd been instructed to do. A soft, whirring sound came from the clock and then somewhere inside it, a small hammer struck a bell once, announcing it was one o'clock.

 

Ten

Several of Florence's sketches had been arranged on a vertical display board. She sat at one end and art appraiser Michael Quinn stood at the other. He gave her a reassuring glance, looked to the director for the signal to begin, and then asked his first question.

“Now can you tell me a little about how you came to have this artwork?”

“Well,” said Florence, “back in the 1960s I took up my first and only job as a secretary at the Liverpool College of Art. I was only seventeen, so they gave me all the dogsbody-type tasks. Sometimes I would get sent to the classrooms or studios at the end of the day to have a tidy round, and I would see these sketches in the bin. I just liked them, so I took them. I admired the work the students were doing.”

“You certainly had a very good eye,” said Michael. “You chose the best of the best.” He cleared his throat lightly, took a deep breath, and continued. “In fact, what we have here is early work by two of the school's most famous students. Let's start with this one.” Holding a small baton in long, elegant fingers, he pointed to a sketch for the benefit of the camera. “It's a pen and ink drawing of a couple in a park. And it's an early work by Stuart Sutcliffe. Stuart Sutcliffe was born in Scotland but brought up in Liverpool, and he went to the Liverpool College of Art, where, in 1957 he met another student, called,” he looked at Florence, who responded, “John Lennon.”