Chapter Twenty-Nine

At lunchtime, Penny returned to her office and switched on her laptop. She typed in JSPR, and Jennifer Sayles’s website popped up. Penny scrolled through it and once again read the brief biography, including the mention of Jennifer’s parents: JENNIFER SAYLES IS THE YOUNGER DAUGHTER OF SIR ANTHONY SAYLES AND HIS LATE WIFE, CYNTHIA (NEE RICHMOND).

Sir Anthony Sayles. Sir Anthony. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t remember anything about the man. And then she remembered she’d been about to Google the name when something had interrupted her, and she hadn’t been able to actually do it. This time, she typed in his name and was shown a list of several choices. She clicked on the first one and was taken to a Wikipedia page with a detailed biography. She glanced at the photo at the right of the page and then turned her attention to the text. COMES FROM A LONG LINE OF SERVING MILITARY OFFICERS … EDUCATED AT OXFORD … FIRST IN ENGLISH AND HISTORY … AUTHOR OF EIGHT BOOKS AND IS AN EXPERT ON THE FIRST WORLD WAR ENGLISH POETS SIEGFRIED SASSOON, WILFRED OWEN, AND RUPERT BROOKE.

Expert on First World War English poets? Then of course he would know about the Welsh poet Hedd Wyn and the bardic chair that had been awarded to him in 1917. Could Sir Anthony Sayles be the collector Jimmy had suggested would desire the Black Chair? And hadn’t Jimmy mentioned that Mrs. Lynch had been the housekeeper to someone she referred to as Sir Tony? Sir Anthony? Penny’s heart beat faster as she started to allow herself to think that she’d discovered the final, missing piece of the puzzle.

She examined the black-and-white photo on the screen of Sir Anthony. A formal head shot, taken by a professional photographer, it showed a serious-looking man with thinning grey hair and fine, distinguished features. She brought up more images of him, selected one, and printed it. She removed it from the printer, studied it, and then opened her desk drawer and removed a packet of coloured pencils. Selecting the chestnut-brown one, she colored in the hair and then drew a pair of round glasses.

She sank back in her chair, her chest rising and falling, as her mind raced, processing what she was seeing. Or rather, whom she was seeing. But she wanted confirmation. She reached for her phone and telephoned Mrs. Lloyd and asked if she might drop in for a few minutes, and when the answer was “Of course!” she slipped on her coat and hurried through the quiet streets to Rosemary Lane.

The net curtains parted to reveal a cheerful face as Penny walked up the front path. The curtain then dropped back into place, and Mrs. Lloyd opened the door before Penny had time to knock.

When they were seated in the sitting room, Penny took the document out of her handbag and offered it to Mrs. Lloyd. “Do you recognize this person?” she asked.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Mrs. Lloyd, taking it from her. “You sound exactly like the police.”

“Take a good look,” said Penny, “and tell me if you’ve seen that man before.”

“He does look familiar,” Mrs. Lloyd said hesitatingly. “But I can’t quite place him. I go so many places, and when you see someone out of context, it can be difficult to put a name to a face.”

Florence entered the room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

“Hello, Penny,” she said. “Evelyn hasn’t offered you a drink, I take it.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “What am I like? What can I get you?”

“Nothing, thanks. I’m here on my lunch hour, so I can’t stay long.”

“Oh,” said Florence, glancing at the paper in Mrs. Lloyd’s hand. “What are you doing with that picture of Mr. Carson?”

Penny started. “Mr. Carson?”

“Oh, sorry, no, not Mr. Carson. That was the name of the butler in Downton Abbey, wasn’t it? Not Mr. Carson. The one we had at the Hall the night of the dinner. What was that fellow’s name?”

“Carter,” said Penny. “Mr. Carter.”

“Yes, that’s it.” Florence held out her hand to Mrs. Lloyd. “May I see?” She examined the touched-up image, then looked at Penny. “You’ve coloured it in yourself and added a pair of glasses? Why would you do that?”

“Because in the original photo he’s got grey hair, and he isn’t wearing glasses.”

“Oh, was he trying to look younger?” asked Mrs. Lloyd. “I wouldn’t have thought age mattered in a butler. In fact, the older, the better. Up to a certain point, of course. Nobody wants doddery.”

“Or,” said Florence, “was this coloured hair and glasses meant to be some sort of disguise? I’ve seen people do that in films to change their looks.”

“Yes, Florence, I think that’s exactly what they were meant to do.”

“Give it here,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Let me see that again.” She peered at the picture. “Oh, so it is! That’s the man who answered the door, took my coat, and showed me into the sitting room. Had a very erect posture, and looked very smart in his tailcoat. But tell me, Florence, how did you know that’s who this was? I didn’t think you’d met him.”

“Oh, he wandered in and out of the kitchen, and while he wasn’t terribly useful, as I recall he did help pour the champagne. And once when he was just standing around, I asked him to fetch me a platter from the butler’s pantry and he seemed unsure where it was, but Gwennie pointed him in the right direction.”

“He was in the butler’s pantry?” said Penny, thinking back to the door in the scullery that opened to the path where she’d found the gravely injured Rhodri Phillips. She’d accessed the scullery from the butler’s pantry. Had Mr. Carter as well? “Can you remember when that was?”

“Yes, we were just coming up to the main course when I wanted the platter, so it would have been after the starter had been served.” She settled into a seat beside Mrs. Lloyd on the sofa and plumped a cushion. “And Mr. Carter isn’t really his name, then, is it?”

“No,” said Penny. “His real name is Sir Anthony Sayles.”

“Sayles,” mused Mrs. Lloyd. “That sounds familiar.”

“Because he’s the father of Jennifer Sayles. Emyr’s girlfriend. Although if she’s still his girlfriend after this, I’ll be very surprised.”

“And speaking of names,” said Florence, “Now that I think of it, Mr. Carson was the character from Downton Abbey, and isn’t that wonderful actor who played him called Jim Carter?”

“Of course!” said Penny. “They would have their clever little joke.”

“I wondered about him,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “It crossed my mind at the time that there was something not quite right.”

Of course it did, thought Penny. Now that we’ve unmasked him. But she asked, “What made you think there wasn’t something quite right about him?”

“It was the white gloves, you see. He was wearing white gloves, wasn’t he? A butler only wears white gloves when he’s handling precious, delicate objects or cleaning silver. He would never wear them to answer the door or announce dinner. Footmen wear white gloves when they serve at table, the old-fashioned logic being that a butler’s hands are cleaner than a footman’s.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Penny. “How do you know all that?”

“I came across it in an old etiquette book I found in the spare room. It had been quite a few years since I’d attended a proper dinner party and I just wanted to brush up on protocol. When you see seven P.M. for eight on an invitation, you know it’s going to be a bit formal, don’t you? So when I saw this butler fellow wearing gloves to answer the door, I thought either he doesn’t know what he’s doing or he’s not a real butler, for all his posh accent and cutaway coat. But then we all got swept up in the events of the evening, and it slipped my mind. And my etiquette book is at least thirty years old, so things might have changed and I could have been completely mistaken about the gloves.”

“Of course!” said Penny. “He was wearing gloves so he wouldn’t leave any fingerprints in the house.”

“But why would he care about fingerprints?” asked Florence. “And why would he go to all that trouble to pretend to be a butler?”

Penny explained Sir Anthony’s interest and expertise in World War I English poets, then added, “Jimmy said the chair was most likely stolen for a collector, and I think that collector was Sir Anthony. I suspect that Emyr happened to mention to Jennifer Sayles that the chair would be at Ty Brith Hall, she realised instantly that her father would be interested, and they decided to steal it. So Jennifer Sayles made sure she got an invitation to the party, and they cooked up the scheme to have her father on hand playing the role of the butler.”

“But why did he need to be there?” asked Mrs. Lloyd. “Surely he wouldn’t do the job himself. Wouldn’t they have hired a gang?”

“Yes,” said Penny. “There was definitely a gang involved. I don’t know enough about him, but he might have wanted to be on hand to reassure himself that everything went according to plan.”

“Or maybe he just couldn’t wait to get his hands on that chair,” said Florence. “Gloves or no gloves.”

“And the question is,” said Penny, “did he want that chair enough to kill for it?”

As Mrs. Lloyd let out a little gasp, Penny glanced at her watch and then leaped out of her chair. “I’ve stayed longer than I should have. I must get back to work. But there’s one more thing. Mrs. Lloyd, didn’t you take some photos just before the reveal of the Black Chair went so badly wrong? May I see them?”

“Yes, of course.” She picked up her handbag, retrieved her phone, and handed it to Penny.

Penny flicked through the photos until she came to the one she was looking for, and using her thumb and forefinger, she enlarged it.

There, standing against the wall, hands clasped in front of him with Jennifer Sayles by his side, was the butler.

“Why, Mr. Carter,” said Penny. “You’re not wearing your gloves.”

Mrs. Lloyd leaned in looked closer.

“So he’s not. Why do you suppose that is?”

“I don’t know yet, but we’re going to find out.” She handed the mobile back to Mrs. Lloyd. “Did you give this photo to the police?”

“Yes, I did. They asked everyone who took photos that night to send them in.”

“Good. Well, I must run. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Let us know what you find out, won’t you,” said Florence, as she closed the door behind her.