Chapter Thirty-Two

“Rhian said I’d find you in here,” said Victoria as she switched on the light to the Spa’s quiet room. “What are you doing sat here in the dark all by yourself?”

“Thinking. This is the first chance I’ve had to relax all day, and I just needed a few moments to myself.” Penny smiled up at her friend. “But I’m glad to see you. I haven’t been here very long, but it must have got dark without me noticing. It gets dark so early now.”

Victoria held out three envelopes. “Emyr dropped off these invitations for the opening of the new visitors’ centre at Yr Ysgwrn and the unveiling of the restored Black Chair. One is yours and the other two are for Mrs. Lloyd and Florence. I thought you wouldn’t mind delivering them on your way home.”

Penny tucked the invitations in the pocket of her jacket. “Of course I don’t mind. Oh, they’re going to be thrilled beyond belief.”

Victoria dropped into the chair opposite Penny. “So what have you been thinking about?”

“Rhodri Phillips. And something Lane said.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he overheard Michael Quinn and Rhodri arguing, and Rhodri said, ‘I want my paintings back.’”

“So Quinn has paintings belonging to Rhodri?”

“It sounds like it.”

“Poor Rhodri. Died so young. All that unfulfilled promise. Who knows what kind of artist he might have become? You said yourself how talented he was when we saw that painting of his in Rhian’s sitting room.”

“Yes, he was,” said Penny, as a vague idea that was slowly becoming a motive began to take shape at the back of her mind.

“I’ve just had the most terrible thought. What if Michael Quinn also recognized how talented Rhodri Phillips was? And then managed to get his hands on some of Rhodri’s paintings? And because nothing drives up the value of art like the artist being dead, he …”

“Oh, God, are you saying he killed him for his paintings?”

“I don’t know,” said Penny in a low voice. “But that would be a motive. All he’d have to do is hang on to the paintings for ten years or so, while Rhodri’s reputation is established, and with his connections in the art world, Quinn could give that a helping hand. Then with the paintings in demand, Quinn produces the ones he’s got and they’re worth an awful lot of money. And he’s had plenty of time to create a legitimate provenance for them.”

She sighed. “But problem with that is, as soon as Quinn surfaced with the paintings, interest would be revived in Rhodri’s murder, and being in possession of the paintings, Quinn would put himself right in the frame. So either he wouldn’t be able to sell the paintings, or if he did, they’d point to him as being involved, somehow, in the crime. And it wouldn’t take the police long to unravel it.”

“Well, there’d be a certain poetic justice in that,” commented Victoria.

“Quinn denies knowing Rhodri outside of the classroom, so we’d have to prove that they knew each other. Any ideas?”

“I’m afraid not, but then I don’t know the man as well as you do.”

Penny let that remark pass. “And there’s one other thing that bothers me. If Quinn had already given the thieves a map of the ground floor of Ty Brith Hall, showing them where the library is so they could locate the chair, why was he even on the scene? You’d think he’d have wanted to be safely out of the way in Dublin when it went down.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that one, either. Why don’t you ask Jimmy? If anybody’d know, he’s your man.”

After tidying the magazines on the coffee table, Victoria stood up. “Come on. It’s time we all went home.” She reached up to the floating shelf and switched off the battery-operated lights on the artificial candles. Then, pausing to admire Penny’s watercolour painting of the Spa, she reached up with both hands, straightened it, and took a step back to check her work.

“Better?” she asked Penny over her shoulder.

Penny’s eyes widened, and a huge grin broke across her face. “Much better!” she exclaimed. “You’ve done it! I’ve got to ring Bethan.” Penny dashed from the room. leaving Victoria to close the door behind them.

“What’s your street number?” Penny asked Rhian when she reached the receptionist’s desk.

“Number thirty-eight Station Road. Why? What’s happening?”

“Ring your mother and tell her to expect the police. And then go home to be with her.”

“The police! Oh, God, what’s happened?”

“Your nephew’s painting. If I’m right, it’ll prove who killed him.”

Rhian reached for her phone, and a moment later in her office, Penny did the same.