Chapter Thirty-Three

An hour later, Penny entered Jimmy’s room. Seated with a bright red rug over his knees, he greeted her with a cheerful smile and gestured for her to sit. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaving the visitor’s chair for Bethan, who was to join them as soon as she could.

“Something’s been bothering me, Jimmy,” Penny began.

“Fire away.”

“If Michael Quinn had already given the thieves a map showing the layout of the ground floor of Ty Brith Hall and marked the library where they could find the chair, what was he doing in the house on the night of the robbery? Surely he’d done his bit.”

“Oh, he had,” agreed Jimmy. “He was there as insurance. You see, the thieves would have wanted him there in case the chair wasn’t where it was supposed to be. What if, for example, at the last minute Emyr decided the chair should be on display in the sitting room instead of the library? Plans would have to be changed to accommodate that, and presumably this Quinn fellow could have led them to the chair in the new location. They couldn’t take the risk of wandering about looking for it, could they?”

“No, of course not.”

“He was probably paid half his fee when he delivered the map, with the rest due on completion of the job,” Jimmy added. “As the incentive to ensure he showed up.”

“Oh, right, well, that makes sense.”

A nervous silence settled over them as they awaited the arrival of Inspector Bethan Morgan. Finally, she entered the room and Jimmy and Penny turned expectantly to her. Penny could read nothing in the policewoman’s inscrutable face.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” said Jimmy.

Bethan’s face lit up with a broad smile. “You were right, Penny. Michael Quinn’s fingerprints are on the Rhodri Phillips painting in his grandmother’s sitting room. And what’s more, the painting is in the same style as several recovered earlier by Dublin police. We didn’t realise they were painted by Rhodri Phillips.

“I’ve just come from interviewing Michael Quinn, and once we put it to him that the painting proves that he had a relationship with Rhodri, we have a witness who can place him at the scene of the crime, and we can demonstrate that he had a strong financial motive to kill Rhodri, he confessed. He says he was drunk and angry, and he may have been, but that’s no excuse. There was a lot of self-pity in his statement, but I don’t think a jury’s going to have a lot of sympathy for him.”

She stood up. “So well done, you two. Now, I must be on my way. I’ve got a night filled with paperwork ahead of me. Can I give you a lift, Penny?”

“No, thanks,” said Penny. “I’ll sit with Jimmy a little longer, and then I’ve got to call in at Mrs. Lloyd’s.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Lloyd gently lifted Florence’s ginger cat from the sofa, set her on the floor, and invited Penny to sit. “White wine is it? Or would you prefer an aperitif? Sherry? I’m just pouring one for Florence.”

“White wine, please,” said Penny.

After handing Penny her glass of wine, Mrs. Lloyd sat in a comfortable chair that faced the sofa, pressed her hands together, and leaned forward slightly.

A moment later as footsteps in the hall signalled Florence was on her way, Mrs. Lloyd picked up the glass of sherry, and when Florence was seated, she handed it to her. Both women were dressed in rather old-fashioned attire: Mrs. Lloyd in a tailored navy-blue dress accented with her favourite pearl necklace and Florence in a plaid skirt, with a white blouse, over which she wore a white apron.

“Well?” said Mrs. Lloyd.

“There’s so much to tell, I’m not sure where to begin,” said Penny.

“At the beginning, of course,” said Mrs. Lloyd.

Penny summarized everything for them. How Emyr had mentioned to Jennifer Sayles that he planned to show the Black Chair at his dinner party; how she’d told her father, Sir Anthony Sayles; how Mrs. Lynch had planned the theft but it had all gone terribly wrong when Rhodri Phillips confronted Michael Quinn, demanding the return of his paintings. How Lane Hardwick had witnessed them arguing in the hallway, and how Rhodri had made the fatal error of following Quinn outside and, in the heat of a searing moment, been struck and left to die on the walkway.

“At first I thought Sayles was the killer,” said Penny, “because the two crimes were so closely linked. And when the Sayles’s heist of the Black Chair became tangled up with the murder of Rhodri Phillips, they realised they were in such deep trouble they could not keep the chair, so they were forced to abandon it.”

“Oh, how that must have hurt,” said Florence, without the slightest trace of sympathy in her voice.

“Still,” said Penny, “the chair’s recovered and safe, and the thieves and the killer of Rhodri Phillips are in custody. And there might even be a happy ending in store for Riley, the young traveller girl. I want to help her get the education she wants so badly. I’ve arranged for her to spend some time roaming about with Dilys, who will teach her all about the plants and trees, and just now Jimmy said he’d like to help pay for her university. But there are still lots of details to be worked out, including where she’ll board while she goes to school and guardianship, as she’s still a minor.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” said Florence.

“Yes, it all seems to have ended well,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “I’m sure the young man’s family will be happy to know the full story of what happened to him that night, and the chair’s where it belongs, and in time for the visit by the Prince of Wales. I’m sure he’ll be very keen to hear all about what happened to it.”

“Oh, he will,” said Penny. “And now for the real reason I came here.” She reached down for her handbag.

“There was an unfortunate mix-up over your last invitation, so I was asked to hand-deliver these to you.” She gave Mrs. Lloyd and Florence each a stiff white card.

“What is it?” asked Florence.

“Read it,” said Penny.

“I haven’t got my reading glasses,” Florence said.

“I’ll read it,” Mrs. Lloyd. “Let me see … ‘Mr. Owain Jones, chairman, Snowdonia National Park Authority, cordially invites you to a reception to celebrate the restoration of Yr Ysgwrn, home of the bardic poet Hedd Wyn, in the presence of HRH The Prince of Wales.’” She lowered the card, blinked, and then picked it up again and repeated, “‘in the presence of HRH The Prince of Wales.’”

Her bright-blue eyes twinkled as she clasped her hands together and let out a rapturous “Oooh!”

“We’re going to need that etiquette book,” said Florence.

*   *   *

Although winter had taken hold of the landscape, a lush green carpet still covered the rolling hills surrounding Yr Ysgwrn, home of the renowned Welsh poet Ellis Humphrey Evans, better known by his bardic name Hedd Wyn. A flock of Welsh mountain sheep grazed in the pale afternoon sunshine, safe behind their stone walls and taking no notice of the steady stream of visitors. The word that sprang into Penny’s mind as she gazed at the tranquil scene that Hedd Wyn himself would have known a hundred years ago was peace. And that was so fitting, she thought, as the poet’s bardic name meant Blessed Peace.

Penny, Victoria, Mrs. Lloyd, and Florence approached the traditional farmhouse, built from local dressed stone with a slate roof from a nearby quarry, and crossed the threshold, stepping back into the early days of the twentieth century.

In a small, whitewashed room that would have once been the parlour, flanked by wreaths of poppies, was the Black Chair, looking none the worse for its recent adventure. A Snowdonia National Park Authority official stood beside it, and when the room had filled, she explained the history of the chair, omitting its recent theft and the arrest of Sir Anthony Sayles and his daughter, Jennifer, for their part in it.

Beside the chair was an Oxo tin.

“What’s that doing there?” Mrs. Lloyd asked.

“That’s the tin in which Hedd Wyn’s nephew kept all the little bits that fell off the chair over the years,” said the guide, “so when the time came to restore it, the original pieces could be reattached.” The guide smiled and then gestured toward the door. “If there are no more questions, I’ll have to ask you to move on, so others can view the chair. Please enjoy your visit to the rest of the house and then make your way to the visitors’ centre. You must be there fifteen minutes before the reception begins.”

After a tour of the farmhouse, which, although modest, was filled with a warmth and closeness that spoke of grueling work balanced by the love of a large family, the women made their way to the new visitors’ centre, which had been converted from an old agricultural outbuilding into a bright, modern space with a tearoom, shop, and museum.

The exhibition space filled up with invited guests, and when excited whispers of “The prince, he’s on his way” swept through the room, all heads turned to the entrance. A moment later the Prince of Wales, accompanied by a few dignitaries and a couple of local officials, entered. He was introduced to various people in the crowd, and then approached Penny and her friends.

“And this is Penny Brannigan,” said an aide. Penny dropped a small curtsy, and the aide said something in a low voice to the prince.

“Ah, it’s you we have to thank, is it?” he said. “Well done.”

The party moved on to the person on Penny’s right.

“Have you come far?” asked the prince, extending his right hand to Mrs. Lloyd.

She let out a small, muffled squeak, but the words wouldn’t come. For once, she was speechless.