Chapter Six

Victoria’s concert had ended, and the guests, who had finished their desserts and coffee, were anxious to see the pièce de résistance of the evening—the Black Chair awarded at the 1917 Eisteddfod to the great Welsh poet Hedd Wyn.

When everyone had gathered round the black-draped chair in the library, Emyr took his place close to it. Penny, standing beside Victoria near the table that featured the exhibit of letters and photos, allowed her eyes to wander around the beautiful room. Jennifer Sayles stood near the door, her hands clasped in front of her, head held high. Beside her stood Mr. Carter, his hands similarly crossed in front of him, an inscrutable expression on his face. Several mobile phones went up, including Mrs. Lloyd’s, taking photos before the unveiling.

As Penny turned her attention to Emyr, something caught her eye: a space of about two inches between the hem of the black cloth and the carpet. When she and Victoria had redraped the chair before the dinner, the hem of the cloth had skimmed the floor neatly and evenly on both sides. As her eyes moved up the chair, she realised the chair’s profile was wrong. The Black Chair had a distinctive high back and a thronelike shape. Whatever that black cloth concealed was squatter and wider.

As her mouth went dry and her heart began to race, dreading what was about to happen, she placed the fingertips of one hand over her lips and touched Victoria’s arm with the other, and as Emyr reached for the black drape, she closed her eyes. At the sound of a few titters of surprise, accompanied by gasps of disbelief, she opened them. Emyr, holding the black cloth in one hand, had revealed a chair from his own library, with the speaking notes on its grey, upholstered seat. He looked around the room in puzzled disbelief, as if hoping to discover that the Black Chair had magically materialized somewhere else—in the corner by the writing desk, perhaps, as a result of someone playing a monstrous practical joke. He exchanged an anxious glance with Jennifer Sayles, then took a few steps in Penny’s direction. “Do you know anything about this?” he asked in a low voice, his head turned away from his dinner guests.

She shook her head, waiting for the surge of adrenaline to recede and her fluttering heart to return to normal. “I have no idea what’s happened. Victoria and I examined the Black Chair just before the first dinner guest arrived, and it was right here. Honestly, I’m as shocked as you are.” Emyr glanced at his guests, who had moved from stunned silence to whispering to the person beside them.

“We have to ring the police,” Penny said.

Emyr rubbed his hand across his chin. “The police. I’m not sure. I hate to disrupt the dinner party and upset the guests, but on the other hand …”

“The chair is a valuable artefact,” Penny reminded him. “Priceless. A precious part of the nation’s heritage. If it has been stolen, the sooner the police know, the better. If it were my decision, I know what I’d do.”

She was on the verge of reminding Emyr that he was responsible for the chair’s safekeeping when he said, “Yes, of course, you’re right. But I don’t see how anything could have happened to it. There’s bound to be a simple explanation and we don’t want to overreact.”

“Don’t worry about overreacting,” said Penny. “The police would far rather be called out now and it turns out be nothing than we wait and by the time we call them the trail’s run cold. And you don’t need to worry about upsetting the dinner guests, either,” she added. “They’ve all seen the chair isn’t here, and this excitement will have added enormously to their evening.” Mrs. Lloyd will be dining out on this for weeks, she thought.

“Right, well, find out if Gwennie knows anything about the chair, and if she doesn’t, then because you have contacts in the police, you’d better be the one to ring them. I’ll see the guests out and leave the rest of it up to you.”

“You can’t do that,” protested Penny. “You mustn’t allow the guests to leave. The police are going to want to talk to everybody who was here this evening. I suggest you ask them to return to the sitting room, and if they’d like more coffee or tea, we can arrange that.”

“They won’t know any more about this than I do,” Emyr said. “How could they? They’ve been with me in the sitting room and then the dining room all evening.”

He turned to speak to his guests, and Penny, with Victoria right behind, darted down the hallway.

After the confusion and intensity of the past few minutes, she was momentarily taken aback by the kitchen’s warmth, the lingering delicious smells and its apparent normalcy. Gwennie, who was stacking cooking utensils in bus trays to be taken to the dishwashers in the scullery, glanced at her, then paused and looked closer.

“Whatever is it now?” she asked. “You look terrible.”

“It’s the Black Chair,” Penny said in a voice made louder by panic. “It’s not in the library. You don’t know where it is, do you? Did you arrange to have it moved for some reason?”

Gwennie’s eyes widened. “Me? No, of course I didn’t have the chair moved. Why on earth would I? Haven’t I had enough to do all evening without moving the chair? The last I knew, it was set up, cloth and all, just where Emyr wanted it for the after-dinner viewing.” Florence, who had been tidying up on the other side of the kitchen, stopped what she was doing and approached Gwennie and Penny.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

Penny explained to Florence that the Black Chair was missing.

“Emyr wants us to keep everything as normal as we can, without upsetting the guests,” Penny said. “But if there’s no simple explanation and the chair wasn’t moved somewhere else for some reason, obviously I have to ring the police.”

She looked at Gwennie, who nodded. “Of course you do.”

“Right. My phone. Where’s my handbag?” She looked around the kitchen. “I can’t remember where I left it.”

“I put all your coats and handbags in the butler’s pantry for safekeeping,” said Gwennie. “But there’s a telephone just over there.” She gestured to a small desk tucked away in the corner of the kitchen. “I use it for ordering supplies. Use that one, if you like.” As Penny turned toward the desk, Gwennie spoke again. “Oh, and I’m sorry about this. As if we don’t have enough to worry about, still no sign of Lane. And he was supposed to clear away the sitting room after the guests had finished their coffees and desserts, and take the glasses and dishes to the scullery, and that hasn’t been done.”

“Oh, God,” said Penny, smacking her hand to her forehead. “I forgot all about him.” Then she addressed Victoria. “Would you mind ringing Bethan to tell her the chair’s missing?”

“Of course not.”

Penny gave her a distracted smile of thanks, and Victoria dashed for the phone.

“I haven’t seen Lane,” said Florence. “Penny’s already asked me about him. I can’t remember the last time I saw him. I’ve been that busy with the meal and then the cleanup. This is only the second time the kitchen’s been quiet all evening. Until now it’s been filled with all sorts of people coming and going, and I had no idea who they were or what they were doing. Of course, I had my back to it. I’ve been in front of the Aga for most of the evening.”

“Well, he seemed all right after that fall he took, but perhaps he needed to go somewhere for a lie-down,” said Penny. “I hope he’s okay. I’m sorry you had to do the dessert service on your own, but I’m sure you managed. With Mr. Carter’s help, of course.”

“The guests helped themselves,” said Gwennie. “It was no big deal. Although he was a little damp, Mr. Carter, having been out in the rain. I expect he’s dried off a bit by now. But the sitting room hasn’t been cleared yet.”

“Emyr’s taking the guests back there now,” said Penny. “They can’t stay in the library. It’s a possible crime scene.”

“Well, I’m not happy that the guests are back in the sitting room before we had a chance to clear it. I don’t like the idea of them sat there with all the used dishes piled around them,” said Gwennie.

“And what about the waiters?” asked Penny. “Where have they got to?”

“They’re clearing up in the dining room, and I told them they can start on the sitting room when they’ve finished.”

“Argh,” said Penny, raising her hands, fingers spread apart, to the sides of her head. “Lane. The chair. Clearing the sitting room. My brain’s so overloaded it’s about to explode. I could use a cup of coffee. I have to sit down for a moment and try to think things through.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Florence. “Let’s get the kettle on.”

“They’re on their way,” Victoria announced as she rejoined them. “The police. They said no one’s to leave.”

Just as Florence was about to pour the coffee, the waiters returned, carrying trays laden with dishes, glasses, and cutlery.

Gwennie directed them to set the trays down on the work top and then turned to Penny. “I’d already told them to clear the sitting room. Is it okay if they go ahead and do that?”

Penny thought for a moment. “Have you got any food service gloves? It would probably be okay if they wore those and if we keep the dishes from the dining room and sitting room separate. It may be just an overabundance of caution, but you never know what the police are going to want.”

Gwennie opened a drawer and removed what looked like a tissue box. She held it out to the waiters and they each put on a pair of disposable sanitary gloves, and then, carrying another set of trays, empty this time, they left the room.

“They’ll be wanting to be paid before they go. Their pay packets are in the butler’s pantry. I’ll get them now,” Gwennie said.

“No, you sit down,” said Penny. “I’ll get them.”

“They’re just on the table,” said Gwennie. “You’ll see them as soon as you walk in.”

Adjacent to the kitchen and behind the servery was the butler’s pantry. High, deep cupboards, holding china tableware in an old-fashioned floral pattern and silver tea sets, candlesticks, serving dishes in all shapes and sizes with matching lids, and trays, lined one wall. Another wall featured open shelving for mixing bowls, measuring jugs, pudding basins, and food storage containers. Below the shelves, large wooden boxes that had once contained flour and sugar, and wicker baskets and picnic hampers sat on the floor. A small round table in one corner would have held the wine journals and other records of the day-to-day operation of a well-run Victorian household. At the long rectangular table that almost filled the centre of the room, staff in days gone by would have cleaned the family silver and decanted wine.

The overhead light in the pantry was switched off, but in the shaft of light from the passageway, Penny could just make out the table. The wide oak floorboards creaked softly under her weight as she stepped into the room. The pay packets were on the table, just where Gwennie had said they would be, so she gathered them up and left the room.

Across the hall, a band of light showed at the bottom of the closed door to the scullery. That’s odd, she thought. Penny knew from observing Gwennie at the Spa that she was passionate about not leaving lights on in empty rooms. She never did it herself, and if she noticed a staff member leave a room without switching off the light, she spoke to them about it and ensured the light was then switched off. But perhaps someone else had been in the scullery, Penny thought, or is in there now? She approached the scullery door, leaned against it, and listened. Silence. She pushed the door open and was greeted by a blast of cold, damp air. On the far wall was a deep stone double sink, flanked on one side by shelving and on the other by a commercial dishwasher. Another dishwasher, smaller and used exclusively for glassware, sat on the work top. A raised, slatted wooden mat, like a pallet, was positioned on the slate floor in front of the sinks.

Although updated with modern plumbing fixtures and appliances, the room served the same purpose it had a century ago. Then, the scullery maid, usually a girl of about fourteen or fifteen, probably from a nearby farm, would have spent long days in this room peeling and chopping vegetables and hand washing the family’s fine glassware and dishes, and then the rougher crockery and cutlery used in the servants’ hall. Finally, late at night and at the point of exhaustion, she would have had to tackle a mountain of heavy copper pots and pans, and all the while under the demanding eye of a scolding cook.

Neither dishwasher was in operation, and the soiled dish breakdown cart pushed against the wall to her right, where dishes, glasses and silver were held before being loaded into the machines, was empty. So was the table, where clean, dry dishes could be stacked or sorted before being returned to storage.

The door that led to the back garden was wide open, letting in the frosty November night air. Penny hugged her arms to her chest as she crossed the room and was just about to reach out and close the door when something told her not to touch it. Her arms dropped to her side. She hesitated for a moment, then stood on the threshold peering out into the looming darkness. The moon had not yet risen, and the only light came from a wrought iron lamp above the back door some distance away, bathing part of the short path to the car park in a misty, muted yellow halo.

With the scullery door open, she thought it possible that Lane had slipped out that way and could be somewhere in the garden or car park.

She stepped onto the gravel path that ran alongside the house and moved through the velvety blackness toward the light. The rain that had been falling heavily earlier had slowed to a soft drizzle.

“Lane,” she called. “Are you out here? It’s Penny. Are you all right?” When there was no response, she tried again. “You’re not in any trouble, Lane. We just want to know you’re all right.”

She paused, straining to hear something to let her know that Lane was nearby, but there was no movement, no response, only muffled and indistinct voices coming from the car park. And then came the chirping of car door openers, followed by the sound of doors being opened and closed and engines starting up.

Oh, no, she thought. Emyr’s let the guests go home. Why would he do that?

Dressed only in a pair of black trousers and a white shirt, to fit into the background with the waitstaff, and shivering in the freezing night, Penny realised it would be faster to continue on toward the back door rather than retrace her steps to the scullery. Hugging her arms to her chest again for warmth, she darted forward in the darkness, but lost her balance as she stumbled over something on the path. Struggling to stay upright, she instinctively reached out to the only support available to her, the side of the house. She clutched the wet, cold granite trying to steady herself. She managed to stay upright but scraped her palms against the roughness of the stone. When she felt her feet safely beneath her, she lifted her stinging hands away from the house and lowered herself to find out what had caused her to stumble.

She stretched out her hand, expecting to touch something natural and organic, like a rough wooden tree branch brought down by the heavy rain that had fallen earlier that evening. Instead, she felt soft, wet fabric. Sliding her fingers along it, she reached the end of the cloth and touched the cold, bare skin of someone’s hand. Its fingers curled weakly around hers and held on.