Murder on the Hour (7 page)

“That's right. And Stuart became the bass player in John's new band; they recruited a couple more musicians, and went to Germany, where, sadly, Stuart died in 1962, aged only twenty-one.”

He touched a few more sketches with his baton. “This is a major find. Each one will have to be authenticated, but because of the provenance, in my mind I'm confident these rare drawings are Stuart Sutcliffe originals. Do you have any idea how much they would be worth?”

Florence shook her head.

“You've never had them evaluated?”

“No, I've never even shown them to anyone before today.”

“Well, I discussed this with my colleagues and we feel a conservative estimate would be between seventeen hundred fifty and two thousand pounds.” Florence's face broke into a rare, polite smile. “Oh, that's very nice, thank you.”

“Oh, sorry, I don't think I made myself clear. Each. That's about two thousand pounds each. And how many do you have?”

“Eleven.”

“So we can place an estimated value of twenty to twenty-two thousand pounds on these. But at auction, they could go for much more than that. That's a conservative estimate I've given you.”

Florence gasped. “I'm in shock,” she said. “I don't know what to say.” She swallowed and looked to Penny for reassurance, then turned back to the evaluator. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yes,” smiled Michael Quinn. “We don't joke about things like this.”

He gave her a moment for the number to sink in while she collected herself, and then continued. “But that isn't all you've brought, is it?”

Florence shook her head.

Michael pointed to another drawing. “This one. Can you tell me who it's by?”

Florence nodded. “John Lennon.”

“And you've got how many of them?

“Eight.”

“Eight previously unseen works by John Lennon. Eight! Again, we would need to get them authenticated, but if they are real, which my colleagues and I believe they are, we believe at auction they could go for about ten thousand pounds. Each. A total of eighty thousand pounds.”

Florence shook her head and choked back tears. “I thought they might work out to a few hundred pounds each, but never in my wildest dreams as much as that. Oh, my word. I can't quite take it all in.”

Michael smiled at her. “I could hardly contain myself when you pulled those out of the bag,” he said. “I couldn't believe what I was seeing. This is the type of find we dream of discovering here on
Antiques Cymru
. Thank you so much for bringing them in.” He laughed. “I don't think I'll be able to get to sleep tonight.”

“You and me both,” replied Florence.

Florence remained seated until the filming was over. And then, as the appraiser approached, Penny joined the two, a beaming smile lighting up her face. “I knew it was going to be good news,” she said, “but I didn't know it would be that good. I'm so happy for you, Florence. You must be thrilled.”

Florence, however, was not smiling.

“I dread to think how Evelyn's going to take it,” she said.

“Let's not worry about her right now,” Penny said. “Just enjoy this very special moment.”

They thanked the appraiser and moved off to find Mrs. Lloyd, who had been standing in the cluster of spectators, which had grown rapidly as word rippled through the crowd that something big was happening at the art appraisal stand.

“Well, I've always said you were a dark horse, Florence,” she said. “But I never expected this! Why didn't you tell me what you had? You must have suspected the John Lennon stuff would be worth something.”

“Oh, I did, Evelyn. I just didn't know how much.”

“Well, what are you going to do now?”

“I'm going to ask Penny what she thinks I should do. But right now, I'm hungry and I want to go home.” She clutched the brown envelope containing the sketches to her chest. “I feel a little light headed, I must admit. This has been a bit of a shock and it's going to take me some time to take it all in.” She stopped walking, trying to catch her ragged breath as Mrs. Lloyd walked on ahead.

“Look, Florence,” said Penny, “now that we know just how valuable these drawings are, would you like me to ask Emyr to lock them up in his safe room until you can make arrangements for a safety deposit box at the bank?” Penny asked. “At least that way you won't have to worry about them getting stolen until you can arrange proper insurance for them.”

“I hadn't thought about the insurance,” Florence said. “I think it would be a good idea if they were locked up for safekeeping,” Florence handed her the envelope.

Penny put a gentle hand on Florence's arm. “Just a quick word before you go. I want to give you something to think about.”

Penny explained what she had in mind and a couple of minutes later Florence caught up with Evelyn Lloyd marching toward the shuttle bus, the silver tea service rattling in the box she held stiffly under her arm.

 

Eleven

Mrs. Lloyd was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride into town.

They got off the bus at the town square and began the short walk home. “I know you haven't had a chance to think this through,” Mrs. Lloyd said, “and forgive me for being direct, but will you be moving out?”

“I don't want to, Evelyn, if you want me to stay.”

“I do,” she said. “So that's settled then.” She paused to smile at her friend, and then a look of terror spread across her face.

“Oh, dear Lord, Florence,” she said. “Where's your envelope? You haven't left it on the bus have you? Oh, we must hurry to try to catch it before it starts the journey back to the Hall.”

“It's all right, Evelyn. You can relax. I haven't left it on the bus. I left it with Penny. She's going to see that Emyr locks it in the strong room up at the Hall until I can make more secure arrangements. A safety deposit box at the bank, or something like that. And insurance coverage.”

Mrs. Lloyd put a hand over her heart to slow her breathing. “Yes, we must see to the insurance. Oh, that's a good idea to leave them with Emyr. They'll be perfectly safe with him. And anyway, you never know who might have overheard that appraisal and everybody knows where we live. Somebody might have realized we are two elderly, defenceless ladies living on our own and come in the night, attacking us in our beds, trying to steal your artwork.”

“They still might,” said Florence. “How are they to know the artwork isn't on the premises?”

“Oh, dear God, Florence. Do you think that's a possibility? We'll have to barricade the door tonight or I won't sleep a wink. Every little noise and I'll be wondering if that's someone on the stairs coming for me.”

“Well, he'd be more likely to come for me,” said Florence. “I'm the one who owns the art.”

“Yes, but he won't know what room you're in, will he?”

Florence laughed. “Look, here's a suggestion. We go home, take our shoes off, put the kettle on, and have a think about what to do for the best over a nice cup of tea.”

“That sounds like a good plan, Florence. Have we got any of those nice biscuits I like so much? You know, the shortbread ones shaped like a little shell. Or better yet, the little round ones with the scalloped edges and the jam in them. And maybe we'll want something stronger than tea. A glass of sherry might be in order, by way of celebration. Things like this don't happen every day.”

As she finished speaking they turned into Thyme Close, the quiet little street that led to Rosemary Lane. They had just reached the halfway point when from behind them came a woman's scream. It was a primal sound, echoing a primitive fear that spoke of unimaginable terror. After exchanging a frightened glance, they looked behind them as a woman came running toward them, her arms outstretched. She reached them a moment later and pointed back at a house.

“In there,” she gasped. “Oh, my God. Call the police.”

Mrs. Lloyd pulled her phone out of her handbag and pressed 999.

“What should I tell them?” she said to the woman. “Has there been an accident?”

“Worse than that,” the woman wailed. “There's a dead woman in there and I think someone killed her.”

She started to shake and sob.

“You've had a terrible shock,” Florence said to the distraught woman as Mrs. Lloyd spoke to the police on the telephone.

“I wonder if the police would mind if I took her home and gave her a cup of tea. You could wait here until they arrive,” Florence said to Mrs. Lloyd when she had ended the call.

“Me!” Mrs. Lloyd exclaimed. “What if the killer comes back and finds me alone in the street? He might think I witnessed something and kill me to keep me silent. Happens all the time. And anyway, I wasn't able to tell the police which house it is. I said we'd just be here and this lady would show them.”

She turned to the woman. “Which house was it? I don't think you said.”

The woman looked at a piece of paper in her hand. “Number thirty-five. The lady's name is Catrin Bellis. I was just there to see about renting a room off her. I certainly didn't expect to find a dead body.”

“Of course you didn't,” said Florence soothingly.

“Oh, right,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Well, Miss, er, I'm sorry but I don't know your name.”

“Oh, it's Jean. Jean Bryson.” Before either woman could say any more, the rising and falling wail of sirens indicated the imminent arrival of the police. “Well, I guess that settles it,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “We'd all better just stay where we are until the police get here.”

A moment later, the first police car pulled up. A uniformed officer stepped out of the driver's side, followed by a tall, handsome man in his fifties wearing a well-tailored suit.

“Oh, Inspector Davies,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Thank God you're here. This lady said she'd just been into number thirty-five and discovered a dead body.” Mrs. Lloyd pointed to the modest pebble-dashed house with a tiny garden.

The inspector tipped his head at the uniformed officer who then opened the boot of the car, pulled out a roll of blue and white barricade tape, and entered number thirty-five. He emerged a few minutes later and began cordoning off the front of the property. The officer then stood outside the door, hands clasped in front of him, and looked straight ahead as he waited for DCI Gareth Davies to wrap up his conversation with the three women.

“Inspector, this lady's had a terrible shock and we wondered if it would be all right if we took her home with us and gave her a nice cup of tea. You could then interview her there when you're ready. You know where we live. Just at the end of the close, and then into Rosemary Lane,” said Florence.

Davies agreed, and after taking Jean Bryson's details, he headed to number thirty-five for what he expected to be his last case before he retired in a few weeks time. A moment later another police car arrived, driven by a woman officer and followed by a white scene of crime van and an ambulance. Davies, the woman officer, and the first of the forensic technicians ducked under the crime scene tape as the uniformed officer lifted it for them. Before entering the house they pulled on shoe covers and donned white protective overalls.

By now, a small crowd had started to gather. The three women, not wishing to be part of it, turned and walked the short distance to Mrs. Lloyd's sturdy charcoal grey stone house with its slate roof.

Florence unlocked the door and stood aside as the other two entered. “Now just leave your coat there, Jean,” said Mrs. Lloyd, “and Florence will bring us our tea in a minute. We were talking about having tea, anyway, just before we met you, so before you say anything, this is no trouble at all.”

Mrs. Lloyd's sitting room was comfortable and although it might have seemed old-fashioned to some, it was furnished in a tasteful,
Country Life
kind of way. The walls were painted a pale yellow, the sofa was a Wedgewood blue, and a couple of comfortable wing chairs in a floral pattern flanked each side of the slate fireplace. Magazines and library books were neatly stacked on side tables and a few photographs in sliver frames added a personal touch, as did the bouquet of fresh flowers in a crystal vase on a walnut table in front of the window. The room had a pleasant, clean smell of furniture polish.

Mrs. Lloyd waved her visitor to one of the wing chairs. Jean lowered herself gingerly into it, then perched on the edge, knees together and turned a little to one side. She lifted the hem of her purple plaid pleated skirt and tugged it downward and adjusted the sleeve of her lavender-coloured blouse.

The room was silent except for the oddly comforting ticking of a carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

Mrs. Lloyd breathed a small sigh of relief when Florence arrived with a laden tea tray that she placed with experienced precision on the largest of a series of three nesting tables.

“Well, now, Jean, how do you take your tea?” asked Florence, pouring a cup. “They always say you need some sugar at a time like this, so you'd better have some. Milk?” Jean nodded and Florence handed the cup to her. She accepted it with a trembling hand and then looked around for a place to set it. Mrs. Lloyd brought over the smallest of the nesting tables and placed it beside her chair.

“You can put it here,” she said, taking the cup from her and setting it on the table. Florence placed a small plate with two biscuits on it beside the cup, then poured tea for herself and Mrs. Lloyd.

“You know, Jean, I hope you don't mind my mentioning this, but I think I've seen you someplace before, and just recently, too, but I can't quite place you. Something about you seems familiar,” said Florence.

“I've just started a new position with the library,” Jean replied, “so it could be that's where you've seen me. I noticed you have a few library books.” She gestured at the little stack of books on the side table.