Murder on the Hour (3 page)

 

Four

“I'm not late, am I?” said Catrin anxiously, sliding into the seat opposite Tegwen. “I know how you hate to be kept waiting.” With the exception of an elderly couple seated at the window, the two women had the café to themselves, as the lunchtime rush was over and the after-school crowd had yet to arrive.

“No, you're all right,” Tegwen replied, “I got here early.” About the same age as Catrin, Tegwen wore her dark, shoulder-length hair styled in loose curls that framed a round, open face. “What are you having?”

“Just a coffee for me.”

“Oh, but they have St. Clement's cake today and I wanted a slice. You'd better have one to keep me company.”

“Not for me, thanks,” said Catrin. “I've been reading how harmful sugar is and I really am trying to cut back.”

“Well, that's not very friendly,” pouted Tegwen. “How can I have a slice of cake if you don't? I'll look a right pig.”

Catrin shrugged. “I doubt anyone will notice,” she said, glancing at the elderly couple who sat wrapped in the silence of decades as they gazed out the window. And then, as Tegwen's nose wrinkled in disapproval, Catrin heard herself blurting out, “Well, maybe we could share one, then.”

Tegwen brightened at the suggestion. “Yes, of course we can.” She handed Catrin a ten-pound note. “Here, you go over to the counter and get me a latte and piece of cake out of that.” Catrin took the money and returned a few minutes later with two coffees and a white plate with a piece of cake on a brown serving tray.

Catrin smiled at her companion as she set the latte and the slice of cake in front of her. Tegwen did not return the smile, but frowned as a look of something Catrin couldn't make out flashed across her grey eyes. Catrin placed the change from the ten-pound note in front of Tegwen as she sat down.

“You're so lucky you don't have a family to worry about, Catrin,” Tegwen sighed, ignoring the change and picking up the fork. She sliced the pale orange icing off the cake to save for last. “It's just one thing after another.”

“Is there a problem with the girls?” Catrin asked, wrapping her hands around the less expensive plain coffee she'd bought for herself. It would have been a nice gesture, she thought, if Tegwen had told her to pay for her coffee out of the ten-pound note.

“No, not the girls, no,” said Tegwen, tucking into the cake, all thoughts of sharing apparently forgotten. “Well, just the usual. You have no idea how difficult teenage girls are these days.” Actually, Catrin had a fair idea what was involved, having listened to Tegwen often enough going on about her two daughters and their insatiable demands for new clothes, makeup, and top ups for their phones. And how the girls were never off those phones, never lifted a finger to help out around the house, or showed the slightest bit of gratitude for all the things their parents gave them. And who raised them to be that way, Catrin was tempted to ask.

“Of course, you never got married,” Tegwen continued, gesturing slightly with the fork held in fingers that bordered on chubby. “Lucky you just got yourself to worry about.” She took a sip of her latte and then licked a bit of foam off her top lip and shot Catrin a sly, measured look.

“Anyway, it isn't the girls I want to talk about today. It's Brad.”

“Oh, yes.” Catrin didn't want the conversation to go in this direction. There was something so unpleasantly intimate about listening to the details of someone else's marriage. Tegwen sometimes recounted squabbles or disagreements she had with her husband, usually to do with his working long hours at his insurance business or having to spend his evenings visiting clients in their homes. What did Tegwen expect? She didn't work outside the home and apparently someone had to pay for the expensive items on the girls' ever growing list of wants.

Tegwen cleared her throat and ran a hand under her chin. “This is a bit difficult, so I guess the best thing is for me to be direct. Apparently, there are rumours. A good friend of mine told me that Brad's been seen with a woman, and well, I wondered if it was you.”

“Me?” Catrin's eyebrows shot up.

“Well, yes, you. Apparently the woman has short blonde hair and wears a green coat. You always liked him and now that you're, well, coming out of your shell, shall we say, men are starting to notice you. And you don't have much experience of them, so you might easily be…”

“If that's what you think, Tegwen, then obviously you don't think much of me.” Catrin stood up. “Or your husband, either, for that matter.”

“No, wait, Catrin, I didn't mean it like that. Please sit down,” said Tegwen, reaching out to her. The elderly couple turned their heads toward them and Tegwen lowered her voice. “I'm sorry, that came out all wrong. I'm very worried, that's all. I've heard things, and I don't know what to do. I thought I'd ask you if you knew anything.”

“You weren't asking me,” said Catrin, as she sank reluctantly back into her seat. “You were practically accusing me of having an affair with your husband.”

“There's just no one else I could think of that fit the description,” said Tegwen, with a forced, shallow laugh.

“Have you spoken to Brad? He's the one you should be talking to, not me. But since you have asked me, then no, I haven't heard anything.”

“It's just that you spend time at the Spa, and I thought you might have picked up something there. The place is filled with women, and they, well, they do talk.”

Catrin shook her head.

“No, I haven't heard anything. But I think you should talk to Brad and hear what he has to say.” A gloomy silence settled over them and in its awkwardness they finished up their coffees and gathered up their things, just as the café began to fill up with the after-school crowd.

“I'd offer you a lift home,” Tegwen began, “but I have to pick the girls up from school.”

“Of course you do,” said Catrin stiffly. “No worries. I'm fine on the bus.”

Normally, there would have been a quick hug and an exchange of “see you soon,” but Catrin plunged out through the café door and did not look back.

As she waited for the bus, words from the conversation tumbled round in her mind like clothes in a dryer. She'd been feeling uncomfortable with Tegwen for some time. They just didn't seem to connect the way they used to. Catrin was tired of listening to the endless complaints about the daughters and husband. And to her, of all people! Didn't Tegwen realize how much she longed for a family of her own? And although she'd never said anything, Catrin sensed that Tegwen disapproved of the improvements she was making to her physical appearance and the way she was taking better care of herself—especially the weight loss. She was always going on about how hard it was for her to lose weight, and her complexion was looking very dull and the skin on her neck was starting to sag and Catrin had to reassure her that she looked as good as, if not better, than other women her age.

When is it time to end a friendship, she wondered. When the things you don't like about someone begin to overwhelm the good things? And then the answer came to her. When it just isn't fun anymore.

 

Five

Two weeks before
Antiques Cymru
was scheduled to visit the town, Haydn Williams received a telephone call. The advance team was going to be in the area and was interested in the item of furniture he had described in his submission to them. Could he make it available for a pre-show inspection? Certainly he'd replied.

“Come in. Never mind the shoes,” Haydn said. “Come in, do.” The evaluator from the television program entered his warm kitchen with its flagstone floor. A black and white Border collie, asleep in his basket beside the Aga, roused himself and stood up to greet the visitor.

“That's our Kip,” said Haydn. “Don't mind him. He's very friendly, aren't you boy?” Kip wagged his feathery tail and the stranger gave him a friendly pat.

“I've just made a pot of tea, if you'd like some,” Haydn said.

“Indeed I would. That would be most welcome. Thank you.” He held out his hand. “Daniel Casey.” Haydn handed him a mug of tea and then gestured to a door on the far side of the kitchen. “Just through here,” he said. “There's a little anteroom.”

Daniel Casey stood for a few moments, examining the well-proportioned, finely crafted piece of furniture with his eyes. It stood just a little over three feet tall, with a graceful silhouette that included an angled top.

After taking several digital photographs from all angles he turned to Haydn. “It's a lovely English fall-front walnut bureau. I'll have a better idea how old it is in a minute or two, after I've had a closer look, but it could be Queen Anne period. Have you emptied it?”

As he'd been asked to do, Haydn had removed all its contents so every inch of the bureau would be easily accessible for the evaluation.

“Well, let's see what we have here then, shall we?” said Casey. He waved a hand in front of the bureau. “It has a configuration of two drawers over two, with one long thin drawer for paperwork.” The two bottom drawers were each the width of the bureau; above them were two drawers, each half the width.

Casey pulled out one of these drawers and turned it slightly so Haydn had a clear view of it.

“The dovetails run all the way down to the front of the drawer's facing, so that shows it's an early piece,” he said, pointing to them. “Plus, the sides and bottom are made of oak and if you look at the grain on the bottom, you can see that it runs front to back. On the later pieces, it ran side to side. So this is an early piece. I'd place it about 1730, or possibly even ten years earlier.”

“That old?” said Haydn. “I never would have thought.”

“Now, then,” said Casey, “let's see what secrets this bureau holds.”

He tugged on two small brass knobs just above the drawers, and two pieces of wood slid out. He then lifted the cover of the desk toward himself and rested it gently on the pulls. With the desk open, he proceeded to examine the interior.

He pushed back a wooden bar on top of the work surface, revealing a space below the main body of the desk. “This is called the well,” he told Haydn. “And again, you can see that the grain runs front to back, so that's good. This was the place to keep deeds or other documents you'd want close to hand.”

“And a good way to keep down the clutter,” Haydn said. “Just chuck all the bits and pieces in there, close the lid, and the desk top is nice and tidy.”

The upright part of the bureau featured three pigeonholes on each side of a small locked door with two columns separating the pigeonholes from the door. A little gold key was in the lock. He turned the lock and peered inside. Empty.

Below the pigeonholes was a small drawer. He ran his hands along the top of the pigeonholes, feeling his way behind a bit of decorative woodwork.

“These are called canopies,” he said, referring to the delicate work that framed the top of the pigeonholes. “There's nothing behind there, so that tells me we have to look elsewhere for the hidden compartments.”

He took out each drawer and finding no place to set them, handed them to Haydn. He reached his hand in the spaces where the drawers had been and flicked a little tab. This freed the box with the lock in it and he gently pulled it out. It resembled a small wooden safe.

“And now,” said Casey, “we come to the real secret compartment. The box has a false back.” He turned it around so Haydn could watch as he slowly raised the back of the box, revealing a hidden compartment.

“Oh, wow!” said Haydn as Daniel removed a wooden box from the back and then slid a little latch to open it. “I never knew that was there. Is there anything in it?”

“No,” said Daniel. “I'm sure it's been used for storage at some point, but nothing here now.”

“What sort of things would have been kept there?” Haydn asked.

“Well, a few centuries ago, people didn't have nearly as much stuff as we do now. But the gentleman who owned this bureau might have kept his property deeds or family wills—that sort of thing. And sometimes these compartments come with little locks, so he could have kept things he didn't want his missus to know about—letters from the mistress, maybe.”

He pulled out two more drawers, set them on the floor and then peered into the innermost depths of the bureau.

“What's the most interesting thing you've ever found squirreled away in one of these things?” asked Haydn.

“I guess the neatest thing I ever found was a pearl-handled opera glass. That tells you something about the status of the person who once owned it, doesn't it?”

He bent over and picked up a drawer. “Well, that's it for the bureau,” he said as he slid the drawer back into place and reached for the other one. “All secrets revealed. What can you tell me about this bureau? How did you come to have it?”

“It's always been there,” Haydn replied. “I've lived in this house all my life and it was there when I was growing up. My father told me it was there when he was a lad, so it was here in my grandparents' time and probably long before that.”

Daniel Casey took a sip of tea and ran an affectionate, knowledgeable hand along the top of the desk. “I'm always happy to see one of these lovely pieces of furniture,” he said, “and the longer they've been in the same family, the better.”

As he finished speaking, from another room came the mellow tones of a clock chiming five times. Casey checked his watch. It was exactly 5
P.M
.

“You've got a clock?”

“Oh, yes. Longcase.”

“I wouldn't mind a look at it, since I'm here. Would that be all right with you?”

“Of course. Just through here.” Haydn opened a door off the anteroom and led the way into a small sitting room. Daniel Casey stepped back fifty years into a parlour that Haydn's mother and grandmother would have used only on the most special occasions—after a funeral, perhaps, or when the vicar came to call. A fine layer of dust covered the furniture and the room had the musty smell of a room rarely used. An upright piano with brass candle holders attached to its upper front board stood in one corner. A faded burgundy sofa with crocheted antimacassars along the back was positioned against the far wall, resting on an almost threadbare carpet. In the opposite corner to the piano stood a longcase clock.