The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,55

they all have to look the same? Down at the station there must be ten of them, they’re all the same age, they all wear the same clothes, talk the same, and I swear I can’t tell them apart.”

Eighteen

The next morning, the rector replaced the telephone receiver and walked down the narrow hall to the kitchen where his wife was just starting to think about what to make for lunch and, after poking around in the refrigerator, was leaning toward quiche and salad.

Bronwyn closed the refrigerator door and turned to face her husband as he entered the room. Sensing something was wrong, she gave him the quizzical look that he immediately understood in the way long-married couples do.

“That was Emyr. His father’s life is drawing peacefully toward its close.”

“Peacefully toward its close? Why would you be talking like that?”

“I read it somewhere. It was said about a king, George V, I think. I’ve always liked the simplicity and dignity of it.” He shrugged, and added, “Oh, all right. I’ve probably always been looking for an excuse to use it.” He straightened his shoulders and moved closer to her.

“The doctor’s on her way, Emyr said, and I’ve been summoned to the Hall. I know I’m going there to attend to Rhys, but I can’t help but wonder how Emyr will possibly cope with all this. His burden of grief has to be overwhelming, what with his fiancée and now his father. It seems like too much to ask someone to deal with that. I’ll do what I can, but it won’t be enough.”

His wife nodded sympathetically.

“I’ll have your lunch waiting for you when you get back,” she said in her practical way. “You’ll probably want a little something now to tide you over.”

“Good idea,” her husband replied. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her gently toward him.

“You know, Bronwyn, I don’t tell you this nearly often enough, but I have been so blessed all these years, having you as my wife. I love you dearly and I’m grateful for every day we’ve had together.”

Bronwyn smiled at him and then, knowing he had to be feeling somewhat awkward because he, like most Welshmen of his generation, did not often put his feelings on display, put her arms around his waist and rested her cheek on his chest. Tenderly, he placed his hand on her head.

“Get away with you, Thomas,” she laughed into his tie. “You’re just trying to get around me because you’re angling for a biscuit.”

“And that’s another thing I like about you,” he replied, kissing her hair. “How well you know me, my dear girl. I wouldn’t say no.”

A few minutes later, looking unusually solemn, he was on his way to the Hall.

At the Llanelen police station, Davies put the phone down. Morgan looked over at him across the small office and waited.

“That was the pathologist with the preliminary examination results. As the coroner told us, there were at least four strong blows to the head, at the back. Not enough to kill her, maybe, but certainly enough to bring her down. Apparently she put up a fierce fight—gave it everything she had. She died of strangulation. The killer used something like a stout cord with a very small braiding pattern on it. There were other, smaller injuries, like bruises on her arms.”

Morgan straightened the keyboard on the desk in front of her and then looked at her superior.

“And were there any signs of, well, anything of a sexual nature?” she asked, somewhat primly.

Davies shook his head. “No, thank God.” He looked out the window for a moment and then back at his sergeant.

“All this would have been so much easier if we’d known from the beginning what we were dealing with. We lost so much time during the first crucial hours when we thought she was just a runaway bride. Someone was very clever. In terms of distracting and delaying, it certainly worked against us.”

Morgan nodded and started gathering up her files that were strewn across the borrowed desk. When she was feeling overwhelmed or unsure, Davies had noticed, she tidied up her desk. He wondered if she thought clearing her workspace would free her up somehow for the tasks to come, or if she just found comfort in it. A bit of both, perhaps.

“All right, Bethan, here we go. We’ll get the full report and autopsy photos soon. We’re going to need an incident room, so you’ll have to find out if there’s a space