The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,63
retained, however, its shabby chic feel, complete with lots of chintz, the occasional wet dog, and the unmistakable smell of beeswax on the days when Gwennie rode her bicycle up from the village to give everything a good going over with her duster.
The small pastures on either side of the road leading to the Hall were dotted with sheep, and as her car approached, they stopped their grazing, lifted their heads, and looked at her with mild curiosity. Bits of their fleece that had snagged on the metal fence fluttered softly in the breeze. She smiled at them, envying their woolly contentment, and drove on.
When she reached the Hall, she decided to drive around to the back of the large house, and use the tradesmen’s entrance. She parked her car and walked across to the back door, her heels tapping on the flagstones. She lifted the heavy brass knocker, which was shaped like a dolphin, and rapped twice.
A few moments later she heard footsteps and the door opened to reveal a small woman with a pointed nose and small, dark, meerkat eyes. She was wearing an apron and carrying a bright pink feather duster.
Ah, thought Victoria, this must be Gwennie.
“Yes?” the woman asked pleasantly.
“Good morning,” said Victoria, giving her the benefit of a broad smile. “I wondered if I could have a word with Mr. Gruffydd?”
“Sorry, he isn’t here at the moment,” she said sharply.
“Do you expect him back soon?” asked Victoria.
“Well, now, that’s hard to say,” said the woman cautiously. “Depends on who you are, and what you want with him, doesn’t it?”
“Of course,” said Victoria. “So sorry, I’m Victoria Hopkirk and I’m a harpist and I wondered if he would like me to play at his father’s funeral. Bronwyn Evans suggested I might call around and offer my services It would be—”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said the woman. “I’m Gwennie. I do for him. Well, that is I used to do for his father, and now, I guess, I do for him, although there’s been so much bother lately nothing’s settled. You’d better come in, then. I was afraid you might be one of those reporter ladies and I know he doesn’t want to talk to any of that lot just at the minute.”
“No, of course he doesn’t,” said Victoria soothingly as they made their way down the short passage to the kitchen.
“He’s just out walking Trixxi,” said Gwennie. “Oh that reminds me, I’d better get her biscuit ready. She always looks in her bowl for her biscuit when she comes back from her walk and is very hurt when there isn’t one.” Gwennie opened a cupboard door, took a dog biscuit from the box, and placed it in the stainless steel dog bowl on the floor.
“Right. Well, have a seat,” she said, gesturing at the table. “I was just thinking about a cup of tea, and I’m sure you’d like one, so I’ll just get the kettle on, shall I?”
As Gwennie turned to fill the kettle, Victoria took in her surroundings.
The large, airy kitchen had been cleverly and tastefully modernized to retain its old-fashioned look and feel, but to incorporate all modern conveniences. Cream-coloured floor-to-ceiling cupboards, with open shelving decoratively displaying plates, cookbooks, and plants, took up two walls. A built-in recess housed an Aga cooker, in front of which, on the shining hardwood floor, sat a large, open Victorian gardener’s basket filled with the last of the asparagus and the first of the green beans that had been harvested that morning from the Hall’s kitchen garden. A few feet away from the basket was a rumpled dog bed.
The generous counter space was clear of clutter. From her seat at the well-scrubbed harvest table in the centre of the room, Victoria could see past a pottery bowl filled with bright yellow lemons into a long, carpeted hall that stretched toward the front of the house. Behind her were two large windows with a view onto the car park and the wooded grounds beyond. The room was filled with a warm, spicy fragrance that reminded her of Christmas baking.
As Gwennie puttered about, Victoria went over the discussion she and Penny had had the night before over their cups of bedtime cocoa.
“Mrs. Lloyd says that Gwennie knows everything that goes on in that house,” Penny had said. “Make sure you get as much information about the wedding party as you can. Oh, and she’s absolutely mad about the dog, apparently, so you might want to play that up a