A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,11

her chair, sat down, and took a grateful sip of tea. She stole a glance at the woman, who had gone back to perusing the catalogue. She seemed about the same age as Emma, with short dark hair brushed back from her face and strong, well-defined features. Perhaps sensing Emma’s gaze, the woman looked up from her reading and picked up the glass of brandy she had been nursing.

“So,” she asked, peering coolly at Emma over the rim of her snifter, “what brings you to town on this dreary afternoon?”

“I’ve just been to a concert at the Phil,” Emma replied. “I’ve a subscription and come every month or so.”

A light silence hung between them in that defining instant when two strangers, for whatever reasons, decide in the first few words they exchange whether they wish to get to know the other person better.

“And you?”

“Just been to an exhibit at the Walker Gallery over the road,” she replied. And then after a moment, her face softened as her eyes explored Emma’s face, and she smiled. “My name’s Alys.”

“I’m Emma. Nice to meet you.”

“And where are you headed for now, Emma?”

“I live in Llanelen, but you’ve probably not even heard of it. Just a little town not too far from Llandudno.”

Alys laughed.

“Oh, I’ve heard of it,” she said, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. “This might be one of those small-world moments. I have family in Llanelen. My older brothers live and work there. Jones is my name.”

“I probably teach their children, then, in the primary school!”

The two continued to chat, easily and eagerly, until Emma realized, with reluctance, that it was time to leave to catch the train to Chester where she would change for Llandudno. She pushed back her chair and reached for her gloves.

“I must be going,” she said. “It was nice meeting you.”

“And you,” Alys replied. “I’ll be on my way as well.”

An intense attraction charged with longing crackled between them.

“You know,” said Alys, maintaining eye contact while she reached for the umbrella Emma had placed between the chairs and offered it to its owner, “The Sound of Music is playing at the Odeon and I wondered if you might like to see it with me next week. We could go to an early showing and perhaps have a meal afterward.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Emma smiled, hoping the relief in her voice wasn’t too obvious. “I’d like that very much.” As she took the umbrella, their hands touched and they looked at each other with complete understanding.

“Well, that’s settled then,” said Alys. “Give me your address and I’ll write you. Are you on the phone? I could ring you later in the week and we’ll sort things out. Shall I walk you to your platform?”

The things I must do, Alys thought cheerfully a few minutes later, as she made her way to the station exit. Two hours of Julie Andrews and the kids singing those bloody awful songs. Whiskers on kittens! And then, unable to stop herself, she started to hum.

And so it began. They met the following week, and this time Emma was not traveling on a same-day return ticket. Their relationship deepened in the anonymity of Liverpool, a culturally sophisticated city where they conducted their affair in the loving privacy of Alys’s small, north-facing flat in a redbrick Georgian house on Rodney Street, near the Liverpool School of Art, where she taught painting and drawing. Occasionally, Alys drove to Llanelen, but Emma was afraid to be seen with her in the small town, knowing that if their relationship became common knowledge, it would undoubtedly mean a scandalous end to the teaching job she loved so much and the livelihood it provided.

Three years flew by as they settled easily into a comfortable routine, sharing picnics under sunny skies, taking long drives in Alys’s MG convertible, and living together as a couple in quiet domesticity. They wrote to each other when circumstances prevented their getting together—letters that Emma tied in a purple ribbon and hid in the Welsh dresser.

But early one morning in December 1970 their relationship came to an unexpected, violent end.

“Well, try to be here on time for the start of Dad’s Army,” said Emma over the telephone. “You know I like to see the programme from the beginning.”

“I will,” promised Alys.

Emma puttered about the cottage that evening, doing a little dusting and straightening up shelves that didn’t really need tidying. She was always on edge when Alys visited. Although her cottage was fairly