A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,36

on to the next page, she saw a photograph that made her heart beat faster. Taken from an artistic angle, it showed a group of four people laughing as one held up a painting and the three others pretended to judge it.

LIVERPOOL ART TEACHERS PREPARE FOR NEW EXHIBIT Liverpool artists, left to right, Alys Jones, Millicent Mayhew, and Cynthia Browning sort through canvases in the staff room of the Liverpool School of Art, Hope Street. Looking on is Andrew Peyton, who will be curating the exhibit, scheduled to open in February at the Walker Art Gallery.

She leaned forward to try to get a better look at the grainy black-and-white image. Alys had very short, dark hair and was wearing a tailored white shirt with what looked like a man’s tie. She was leaning back in her chair and holding a cigarette in a jaunty but affected kind of way, as if it were in a long cigarette holder.

Penny had to smile. Although she had never been a smoker, she could remember the days when people smoked everywhere—on airplanes, trains, and buses, at meetings and the cinema and even in college and university classrooms, students and professors alike puffing away. That’s one thing I definitely don’t miss, she thought.

So there was to have been an art exhibit. She wondered if it had gone ahead. The Walker Art Gallery, Penny knew, was next door to the library. She had been there many years before and was now asking herself why she hadn’t been back to Liverpool in such a long time. But a visit there would have to wait for another day.

She glanced at her watch. Twenty after three. She reached for her pen to note down the details of the item and then had a better idea. She approached the librarian, who was reading on her computer.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if I could print a page from the microfiche,” Penny asked. The librarian’s eyes stayed on the screen for a moment, then her head turned in Penny’s direction.

“Yes, you may,” she said, “but there’s a small charge, I’m afraid, and the quality won’t be very good.”

After carefully placing the copy of the printed page in the file folder in her bag, Penny respooled the film, returned it to its spot, picked out the December spool, and, with slightly shaking fingers, loaded it into the microfiche reader. This one would probably contain the details of Alys’s death. In fearful, knowing anticipation of what she was about to see, she wound the reel on slowly. And, sure enough, there it was on the front page of the Monday, December 7, 1970 issue.

LIVERPOOL ARTIST DIES IN HIT-AND-RUN TRAGEDY A well-liked, promising artist and teacher at the Liverpool School of Art has been killed in a hit-and-run accident.

Alys Jones, 32, died in the early hours of Saturday, December 5 from injuries sustained when she was struck by a car on a back lane in the Welsh market town of Llanelen. Miss Jones, who was born and grew up in Llanelen, was believed to have been visiting family at the time of the accident.

The driver has not been caught, and police are asking anyone who might have information to come forward. The investigation continues.

Friends and colleagues at the college are devastated by Miss Jones’s death.

Close friend and fellow artist Millicent Mayhew said, “We are reeling from the loss. Not only have we lost a dear and treasured friend but the Liverpool art movement has lost a great talent. She was among the best painters of her generation and will be missed by all who knew her.”

Miss Jones had been due to exhibit her work, along with that of other artists from the Liverpool School of Art, at the Walker Art Gallery in February.

Funeral arrangements have not been announced.

Penny sent the page to the printer and, realizing that the librarian was waiting to close for the day, spooled the film back to the beginning of the reel, put it back in the box, and replaced it in the drawer. She gathered up her bags and, nodding a thank you to the librarian, who was switching off her computer, left the room and descended the stairs to the main exit.

She found herself on the street and, a few steps later, outside the Walker Gallery, now closed. She took in the colourful banners promoting the current exhibits and promised herself she would return soon and give herself more time. A visit to the