A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,49

wearing the same clothes she wore in that photograph taken in the art college staff lounge that had been printed in the Liverpool Echo?

And if the subjects in that painting were Alys and Emma, who was in the other paintings? Could the male figure be Andrew Peyton, and the female be either Cynthia Browning or Millicent Mayhew?

She gazed at the paintings, taking in the play of light on the figures and background. The artist had used her brush strokes confidently and yet sparingly and lightly to suggest the bank of purple flowers in the background. It was impossible to tell what kind they were. Bluebells? Forget-me-nots? Violets? But aren’t violets a spring flower? These paintings had the look of high summer about them.

Where was this scene painted, Penny wondered. She had hiked and rambled on her painting excursions around much of the area, or so she thought, but she had no idea where this could be. She looked at the artist’s signature on the bottom left of the painting: A. Jones. She would have loved to have stroked it but knew better than to touch the painting.

She sighed softly, looked at her watch, and realized she was starting to get hungry.

She went to the kitchen for a glass of water, but before she could sit down again, she was startled by a knock at the door. Her drinking glass shook slightly, spilling a few drops on the floor. She held the glass well away from the paintings on the table and looked around for a place to set it down.

The knocking came again, a little louder this time and, she imagined, more insistent. She set the glass down on a nearby table and headed for the door, wiping a damp hand on her trousers.

She braced herself, then opened the door.

“Hello,” he said. “I know I should have called first, but I wondered if I might come in and have a word.”

Penny stepped silently aside to let Gareth enter. He seemed somehow smaller than when she’d seen him last. She gestured at her sofa, and he sank into its squishy depths.

She sat near him, in one of the wing chairs, and pinched her lips together as she waited for him to speak. She could not meet his eyes and, instead, looked at her hands.

“I’ve missed you,” he said simply. “I don’t know what’s happened or what’s gone wrong, but I must have done something to upset you. Whatever it was, I’m sorry, and I’m so hoping you’ll give me the chance to make it up to you.”

Penny turned her attention to a tree in the front garden, its leaves gently brushing against the diamond panes of the window.

She made a vague gesture with her hands.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Gareth, except I’m sorry. I just don’t think this is going to work.”

He swallowed and patted the back of his neck.

“I was afraid you’d say that. I was thinking rather the opposite. I thought we could be really good together. Are you saying we shouldn’t see each other again?”

Penny nodded. “I think I am. I just feel it would be for the best.”

A heavy silence, tinged with frost and awkwardness, settled over them.

He reached out to her, but she withdrew her hand before he could touch it.

“I see,” he said, and then stood up. He glanced around the room and seeing the two paintings propped up on the table, appeared about to say something and then thought better of it.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Good night.”

She followed him to the door, opened it for him, and watched as he set off down the path. Look back at me, she thought. Look back. But he didn’t and a few moments later she heard the sound of his car starting as she closed the door.

Heart pounding, she leaned against it. What have I done, she thought. Instead of feeling the relief she had expected, she felt an overwhelming sense of loss. She opened the door and looked out, but as twilight fell over her front garden, she knew there was no one there.

She walked back into her sitting room, and suddenly the paintings didn’t seem quite so interesting and she realized she was no longer hungry.

Thirteen

The soft thud of the morning post landing on the rectory’s hallway floor was the signal for Robbie to swing into action.

He raced down the hall, barking loudly, to warn off the unseen threat to the safety and well-being of his family that seemed