A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,50
to present itself most days about this time.
“The post has arrived,” Bronwyn commented as she held up the coffeepot with a quizzical look at her husband.
“Yes, please,” he said, as he rose from the table.
“All right, then, Robbie,” he muttered as he made his way to the front door. “Come on now, there’s a good boy.”
Wagging his tail, Robbie charged ahead in the direction of the kitchen where his next task of the day awaited him: helping Bronwyn clear the plates.
The rector scooped up the morning post and followed the small dog back to the kitchen.
He placed the little pile in front of him and began to sort it. “Oh, here’s a postcard from your sister,” he said as he handed it to Bronwyn. “Where’d they go, again?”
“Arizona.”
“Oh, right, Arizona. The weather’s very good out there, I hear. Many pensioners take advantage of it. It’s meant to be very dry or something like that.”
He placed a few bills to one side and then looked at the two magazines that had just arrived.
He chose Wales Today and, after glancing over the index, turned a few pages and scanned the contents. A small article caught his attention and he started to read, then chuckle.
“What is it, dear?” asked Bronwyn.
“It’s called bog snorkeling, of all things. Here, listen,” and he read out loud: “ ‘In Llanwrtyd Wells, crowds watch competitors swim up and down a hundred-and-thirty-three-meter bog filled with sulphurous, weedy water. Some wear silly costumes, but all entrants must not use conventional swimming strokes, relying on flipper power only.’ ”
He patted his stomach. “I think I should take it up. I expect I’d be a natural. And as you always like to remind me, I should take more exercise.”
Smiling, Bronwyn got up from the table and came round to stand beside him. Leaning over his shoulder, she looked at the photograph and rocked with laughter.
“Oh! And we could get you a nice rubber suit. What with the flippers, you’d look so fetching I’d not be able to keep my hands off you.”
They giggled together while he wrapped his arm around her waist.
A few moments later Bronwyn returned to her seat, and Thomas looked at the cover of his weekly Church Times bulletin. He riffled through a few pages and then turned to the obituaries.
“It’s a sad commentary on our lives when we start to take an interest in the obituaries,” he remarked to his wife, who was buttering her toast while she admired the image of a large cactus on the postcard that she had propped up against her juice glass.
“No one we know mentioned there, I hope.”
The rector scanned the list.
“No, I don’t think so. Wait. Who’s this?”
He read for a few moments in silence.
“Bronwyn, listen to this! ‘Suddenly, at his home in Llandudno, the Reverend William Peyton, in his seventy-ninth year. Survived by his wife, Marjorie, three children, six grandchildren, and brothers, Andrew and John.’ And then it goes on about the funeral arrangements.”
“I don’t think we know him, do we, dear? Perhaps you met him in the course of your duties, but the name doesn’t ring a bell with me.”
“No, not him, Bronwyn. His brother. Andrew Peyton. Isn’t that the name of the man Penny was interested in? The artist fellow from that group of people in Liverpool that are connected to Alys Jones?” He fumbled about in his pocket for his diary. “Let me see. Where did I write those names? Yes! Here we are—Millicent, hmmm, yes! Andrew Peyton! No, not an artist. He was the curator.”
“But we don’t know if it’s the same fellow,” his wife commented.
“No, but I’m sure Penny would want to know, anyway,” he replied with mild impatience. “I must ring her right away. Excuse me for a moment.”
Bronwyn spread a little more marmalade on her toast, then broke off a piece and slipped it to Robbie, who was sitting beside her chair.
“Hello, Penny,” the rector was saying, “sorry to ring you so early but wanted to get you before you left for the shop.
“Sorry, salon. Anyway, I wondered if you fancied going to a funeral with us on Thursday morning in Llandudno.”
He laughed.
“Yes, I know it seems a bit odd, but you know that Andrew Peyton fellow you were interested in? I don’t know if this is the same one, but . . .” He read the contents of the obituary notice.
“Right, then, we’ll pick you up at nine. See you then.”
He set down the telephone receiver and returned to his wife.