A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,68

free of the lapels. The woman pointed at the painting.

“Mediocre Milly we called her. She could no more have painted that than I’m an Olympic ski jumper!”

“Who do you think did paint it, then?” asked Penny.

“I’ve probably said more than I should have,” the woman replied. “It’s just my opinion, that’s all.” She started to turn away, but Penny put a hand gently on her arm. “Please, I’d like to talk to you.” She gave Victoria an imploring look and gestured in her direction. “My friend Victoria here and I are looking into the hit-and-run death of an artist about thirty-five years ago, and we think there’s a connection to this woman.”

The woman’s face softened and a subtle light came into her blue eyes.

“Do you mean Alys Jones?” Penny nodded eagerly. “She was a lively one, so full of fun. Really brightened the place up.”

“You knew her then?”

“Oh, yes,” said the woman. “I knew all of them. Alys and Cynthia, and Millicent and her creature. That awful man. Oh, what was his name?” She tapped the side of her head.

“Andrew Peyton?”

“That’s it. He was a nasty piece of work, but he had nothing on Millicent. She had a special genius for making people afraid of her.”

Penny’s eyes darted quickly around the room. Important-looking men in dark suits were chatting up twenty-something long-haired girls in jeans and skimpy tops. Nothing new there, she thought.

“Look, I’m sorry, let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Penny Brannigan and this is Victoria Hopkirk. It’s a long story, but we’d love to talk to you. Maybe this isn’t the best place. Somewhere quieter. Would you join us for dinner?” The woman hesitated, and Penny realized that from her age and dated suit, she was probably a pensioner on a very mean budget. She had likely come to the opening thinking the free wine and whatever food was being served would do for her supper, and that would be one less meal she had to worry about. “Of course, it would be our treat,” she added. “Do let us give you a nice dinner. Anywhere you like.”

“Well, I haven’t been to the Adelphi in many years, so that would be rather nice,” the woman said. “If you wouldn’t mind. I don’t know what it’s like there now, of course.”

“I’m sure it will be just fine,” Penny said. “Would you like to go now, or shall we walk around for a bit and look at more of the exhibit?”

“Well, we could have a look at it on our way out,” the woman said. “I’ve seen them all before. I was surprised to be invited, to be honest. I only came to see if there was anybody here from the old days, but there aren’t many of us left. All died. Or been killed off.”

She gave Penny a sharp, knowing look.

“Why are you here?”

“We came hoping to meet you. Or someone like you. We just didn’t know who you would be.” Penny paused. “Who are you, by the way?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? My name is Florence Semble. I was the secretary at the School of Art for many years, and I knew all of them. And yes, before you ask, I knew Lennon. And a jumped-up little git he was, too. So aggressive and rebellious. Still the music worked out all right for him, I’ll give him that.” Her eyes clouded over as fifty years slipped away and an image of the disruptive eighteen-year-old Teddy Boy with the drainpipe trousers, duck’s arse haircut, and affected working-class accent filled her mind.

Penny smiled and turned back to contemplate the Mayhew painting, while Victoria and Florence moved on.

Half an hour later, as they left the gallery, Victoria turned to Florence and asked if she would be all right to walk to the hotel or if she would prefer that they hail a cab.

“I walked up the hill,” she replied tartly, “so I can certainly walk down it!”

About twenty minutes later, Penny pushed on the revolving door of the Adelphi and they all entered the grand old hotel.

Built in 1914 to cater to upper-class passengers of the large liners whose home port was Liverpool, the Adelphi still manages to evoke the gracious era of oceangoing travel.

As they crossed the reception area, Florence turned to Penny and Victoria and gestured up the red carpeted stairs.

“Oh, I haven’t been in here in years,” she said. “It’s grand to be back. We should just see if we can pop into the Sefton Suite up here. It’s an exact