A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,69

replica of the smoking lounge aboard the Titanic and well worth seeing.”

She led the way through the Titanic-sized ballroom and up a few side stairs to a doorway and peeked in. “There, girls, have a look at that!” She waved Penny and Victoria into the room, where they stood, eyes turned upward.

From the massive chandeliers hanging from the soaring ceiling, to the ornately carved oak-paneled walls, the oval-shaped room, which represented the full-blown luxury of the Edwardian age, was spectacular. As they drank in the beauty of the room, a disembodied voice startled them.

“Sorry, ladies, we’re just going to start setting up for an event, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Reluctantly, they returned to the reception area and then went down the few stairs to Cromptons Restaurant.

When they were seated, Penny explained that she had inherited Emma’s cottage and wanted to know everything she could about Alys.

“She was a lovely girl, was Alys,” said Florence. “Just a tiny little thing, but so talented. She was younger than the teachers they usually hired at the college, so she had a good rapport with the students. They all adored her. Everyone was so shocked when she died like that. No one could quite believe it. We didn’t want to believe it.”

“Can you tell me more about her circle of friends?” Penny asked. “The people she hung out with?”

“Well, there was Cynthia Powell. No, sorry, that was another Cynthia. Cynthia Browning. Not sure what happened to her. I think there was talk around that time that she was emigrating to Australia or New Zealand, although I don’t know why she’d want to do that.”

Florence gave Penny a quizzical look. “From the sounds of you, you’re from away, though, so I guess you’d know why some people decide to leave a perfectly nice country and go and live in another one.”

The waiter handed them menus, and conversation stopped while they studied them. Florence scanned hers greedily and opted for a smoked salmon starter with roast lamb for her entrée. When the waiter had taken their orders, she continued.

“Anyway, then there was that Andrew Peyton who was on the fringe of it. Didn’t really belong to the college but liked to be around the artists, as if some of their creativity might rub off on him.”

She took a sip of wine.

“I could never figure him out, to be honest. He was a very queer duck. And I don’t necessarily mean queer in that way. Or maybe I do. We could never figure out if he leaned to the lavender. There was something asexual about him, to be honest.” She shrugged. “It’s anybody’s guess what team he played on. Or if he played at all, really. But he was devoted to that Millicent for some reason. Maybe she had some kind of hold over him. Couldn’t stand her myself, but maybe that’s just me. She was aggressive in a very sneaky kind of way, and although she was somehow unsure of herself, I think she usually got what she wanted.”

“What do mean, exactly?” Victoria asked.

“She was so fearful that somebody else might have something she didn’t, or do something she couldn’t. Catty, smiling to your face and saying the most awful things about you behind your back. I never trusted her. Something about her just didn’t sit right with me. I like people who are straight up. Me, I speak as I find, and if that hurts people’s tender feelings sometimes, then I’m very sorry, but at least with me you’ll always know where you stand. That Millicent would put a knife in your back and wouldn’t give it a second thought, if she thought it would get her what she wanted.”

Florence gave a little sniff and then glanced longingly in the direction of a waiter.

“She never bothered to pretend in front of folks she considered the lower classes, though. She thought we were all common. That was the word she used. As if she wasn’t the commonest one of the lot.”

“Florence, you said at the gallery that you don’t think Millicent painted that work on display—” Penny began.

“What I actually said was that if she did paint it, I would eat my hat,” Florence interrupted.

Penny smiled. “Yes, you did say that. But I’m wondering, if not Millicent, then who?”

Florence gave her a wry, withering look.

“Missy, you already know who painted it, and that’s why we’re here having this lovely meal.”

Florence sighed. “I tried to tell all this to the Liverpool police