A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,80
Penny came to suspect, Millicent Mayhew was filled with an all-consuming envy. She couldn’t accept that Alys was on the brink of great recognition as a superbly talented artist. She wanted that fame for herself, so she killed Alys and then stole her artwork.
“Her original plan was to take the paintings, cover up Alys’s signature, and then sign them herself. She did this with one painting—the one on view at the Victoria Gallery that Florence here recognized as not being Millicent’s work.”
Florence nodded.
“Millicent also realized, too late, that the art world would never accept the work as hers—too many questions would be asked—so she just kept them, lived with them, and loved them. They were well worth having in their own right so in that regard she was a bit like a private collector who will pay a fortune for a stolen work of art, knowing that it can never be exhibited. It’s a private pleasure kind of thing.
“Originally, we thought that Peyton was driving the car that hit Alys, with Millicent in the passenger seat. In fact, it was she who pulled the body off the car and left it on the side of the road.”
He looked at the Jones brothers and apologized softly.
“Now, as for our second body, the remains found in the ductwork of the new spa. I have just been on the phone with Cynthia Browning’s brother, who was rather tired after a long flight from New Zealand. Browning had been out there to a family wedding at which Cynthia, now a great-grandmother, had enjoyed herself enormously.”
A ripple of chatter passed through the group.
“Then who . . .?”
Davies pinched his lips together.
“That’s the thing. We don’t know whose remains they are. We think they might be a homeless person or transient who disappeared and was placed in the ductwork at some time when the building was either a hostel or was being used as a squat. So we’ll keep looking into that.”
He gave his audience a few minutes to take in this new information.
“So, with Cynthia alive and well, we will start extradition proceedings to bring her back to the U.K. We aren’t sure yet what her motive was, but hopefully we’ll be able to discover that when we speak to her.”
Florence cleared her throat and held up her hand.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “but I might be able to help with that.”
Davies smiled at her. “Yes, go on, please.”
“Well, Cynthia had set her cap on this young man from New Zealand. He came from a wealthy family of sheep farmers, with large holdings, apparently. They got engaged, but while he was back in New Zealand, she had a brief fling with someone else and found herself in the family way.”
A few brief smiles flitted across elderly faces at the use of this quaint, old-fashioned euphemism for “pregnant.”
“Anyway, she was so afraid he’d find out—and you have to remember that back then, abortions were illegal and very risky. But Millicent knew someone who could help, because her brother’s girlfriend had been through the same thing. So she got Cynthia sorted out, and I think Cynthia then owed her. Big time.”
Florence paused and looked around the room.
“Millicent was like that. She’d get something on you and then hold it over you.” She thought for a moment.
“Oh, all this takes me back. They set me up with a little desk in the corner of the staff room because there was no place else for me, so I had to try to get my work done in there while the teachers went on and on about their personal lives. And you should have heard them talk about how much they disliked the students! Makes you wonder what they were doing there if the kids were that bad. It’s the old adage, I guess, ‘He who can does . . .’
“Anyway, they talked about anything and everything and took no notice of me. It was as if I didn’t exist. So I just kept my head down and got on with my work. But I overheard a lot, I can tell you.”
Davies glanced at Bethan, who nodded.
“Thank you, Florence,” he said. “We’ll get Sergeant Morgan to take your statement later. You’ve been very helpful.”
Florence sat back in her seat and folded her arms.
Penny stood up. “Sorry to interrupt, Gareth,” she said, “but before we move on, there’s something I’d like Florence to see.”
She crossed over to the small desk, picked up the Harrods pencil case, and pried it open.