Remembering the Dead

  Remembering the Dead

  A PENNY BRANNIGAN MYSTERY

  Elizabeth J. Duncan

  Also available by Elizabeth J. Duncan

  Penny Brannigan mysteries

  The Marmalade Murders

  Murder Is for Keeps

  Murder on the Hour

  Slated for Death

  Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By

  A Small Hill to Die On

  A Killer’s Christmas in Wales

  A Brush with Death

  The Cold Light of Mourning

  Shakespeare in the Catskills mysteries

  Much Ado About Murder

  Ill Met by Murder

  Untimely Death

  For Eve Dowd, Carol Putt, and Elaine Spicer

  Prologue

  Wednesday, September 6, 1917, Birkenhead, England

  “Fleur de lis!”

  In a strong, clear voice, Archdruid Dyfed called out the nom de plume of the poet who was about to be awarded the highest literary honour Wales could bestow.

  The National Eisteddfod audience of thousands, including men and women standing three and four deep outside the temporary pavilion that had been set up in the middle of an English field, fell into a respectful but excited silence as they waited for the archdruid to announce for the second time the name of the winner of the festival’s most prestigious prize.

  “If the poet who competed under the name Fleur de lis is here, he should stand!”

  Surrounded by dignitaries, including the Welsh prime minister David Lloyd George, the archdruid adjusted the flowing white robes of his costume and touched the gold, torc-shaped breastplate that adorned his chest as he stepped closer to the edge of the stage, preparing to call out the winner’s name for the third and final time. The moment had come for the winner of the main prize at this annual celebration of Welsh literature and culture to stand and reveal himself to the assembly, and then allow himself to be escorted to the stage for the chairing ceremony.

  After judging that he had waited long enough to allow the tension to rise and the anticipation to peak, the archdruid addressed the crowd in their native Welsh. “Pan genir yr utgyrn a wnaiff Fleurs de lis, a Fleurs de lis yn unig, sefyll, os gwelwch yn dda.” When the Gorsedd trumpeters play the fanfare, would Fleur de lis, and only Fleur de lis, please stand up.

  The assembly held its collective breath as two trumpeters, with brightly coloured embroidered banners hanging from their silver instruments, played a musical flourish.

  But no one stood.

  Archdruid Dyfed consulted his notes, then rested one hand lightly on the armrest of the ornately carved bardic chair that had been commissioned for today’s ceremony. “The winner of this year’s chair is Hedd Wyn,” he announced, using the poet’s bardic name. “That is, Ellis Humphrey Evans, from the village of Trawsfynydd, North Wales.”

  But where was the winner? Members of the audience exchanged puzzled, concerned looks. Why did he not come forward and present himself to accept the great honour about to be bestowed upon him?

  And then the archdruid uttered the most unexpected, most dreadful reason. “The victor has fallen in battle and lies in a silent grave in a foreign field.” Hedd Wyn, on the cusp of literary greatness at the age of thirty, had been killed in action six weeks earlier, at the Battle of Pilckem Ridge, the opening attack of the Third Battle of Ypres, which would come to be better known as the Battle of Passchendaele. The chair was to be awarded posthumously. Although the archdruid was well aware of the fate that had befallen the winner, he had followed the traditional procedure of calling out the winner’s name three times.

  A stunned silence fell over the Eisteddfod field, and the crowd did not at first react. And then, as the archdruid’s words began to take hold, a wave of murmured disbelief swept through the audience, the ripples of shock increasing to cries of anguished grief for their lost poet.

  Three members of the platform party, dressed in white druidic costume similar to the archdruid’s, rose from their seats and stepped solemnly forward to join him.

  “Yr ŵyl yn ei dagrau a’r Bardd yn ei fedd—the festival in tears and the poet in his grave,” said the archdruid. The druids unfolded a large square of black cloth, and, each holding a corner, they slowly and reverently draped it over the bardic chair, its soft folds shrouding the potent symbol of a generation of young Welsh men whose unfulfilled promise had been sacrificed to the Great War.

  Chapter One

  Early September 2018, Llanelen, North Wales

  “And so you see, Penny,” Mrs. Lloyd explained, “that’s why the 1917 National Eisteddfod is always referred to as Eisteddfod y Gadair Ddu. The Eisteddfod of the Black Chair.” She shifted her bottom slightly to settle herself more comfortably in the client’s chair and checked the progress of her manicure before continuing. “And the story goes that on the dreary day that the Black Chair, or y Gadair Ddu, as we call it in Welsh, was delivered to Hedd Wyn’s parents’ farm—still draped in its black cloth, mind you—the whole village turned out dressed in mourning. And there was a great storm, with such thunder and lightning, and heavy rain, and the land covered in darkness, that folks had never seen the likes of it before or since.” She made a little tsking noise. “What on earth was our finest poet doing out there in all that Belgian mud? It doesn’t bear thinking about. And not just him. What a terrible waste that war was. All those young lives, lost. What was it all for? I ask you.”

  Penny Brannigan placed a stack of neatly folded white hand towels on the work top in the manicure room of the Llanelen Spa. “Yes, that war does seem pointless now,” she agreed, “but then you could say that about most wars, couldn’t you?” She turned away to open a cupboard and put the towels away, then turned back to face Mrs. Lloyd and said, “I’ve never been to a National Eisteddfod. I know what they are, of course, and I’ve been tempted to go, but in the end, I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I’m not one for crowds.”

  “Oh, well,” said Mrs. Lloyd good-naturedly, “you’ll get crowds at the Eisteddfod, all right. It’s only the biggest event in the country.” She mulled that over for a moment. “Well, the Royal Welsh Show might give it a run for its money, I suppose.” Held every year, usually in August, the National Eisteddfod is a week-long cultural celebration of Welsh music, dance, visual arts, and especially literature and poetry. Filled with colourful pageantry and mystical symbolism, its origins can be traced back to the twelfth century, but the elaborate, modern-day ceremonies date back just a few hundred years, when the concept of bards and druids was introduced. The festival attracts about 150,000 visitors each year, and as many as 6,000 competitors vie for prizes. It has been held outside Wales only half a dozen times, including in Birkenhead in 1917. But because there was a war on, the event was held in September that year, and lasted only three days.

  “I remember the story about the Black Chair,” said Eirlys, Penny’s assistant, who was giving Mrs. Lloyd her manicure. Now in her early twenties, Eirlys had started working at the Spa as a bright sixteen-year-old school leaver and brought a youthful enthusiasm and innovation to her workplace. She had convinced Penny to introduce nail varnish in bright primary colours and cool pastels to appeal to teenagers, and had taken makeup courses so the Spa could offer a complete bridal service. “And Hedd Wyn, the poet, too. We learned all about him, and even visited Yr Ysgwrn—that’s his farmhouse—on a school outing. I saw the chair myself. We all got to sit on it. Famous, it is, and incredibly beautiful, too.”

  “Well, I’m very pleased to hear that,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “That you learned all about the history of Hedd Wyn and the Black Chair in school. It’s only right that young people learn about our Welsh heritage. And as for that chair, well, it’s practically a national
treasure. Probably the best-known piece of furniture in the whole country. Anyway, what got me started on all this, an item on BBC Wales last evening said that the chair was taken somewhere to be refurbished or restored, or whatever they do to old pieces of furniture to preserve them and make them presentable, and then it’s coming back to the farmhouse where Hedd Wyn lived to be put on display again. And that’s not all. They’ve restored the farmhouse and done up one of the old outbuildings, the cow shed I think it was, and made it into a proper visitor centre with an exhibition space and a tearoom and a shop.” She nodded at Eirlys. “That would be the farm you visited, back when it was still owned by the family. Now it’s going to be a national historic site where folk can learn the story of our great poet. It’s amazing when you think of it. He left school when he was fourteen to look after the sheep on his father’s farm and went on to become one of the nation’s greatest poets. But according to the news program, the refurbished centre doesn’t open for a few months yet.”

  The conversation moved on as the manicure continued in the Llanelen Spa’s bright studio with its display wall of bottles of nail varnish in every colour, from pale pinks to deep blues. “Well, I’d best be running along,” Penny said after a few minutes. “I really only wanted to pop in to say hello to you, Mrs. Lloyd, so I’ll leave you and Eirlys to it.” And after wishing Mrs. Lloyd good luck at her bridge game that evening, she left the two of them to finish the manicure and returned to her office.

  Penny had drifted into Llanelen almost thirty years ago as a backpacking university graduate from Eastern Canada with no particular plans except to embellish her recently earned fine arts degree by visiting the grand museums and galleries of Europe. On her way to Holyhead to catch the ferry to Dublin, she had found herself in the slightly out-of-the-way Welsh market town on a lovely summer’s day, just as the afternoon was fading into a soft, golden evening. Although she’d thought she’d stop for just a night or two, she’d met people, one thing had led to another, and she’d stayed on for the next three decades, building a happy, comfortable life for herself. Her roots in her adopted country were deep and strong, and as the years went by, she’d realised there was no reason to return to her homeland.

  She entered her office, turned the page in her diary to see what she had on for the day, then checked her watch. She’d be a few minutes early, but it was time for her meeting with her business partner, Victoria Hopkirk. The beauty side of their spa business—the hair salon, manicure and pedicure studio, and makeup service, including makeup for weddings and other special occasions—was thriving, but they’d agreed they needed to do a better job of promoting their other services—massages, facials, and daylong pampering.

  The women tried to have lunch together at least once a week, occasionally at a nearby café but usually—to keep any business discussion private—in Victoria’s flat on the first floor of the Spa. Against just about everyone’s advice, they’d bought the three-storey stone building a few years ago, and given its priceless location beside the River Conwy, with stunning views to the lush, green, wooded hills beyond, and its solid structure, their instincts had turned out to be sound. Following a complete renovation, the once-decrepit building had proved a beautiful, functional investment.

  Penny pulled her office door shut behind her and made her way down the hall that led to the reception area. Just as she reached the receptionist’s desk, the door to the Spa opened and Victoria Hopkirk herself entered, struggling to cope with the door and manage two bags of shopping.

  “It’s an absolutely beautiful day,” she said as Penny sprang toward her, arms outstretched to hold the door open. “We really should be outside on such a glorious day. Why don’t we take a picnic lunch to the churchyard? Just let me drop this lot off”—she lifted the bags slightly—“and we can pick up a couple of sandwiches on the way.”

  * * *

  Victoria was right; the weather was glorious. It was the kind of day that straddles two seasons, starting off slightly cool and then warming as the morning wears on. Now, seated side by side on a bench in the churchyard overlooking the River Conwy, the two women munched their sandwiches, tossing the occasional crumb to a friendly robin who hopped and hovered nearby, hoping for a handout. A pair of white swans drifted by, navigating their way smoothly down the fast-flowing river toward the three-arched bridge that had spanned the river for almost four hundred years. Penny and Victoria leaned back against the bench, lifting their faces to a cloudless blue sky, soaking in the sunshine, and revelling in a moment of shared companionship and a deep sense of well-being.

  When they’d finished their lunch, Penny stood up to stretch her legs, and while she was admiring the roofline of the centuries-old stone church, two figures emerged from the covered porch. She waved to them.

  “It’s Emyr and Thomas,” she said. Victoria swung around on the bench and also waved. “It looks like Emyr’s coming over to see us.”

  With a few long strides, Emyr Gruffydd joined them. A gentle breeze ruffled his dark hair, and he raised a hand to smooth it. After greeting them, he sat with his back to the river on the low stone wall that ran alongside the edge of the churchyard. Penny sat down again beside Victoria on the bench facing him, and the three smiled at one another.

  “I’m glad I bumped into you,” Emyr said. “I was just having a word with the rector about a dinner party.”

  “Oh,” said Penny. “Up at the Hall?”

  Emry nodded. “Yes. It’s been a long time since we had a proper do, and the time just feels right. It’s going to be a rather formal occasion, so I was just asking Thomas if he’d say grace, and he’s kindly agreed, so now, Victoria, I’m asking you if you’d agree to favour us with an after-dinner harp recital.”

  “I’d love to, if I can. What date are we talking about?”

  “Oh, sorry. Of course, the date. Thomas just asked me the same question and I wasn’t really able to tell him. It’ll be in November. Because this year marks the hundredth anniversary of the Armistice and the end of the First World War, I’ve decided to hold a dinner on the Saturday night before Remembrance Sunday.”

  Victoria pulled her diary out of her handbag and riffled forward several pages from the blue ribbon marking the current week. “Here we are. Remembrance Sunday actually falls right on November eleventh this year, so your dinner party would be on the tenth. I could do that.”

  Emyr nodded. “Wonderful. And I’ll let the rector know the date.”

  “Will it be a very large party?” asked Penny.

  “Well, besides Thomas and Bronwyn, I haven’t really thought about who to invite, but I was thinking around twenty. Maybe a few more. You know how these lists tend to grow. If you invite this person”—he held out his right hand, palm up—“then you have to invite that person.” He made a similar gesture with his left hand. “Possibly as many as thirty. But no more than that. Most of the dinner guests will be invited just for the evening, and a few others will be my guests for the weekend.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” said Penny. “A proper old-fashioned country house party.”

  “Yes.” Emyr smiled. “We haven’t given a black-tie dinner at the Hall, let alone entertained weekend guests, since …” His voice trailed off and his dark-blue eyes turned toward the bridge.

  Since Meg Wynne Thompson died. Penny silently finished the sentence for him, recalling the terrible time about ten years ago when Emyr’s beautiful fiancée had been murdered. Penny looked at Emyr’s eyes and then followed their gaze. A lot of water has passed under that bridge since then, she thought.

  After taking a moment to collect himself, Emyr returned his attention to Penny and Victoria.

  “My great-grandmother served as a nurse during World War I, so the war has personal relevance for me, as I’m sure it does for most families. So besides the dinner, I thought I’d put together a small exhibit of items, from the war or to do with the war, for the guests to view after dinner and before the harp recital. Or maybe they would view the exhibit in
the library before dinner and we’d have the recital after dinner, in the sitting room.” He made a little sheepish grimace. “As you can tell, I haven’t really thought through the program.”

  “Oh, you mean an exhibit of medals, or letters, and things like that?” Penny asked. “I expect Alwynne Gwilt could find some things for you, and she’d probably be happy to help. She organized that exhibit at the town museum a few years ago to commemorate the start of the war.”

  “Yes, I remember that exhibit,” replied Emyr, “but I have enough items. More than enough, in fact. And some very special things, too, including my great-grandmother’s nursing uniform. My mother showed it to me once, when I was a boy, and it’s up in the attics somewhere.”

  “Oh,” said Penny. “Is it the uniform with the white apron with the red cross on the bib?”

  She placed a hand on her chest where the red cross would be as Emyr nodded.

  “That’s the one. It’s blue with a white collar, as I recall, and there’s a sort of little cape that comes with it.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “But as nice as the uniform is, there’s something even better. I’ve arranged for an incredible centrepiece for the exhibit.” Penny and Victoria edged forward a little on the bench to be closer to him.

  “I was the treasurer of the committee that raised the funds for the restoration of the bardic chair of Hedd Wyn, and the committee has granted permission for it to stop off at the Hall for a couple of days on its return journey to Yr Ysgwrn. So it was actually the opportunity of having the chair at the Hall that gave me the idea to hold the dinner party to mark the end of the First World War.”

  “That’s amazing!” exclaimed Penny. “Mrs. Lloyd was just telling me about the Black Chair this morning, and its sad story.” She looked excitedly from Victoria to Emyr and back again. “Isn’t it strange how coincidences like that happen?”

  “I’m tempted to say that nothing is ever a coincidence where Mrs. Lloyd is concerned,” said Emyr, “but in this case, it would seem like one. But its restoration has been in the news lately, so it may be on people’s minds.”