“And you, Florence, what about you? Did you see anything?”
Mrs. Lloyd turned sharply and looked at her companion.
“You were there, Florence? Whatever for?”
Florence straightened the collar of her blouse.
“How do you know I was there?”
“I recognized you at the edge of the crowd that had gathered on the wall walk, Florence,” said Bethan. “But you left before I could speak to you.”
“Well, yes, I was there,” Florence admitted. “I spotted him on the train coming from Chester, and when he got off at Conwy, I decided to follow him to see what he was up to. I managed to keep him in my sights as far as the castle, but by the time I had bought my ticket and found my way inside, he was quite far ahead of me. I thought I spotted him going down the length of the place, but he just seemed to disappear. I don’t see as well as I used to, to be honest, and I didn’t know where he’d got to, so I thought I’d just take a wander round, and look for him. I was trying to work out what business he had there because he certainly didn’t seem like the sightseeing type to me.” And then she added, “But I guess he could have fancied visiting an old monument. There’s no accounting for taste, is there?”
Mrs. Lloyd glared at her and started to speak, but Bethan raised her hand, silencing her before she could say anything.
It was now Davies’ turn to speak.
“Mrs. Lloyd, do you own a gold-coloured letter opener with the name Arthur Lloyd engraved on it?”
“Why, yes, I do! It was given to Arthur as his Pineapple Award by the fruit and veg vendors association back in the 1980s. How do you know about it? Has it turned up? We misplaced it, oh, what Florence, a couple of weeks ago? I can’t remember exactly, but one day we went to open the post and it was nowhere to be found.” A puzzled look crossed her face. “But why do you ask? Where is it?”
She stood up and walked over to the little desk where she kept her bills, thank-you notes, and other small bits and pieces of correspondence. She pointed to a small, blue, glass jar that held pens and pencils. “It used to live right there in that blue jar, but we haven’t seen it for a while. I thought maybe Florence had stuck it in a drawer or something when she was dusting. Odd that it never turned up, but now that I think about it, we never really looked for it, did we, Florence? Not properly, I mean.”
Florence nodded glumly.
Mrs. Lloyd returned to her seat.
“Florence, do you know where the letter opener is?” Davies asked.
She shook her head. Her eyes betrayed a dawning fear.
Watching her intently, Davies told the two women that the letter opener had been found and then, his eyes moving quickly from one to the other, told them where. In Harry Saunders’s back.
Mrs. Lloyd touched her hand to her cheek and recoiled. She looked as if she had been slapped.
“I don’t think I can take that in,” she said. “Harry stabbed with my letter opener? O dear Lord.” Across the room, Florence rose from her chair, hesitated, and then sat down again.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lloyd,” Davies continued, “but at some point, we’re going to have to show you the letter opener, just so we can be sure we’re talking about the same one. We’ll need you to confirm that it is, in fact, yours.”
Mrs. Lloyd nodded.
“I expect I’ll have to go to the station to do that, will I, Inspector?”
“Yes.”
“But not tonight, surely? It’s getting a bit late and I don’t feel up to looking at something like that, knowing that it…”
“No, Mrs. Lloyd, not tonight. We’ve covered enough for now.”
“Well, I’ll say good night, then. Florence will show you out.”
As the three of them turned toward the door, Mrs. Lloyd spoke.
“Inspector, there’s something I need to ask you.”
Davies gave her his full attention.
Mrs. Lloyd hesitated. “No, it’s all right. It doesn’t matter. It can wait.” The detective chief inspector turned his head slightly. “No, really,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “It’s nothing.”
“Mrs. Lloyd, if you know something, you must tell us what it is. Did you see something? If you have information and you’re not sure if it’s important or not, tell us and we’ll decide if it’s relevant.”
She pinched her lips together.
“No, I was just going to ask you something, that’s all.”
Davies put on his coat. “I don’t need to tell you two that this situation is very serious, and we haven’t finished with either of you yet. You have confirmed that the murder weapon belongs to you, Mrs. Lloyd, you were unable to account for its whereabouts, you were both at the castle, and neither of you seems to have an alibi.”
He cleared his throat.
“But because of your standing in the town”-and here Florence raised an eyebrow as Mrs. Lloyd pinched her lips together-“we won’t take you into custody tonight. But neither of you is to leave town without letting us know.”
The police officers said good night and Florence closed the door behind them and returned to the sitting room.
“What was that all about, then?” Florence demanded when they were sitting down.
“Oh, Florence, I’ve gone and done the most terrible, stupid thing.” Her face seemed to have aged years since Florence had last seen her. Deep worry lines had formed where none were before, dark circles had developed under her eyes, and her cheeks appeared sunken.
Florence leaned forward, her practical, work-worn hands braced on her knees.
“You can tell me, Evelyn,” she said. “In fact, you might feel better if you did tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“I was going to ask those police officers if they had found a cheque or something like that in Harry’s pockets when they found the body.”
“A cheque?” Florence processed this information and then, as she seemed to realize the implication, gave a little gasp.
“Oh, you didn’t, Evelyn! You loaned that awful man money? Oh, I hope it wasn’t a lot. How much? Five hundred pounds? Was it as much as that?”
Mrs. Lloyd shook her head. “Much more than that. I’m not sure I can bring myself to tell you.”
“Tell me. How much?” Florence said in a low voice.
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
Florence gave a little gasp with her next intake of breath.
“I don’t believe it. How could you? What were you thinking?”
“It gets worse, Florence. I didn’t lend it to him. I have no memo of understanding or anything like that.” She looked down at her hands. “I pretty much gave it to him. He was going to invest it, you see. And as my savings weren’t earning very much interest at the bank, it seemed like a good idea.”
Florence looked as if she were about to cry.
“Oh, Evelyn, you foolish woman.”
Mrs. Lloyd nodded. “Oh, Lord, I know that. You don’t need to tell me.” She looked at her hands and then raised her eyes to her companion.
“Maybe I should tell the police about it. Huw Bowen, at the bank, he suggested I should go to the police.”
Florence thought about that for a moment.
“But if you go to the police, and tell them about the money, they might think that gave you a good reason to kill Saunders. Oh, what do they call that? You see it on the television shows all the time.”
“Motive,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “They might think I had a motive.”
“Motive, that’s it.”
“But speaking of motive, Florence, maybe you had a motive, too.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You were settled and comfortable here in my home and maybe you thought if Harry moved in, as he and I had been discussing, you’d have to leave. As you would have.”
Mrs. Lloyd sat back and folded her arms. “So maybe you had a motive, too.”
Florence gave a little chuckle. “Pfft. Why would I waste my time and energy killing that man? I had no reason to.”
A curtain of coolness had begun to descend between the two women.