by Rhys Bowen
* * *
It was almost seven when Evan finally headed home. He had sat at his desk, thinking, and his end-of-the-week paperwork had taken him twice as long as usual.
“Aren’t you coming for a drink then, Evan bach?” Charlie Hopkins had called out to him as he passed him in the street. “It’s Friday night, isn’t it?”
“I’ll be there,” Evan called back. “I’ve got to go home and change first. Not allowed to drink in uniform, you know—bad for the image of the police force.”
Mrs. Williams’ house was on what was considered the superior side of the street. Rather than a row of cottages all joined together, the houses opposite the petrol station were built in three semidetached pairs. They were also simple gray stone buildings, hardly more than cottages themselves, but they were considered the upscale part of Llanfair by virtue of having what Mrs. Williams called a back parlor and a front parlor, neither used except on special occasions, also what Mrs. Williams grandly referred to as her front garden—in reality a four-foot square of earth with a couple of sad roses growing in it.
“Is that you, Mr. Evans?” Mrs. Williams’ voice sang out down the dark hallway as he attempted to close the front door silently behind him. He often wondered why the police force didn’t hire Mrs. Williams as a local radar unit. She had an incredible sixth sense that alerted her to his key in the front door, even if the TV was blaring away or she was shut in the kitchen at the back of the house. It was impossible to enter or leave unnoticed, although Evan still tried.
“No, Mrs. Williams. It’s a burglar,” Evan called back, “who just happens to have a front door key.”
Mrs. Williams’ face, red and beaded with sweat from cooking, appeared at the open kitchen door. “Don’t say things like that, Mr. Evans. You know I’m scared to death about burglars. It was the happiest day of my life when a policeman moved into my house. And you know what my daughter said? She said they’ll think twice about breaking in now, now that I’ve got a big strong man like you in the house. She thinks very highly of you, my daughter does. So does my granddaughter, of course. We all do.” She came down the hall to meet him and took his arm. “Come and sit you down now. Your dinner is all ready and waiting.”
“I think I’ll wait a while to eat, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Williams,” Evan said warily. “I told a couple of the lads that I’d meet them down at the Dragon. It is Friday night, after all.”
“But I’ve made you a lamb cawl,” she said, referring to the local thick Welsh lamb stew. “Your favorite.” Everything she made was apparently Evan’s favorite. “I got a lovely shoulder of lamb from Evans-the-Meat. And speaking of him,” she went on, “did you hear that one of those English women staying up at Morgan’s farm had the nerve to ask him why he didn’t stock any English lamb? The nerve of it. Evans-the-Meat has never sold foreign meat in his life!”
Silently Evans complimented the efficiency of the village grapevine, then he remembered his encounter. “Did you hear that we’ve got new people living up next to Charlie Hopkins?” he asked.
“New people? Renting old Mrs. Hughes’ cottage?” Mrs. Williams looked astonished.
“Moved in a couple of days ago,” Evan said, delighted to be able to score a point for once. “A mother and her little girl.”
“Well, I never,” Mrs. Williams said. “And we heard nothing about it, did we? But then I think it was let through that fancy estate agent down in Caernarfon. Are they here for the summer?”
“For good, maybe,” Evan said.
“And the husband will be joining them, no doubt?”
“I’m not sure about that,” Evan said tactfully.
Mrs. Williams sniffed. “Just watch she doesn’t try to get her claws into you,” she said. “A good-looking young chap like yourself and at the right age to settle down too. You want to find yourself a nice local girl, one that knows how to cook and look after you properly.” She broke off as if a thought had just struck her. “Now what does that remind me of?” She put her hand up to her mouth then a broad smile spread across her face. “Oh, by the way, did I tell you that our Sharon is taking one of these continental cooking classes at evening school? Last week it was spaghetti bolognese and this week it’s some kind of French fish stew—booly base, I think she called it. She’s a lovely little cook now and she’ll be coming to visit as usual tomorrow.”
Evan smiled politely. He hadn’t ever had the heart to tell Mrs. Williams that her granddaughter Sharon was built like a rugby fullback and had the most annoying habit of giggling like a teenager at everything he said. As Bronwen had told him, one of his problems was that he hated to hurt people’s feelings. Maybe he should start working on that right now.
“I’ll just get changed and pop down to the Dragon, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “Why don’t you put my lamb cawl into the oven. I’ll eat it when I get back.”
“Just as you like, Mr. Evans.” Mrs. Williams had a hurt look on her face but she gave up without a fight and went back into the kitchen. Evan felt that he had won a small victory as he climbed the stairs to change out of his uniform.
* * *
The Red Dragon was already in full Friday night swing as Evan pushed open the heavy oak door. A large oak bar divided the main room, formerly called the public bar, from the more genteel lounge, the former private bar, with its oak tables and fireplace. Both rooms were oak panelled and there was a fire going all year in the big fireplace. Loud conversation competed with Frank Sinatra on the jukebox. Llanfair wasn’t very up-to-date in its musical taste. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air and a great burst of laughter erupted from the lounge next door as Evan came in. He looked around for Evans-the-Meat and the other usual customers, but he couldn’t see them. A group of younger men, currently working on the road up from Llanberis, stood in the corner. Evan was wondering whether to join them when a clear high voice rang out.
“There he is, now. We were wondering where you had got to, Evan bach.”
The voice belonged to the other complication in Evan’s life. Betsy, the blond, voluptuous barmaid at the Red Dragon made it obvious that she fancied Evan and was determined to get him in the end. So far Evan had managed to worm his way out of her tempting invitations to foreign films and dances in Caernarfon, but Betsy still pursued him as eagerly as ever. Evan sometimes wondered whether his reluctance to tell her flat out that he wasn’t interested was entirely due to not wanting to hurt her feelings. In fact he sometimes told himself he must be mad. Half the men in the village would have fought for a date with Betsy and even Evan had fantasised occasionally about what he might be missing.
It was warm in the bar and Betsy was wearing a black Lycra bodysuit with a black leather miniskirt. Around her waist was an absurdly small frilled white apron that would have protected nothing and made her look like a maid in a French farce. Evan was fairly sure that she wasn’t wearing a bra under the bodysuit, and she also had the habit on leaning across the bar to chat with the customers, pulling her low neckline even lower.
She leaned forward now as Evan crossed the room, watching him with unabashed interest.
“I’m glad you’ve changed out of that stuffy old uniform,” she said as he approached the bar. “That T-shirt looks good on you, Evan Evans. Shows off your muscles.”
She glared fiercely at one of the young men who was nudging his mate and grinning. “Now what have I said that’s so funny, Barry-the-Bucket?” she demanded. “I’m allowed to look at the merchandise if I’m shopping, aren’t I?” She turned the full force of her gaze back to Evan. “All alone tonight then, are you, Evan bach? I suppose that Bronwen Price must be out birdwatching again? Lucky for me then. Pint of Guinness, is it?”
Evan was relieved that he hadn’t been asked to contribute to the conversation until now.
“I thought I’d try the McAffreys tonight,” Evan said, indicating the tap for the other Irish stout. “I feel like a change.”
Betsy ran her tongue over her deep red lips. “I like a man who’s always r
eady to experiment.”
She put such overtones into this and gave Evan such a frank stare that he commented hastily, “I see the colonel’s not in yet.”
Betsy looked around. “That’s right. I wonder where he’s got to. It’s not like him to miss opening time, either.”
“I saw him up on the hill above Morgan’s farm earlier,” Evan said, “I hope nothing’s happened to him. He’s not as young as he thinks he is and that path is pretty steep in places.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Betsy said as she poured Evan’s pint of beer. “He’s as fit as a fiddle and you know it. And there’s plenty of life in the old dog yet, if you get my meaning. I notice he always has a good look up my skirt when I have to get up on the stool to reach that shelf with the old single malt whiskeys on it—like some other people I might mention,” she added, giving Evan another knowing stare, “and once when I was bending down, he pinched my bottom.” She gave Evan a challenging smile.
Evan had just noticed that Betsy was wearing a long silver chain around her neck. Whatever was on the silver chain had disappeared into her cleavage. He tried to stop himself from speculating what the object might be.
“All the same,” he went on, trying to steer the subject back into safer waters, “he’s always here for opening time, isn’t he?”
“How long ago when you saw him on the hill?”
“Must have been a good hour now.”
“Well, there you are then,” Betsy said. “It would have taken him a while to get down from Morgan’s hill and you know how vain he is about his appearance. He’d have gone back to Owens’ and changed his clothes, wouldn’t he?”
Evan smiled. “You’re probably right,” he said.
“I’m usually right about most things,” Betsy said, her eyes flirting with him. “Speaking of which, there’s a new film I really want to see at the multiplex in Colwyn Bay. I thought that…”
Mercifully Evan was spared having to come up with an excuse by the arrival of a man carrying a tray of empty glasses. “Same again all around, Betsy love,” he said, pushing the tray in front of her. “All Brains.” He named the popular beer from Cardiff.
“All Brains and no brawn, is that what you’re saying, Mr. Roberts?” Betsy quipped.
“Enough brawn among us to handle you, Betsy love,” Roberts said, giving Evan a grin. “Evening, Constable Evans.”
“Evening, Roberts-the-Pump,” Evan said. Mr. Roberts owned Llanfair’s only petrol station and garage. “What were you doing sitting in the lounge? Have you got visitors or have you gone all posh suddenly?”
“We’re all in there with Ted Morgan,” Roberts-the-Pump said. “We’re doing a spot of reminiscing. We were all lads together at the school here once.”
“Old Taff Morgan’s son, you mean?” Evan was surprised.
“That’s right.”
“What’s he doing here? I thought he never came near the place,” Evan said. “I’d heard he hadn’t been back for twenty years.”
“That’s right. Never came near the place.” A man who had been standing silently beside the bar sauntered over to join them. He was wearing the typical farmer’s outfit of tweed jacket, tweed cap, trousers tucked into socks so that he could ride his motorbike over his land, and very muddy boots. “Couldn’t even show up for his own father’s funeral, could he, and now he’s inherited the farm, he turns up cool as a bloody cucumber, acting like the big shot from London, buying drinks all around.”
There was real venom in his voice and Evan wondered for a second whether it was because he hadn’t been included in the drinks all around. Then he remembered who he was—Sam Hoskins, a farmer down the valley near Beddgelert who was married to Taff Morgan’s daughter.
Betsy leaned across the counter, stretching the bodysuit to dangerous limits. “No wonder you’re upset, Sam. It doesn’t seem fair, does it. They say he’s already got property all over London and now he gets the farm too.”
“He got everything, and my Gwyneth who looked after her old da and did his washing and darned his socks didn’t even get a thank you note.”
Evan looked at Sam in surprise. “I didn’t know old Taff very well, but he seemed like a decent enough old bloke. Why would he leave it all to Ted?”
“That’s easy,” Betsy said. “He thought the sun shone out of Ted’s head, didn’t he? Every time he came in here he was always boasting about his son, the rich London businessman and all the property he owned and how he drove a Jaguar and flew to Paris for weekends. Ever so proud of Ted, he was. You should have seen him come in here all excited if Ted ever wrote to him.”
“But why leave Ted the farm when it sounds like he was doing pretty well without it?” Evan commented. “He didn’t think Ted would ever come back here and start farming, did he?”
Sam Hoskins snorted. “The silly old fool made a will years ago and never changed it. I suppose he was always hoping that Ted would get fed up with London and come home some day.”
“Well, now he has,” Robert-the-Pump said, “so I suppose it worked, didn’t it?”
Betsy was filling one glass after another with expert ease, letting just the right amount of froth rise over the top. “He’s never coming back here to live, is he?” she asked.
“He says he’s going to give it a try,” Roberts-the-Pump answered.
“A dump like this?” Betsy finished pouring the last glass. “What would he do with himself here? And what about his business in London?”
“If you really want to know,” Roberts-the-Pump said, leaning confidentially close, “he’s thinking of buying the old slate mine.”
“But it’s been closed since I was a little girl!” Betsy exclaimed, loudly enough to make everyone in the bar turn around and listen. “Ted Morgan is thinking of reopening the old slate mine?”
“What would he want to do that for?” someone muttered. “Wants his brains examined.”
“I wouldn’t say that. It would be good for Llanfair, wouldn’t it?” Roberts-the-Pump said. “Think of all the extra trade.”
“And all the jobs,” Betsy said excitedly. “My old da hasn’t worked since they closed the mine. He might want to go back.”
“Your old da would rather sit home watching the telly and collect his dole, Betsy love,” someone commented from the far corner by the fire. “You can’t see him climbing up rock faces now, can you?”
“He’d still remember how,” Betsy said haughtily. “He helps out with the mountain rescue, doesn’t he, Evan?”
Evan nodded, reluctant to say that Betsy’s father was usually well pickled with alcohol and more of a hindrance than a help to the mountain rescue squad.
“I’d imagine there are plenty of men around here who’d like their old jobs back,” Betsy went on, leaning out across the bar and making every man in the place suddenly attentive. “It might bring some life to this dull old place too. Maybe they’d build a supermarket or one of those multiplex cinemas like in Colwyn Bay.”
“You can imagine what Evans-the-Meat would have to say about that.” Same Hopkins chuckled.
“He’d attack anyone with his meat cleaver who tried to put in a supermarket,” commented Harry-the-Pub.
“I can’t see how a smart London businessman would think that old mine was a good investment,” the Rev. Parry Davies declared, coming out of the corner where he usually chose to sit hidden when drinking. “It was losing money long before they closed it.”
“Maybe Ted Morgan feels guilty about having all that money and wants to do something nice for his community,” Betsy suggested with her usual wide-eyed naïveté.
Sam Hoskins spluttered into his beer. “Him? When has he ever done something nice for anyone? He wouldn’t even lend his own sister five hundred pounds when our sheep got that virus and we had those big vet bills.”
The Rev. Parry Davies coughed. “I remember Ted Morgan when he was in my Sunday school class and I don’t think that altruism was ever one of his stronger points.”
“Come
again?” Betsy looked blank. “Alt what?”
“Being nice to other people, Betsy,” Rev. Parry Davies said. “I remember that Ted had the largest collection of marbles in the village, obtained by fair means and foul.”
“Maybe he’s seen the light, reverend,” Roberts-the-Pump said as he picked up the tray of beers and headed back to the noisy party next door. “Maybe he’s found religion, thanks to those-long-ago Sunday school classes.” He turned to wink at Evan. “Why don’t you come through and join us, Evans-the-Law? We’ve been telling Ted all about you.”
“Only the good things, I hope,” Evan said, glancing awkwardly at Sam Hoskins who stood, arms folded, glaring down at his big boots. “In a minute, maybe. I’m still wondering whether I should go check on the colonel. I’ve never known him as late as this.”
As if on cue the door burst open and Colonel Arbuthnot rushed in, sweat pouring from his scarlet face.
“I’ve found it,” he managed to gasp. “I’ve finally found it!”
Chapter 4
Evan let out a sigh of relief as the colonel staggered up to the bar. He couldn’t think why he’d been so worried. The colonel spent every day tramping over the hills and nothing had ever happened to him yet. As Betsy said, he was as fit as a fiddle.
Harry-the-Pub hastily poured a generous tot of Scotch as the colonel leaned against the bar, his breath coming in deep gulps.
“Found what, colonel?” Betsy asked as Evan went to his aid.
The colonel tossed back the Scotch in one shot, shuddered, and took a deep, gasping breath. “King Arthur,” he said. “I’ve finally found King Arthur’s castle.”
“I’ve noticed it myself a couple of times.” One of the younger men chuckled. “A lot of turrets and flags flying, wasn’t it?”
“Or maybe you’re getting short-sighted, colonel, and you’re mixing up King Arthur’s castle with the Everest Inn,” Barry, the local bulldozer operator, quipped, giving his companion a hearty dig in the ribs. “Easy enough to do, with all those flags and geraniums, eh?”