by Rhys Bowen
“And he fell off that little bridge?” Annie asked, squinting into the sunlight to focus on it. “It’s not surprising, is it? I don’t think I’d want to go home that way in the dark.”
“The colonel usually carried a torch in his pocket,” Evan said. “He was so excited that night that he forgot it.”
“About finding that ruin?” Annie asked. “Doesn’t sound too exciting to me to find a few old rocks.”
Evan was focussing on the riverbank too. It was a good place to lie in wait for someone, hidden among all those trees and shrubs. The only buildings close to it were the pub, the police station, and the petrol pump. No houses nearby. The noise of water would have drowned any cry. A perfect spot to kill.
A loud scream made him start. Jenny rushed to her mother and clutched at her legs, clawing to be picked up.
“She’s scared of the sheep now,” Annie explained as a large sheep ambled past them.
“Sheep won’t hurt you, Jenny,” Evan said. “That sheep only came after you the other time because she thought you were taking her baby away. Your mummy would chase off anybody who tried to pick you up, wouldn’t she?”
“See, love? Listen to what the nice policeman says,” Annie soothed. “He’ll take care of you. He won’t let anything bad happen.”
As they approached the farmhouse, they heard the sounds of hammering inside, and a tall, huskily built man came out carrying a sheet of plywood. He stopped and looked up when he saw them approaching.
“Hello there,” he said. “Constable Evans, isn’t it? We never did get to meet properly the other night at the pub.” He came over, hand extended. “I’m Ted Morgan, old Taff’s son.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ted,” Evan said. The man had a firm handshake. Although at first glance he looked like any other villager with sleeves rolled up and a cap on his head, Evan noted that the shirt he was wearing was Ralph Lauren and the shoes were Timberlands. “And this is Annie Pigeon. She’s just moved here. Annie, this is Ted Morgan. He’s a business tycoon from London.”
He thought he saw a flicker of interest? amusement? in Ted’s eyes. Then he said formally, “How do you do, Miss Pigeon. Or is it Mrs.?”
“It’s Ms.,” Annie said firmly.
“So you’ve come to live in Llanfair too? What a coincidence.”
“Don’t tell me you’re coming to live here too, Mr, er, Morgan, is it?” Annie asked.
“I thought I’d give it a try for a while. The old man never did much with all this property. It would be a challenge to see what I could do with it. And I’ve had enough of London. I have a hankering for the simple life.”
“The simple life.” Annie said. “Isn’t that what we all want?”
“And you’ve moved here from where?”
“Manchester,” Annie said. “I come from Manchester.”
“You’ve lost your accent.”
“So have you, Mr. Morgan,” Annie retorted. “No one would think you were Welsh.”
Evan looked from one to the other. He could sense something going on here, but he wasn’t sure what. Attraction? All he knew was that Annie hadn’t been as polite or formal with him.
Jenny grew tired of standing still and wandered on ahead down the path.
“Jenny, wait for us, love,” Annie called out. “Don’t go wandering off.”
Ted Morgan’s eyes followed the child with interest. “Your little girl?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Her eyes looked at him defiantly.
“Pretty little thing,” he said. “You’re smart to keep a close eye on her. You never know when accidents can happen to little kids, do you? Even in a place like Llanfair.”
“That’s what I was telling her the other day, wasn’t it, Annie?” Evan asked.
“What?” Annie asked, suddenly realizing he had spoken to her. “Sorry, I was watching Jenny. I’d better go after her. Excuse me.”
She pushed past the two men and almost ran after Jenny.
Ted Morgan grinned at Evan. “Good-looking girl, isn’t she?” he asked. “I wonder what made her come here? Maybe to find herself a steady bloke like you.”
“I got the feeling she was eyeing you,” Evan retorted.
Ted shook his head. “Funny—I didn’t get that feeling at all. Anyway, one lot of alimony is enough for me. With any luck my ex wife won’t be able to find me here.”
He laughed. “Oh well, better get back to work, I suppose.”
“Are you remodeling?”
“Remodeling? The place was uninhabitable. I’ve had to gut it and start from square one. They didn’t build these old farmhouses for comfort, did they? And you should see the bathroom! I might want rural peace and quiet, but I like my comforts too. I’m living in one of my holiday cottages until it’s finished.”
“And you’re doing it yourself?”
Ted Morgan grimaced. “I thought I might get started on it myself. I’ve got the contractors who built my bungalows coming in on Monday. But I’ve just found out I’m bloody useless at it. I’ve already hit my thumb with the hammer twice. Have you ever hit yourself with a hammer? Blood everywhere—you’d have thought it was a major crime scene.” He started to walk away and gave Evan an easy wave. “See you in the pub tonight, maybe.”
“Probably not tonight,” Evan said. “After my landlady’s stern warning about paying respect to the dead, I think I’d better stay away from the Dragon tonight. But some other time maybe.”
“Respect for the dead?” Ted asked. “Oh, you mean the old bloke who fell into the stream?”
Evan nodded.
“But he was only a visitor, wasn’t he?”
“It doesn’t matter. Everyone liked him. The whole village is upset about it.”
Ted Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “He had to go some time, didn’t he—and falling off a bridge and hitting his head on a rock was as good as any. At least it was quick. The poor old bloke didn’t have to lie there suffering in a hospital like a lot of them do.”
“That’s true,” Evan said, “But he still loved life, you know.”
Ted shifted uneasily. “Yeah, well, I’ll buy you a beer another time then. I always make sure I start off by bribing the local police.” He grinned, nodded, and went back inside.
Evan watched him go back into the farmhouse. A pleasant enough chap, he thought, but clearly not on the same wavelength as the villagers. He found himself echoing the question Ted had asked about Annie—I wonder what made him come back here?
* * *
There was no sign of Annie by the time he had finished talking to Ted Morgan. She must have decided to take Jenny home. Evan wondered if he had a chance of catching up with Bronwen on her hike. He was unlikely to catch her before she reached Llyn Ogwen but she’d probably stop there for lunch. So he hurried in that direction and reached Llyn Ogwen, only to find no sign of Bronwen there. He had no way of knowing which route she’d take back to the village, and suddenly he felt angry with himself for following her in the first place. It was like admitting he was wrong and feeling guilty, wasn’t it? He hastily retraced his steps back to the village by the route he had come.
That evening he intercepted her as she came down from the mountains, making sure he was out in the village street as she came past.
“Had a good hike?” he asked casually.
Her face was glowing with sun and excitement. “Wonderful,” she said. “Pity you couldn’t have been there. I saw two mountain goats and a fox. But then I expect you saw quite a bit of wildlife of your own.”
She went to walk past him. Even grabbed her arm. “Bronwen, you’ve nothing to be jealous about, you know.”
Her face really flushed then. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve nothing to be jealous about, have I? I’m only a friend, like any other person in this village. In fact you’re probably only being nice to me because it’s your job.”
“You know that’s not true, Bron.”
“So tell me why I should think I’m in any way special to
you?” she demanded. “We’ve never even been on a date together.”
“We’ve been out walking enough.”
“You go out hiking with anyone who has the time to go with you. You’ve been up to the mountains with old Charlie Hopkins.”
Evan took a deep breath. “So where would you want to go?”
“Somewhere fancy. Somewhere special.” Bronwen brushed stray wisps of corn-colored hair from her face.
“I didn’t think you were the kind of person who liked fancy places.”
“I’d like to be asked,” she said, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face.
“There’s a new Italian restaurant opened in Conwy,” Evan said cautiously. “I hear it’s pretty good. Would you like to go there to dinner some time?”
“That would be very nice,” she answered. “Just as long as you’re not thinking of inviting Annie to make up a threesome.”
“I was thinking of asking Betsy as well. I hate uneven numbers.”
Bronwen had to smile.
“Next Saturday maybe?” Even suggested.
“Alright.”
Evan watched her walk away. He loved the easy grace with which she moved, the way her long braid swung behind her with a life of its own. It was only when he was back inside the house that the full impact of their conversation hit him. Now you’ve done it, he told himself. Dinner at an Italian restaurant definitely qualified as a date. And no matter how careful they might be, the village would hear about it and he’d be as good as engaged in their eyes. Still, it had to happen sometime, didn’t it? He couldn’t keep away from women forever.
Chapter 8
“Mr. Evans—look you here! You’ll never believe it!” Mrs. Williams’ shrill voice echoed up the narrow stairs as Evan was shaving on Monday morning. Hastily he dried his face and hurried downstairs, not knowing what he was going to find. With Mrs. Williams the summons could mean anything from a new rose on her bush to Martians landing in the street outside.
“What’s happening then?” Even burst into the kitchen.
“Look you here!” Mrs. Williams repeated, waving the newspaper at him. “It’s all here in black and white. We’re famous.”
Evan took the paper from her. On the front page, right under the banner “The Daily Post. Newspaper for North Wales,” was a headline that said, “MAJOR ARCHAEOLOGICAL DISCOVERY WILL PUT LLANFAIR ON THE MAP.”
“Put us on the map, that’s what it says.” Mrs. Williams put her hands to her ample bosom in excitement. “’Deed to goodness. Who would have thought it?”
Evan scanned the column quickly. “It says the find still has to be verified by archaeologists from the university,” he said.
“Yes, but look you what else it says,” Mrs. Williams went on. “It says that if it turns out to be true, then Llanfair will have the better claim to the name of Beddgelert than the town that has called itself that since the Middle Ages. That will show those snooty folk down in the valley, won’t it now?”
“I think we’ll have to wait and see,” Evan said with a smile. “Personally I think that everyone’s hoping for too much from this. There are saints’ tombs and chapels all over Wales. And nobody’s even heard of Saint Celert.”
“It gives us something to be proud of though, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Williams went on. “Until now Llanfair was just a few farms and a village where the slate workers lived. Since the mine closed, it’s had nothing. Of course, if they open the mine again, the way they’re talking of doing, then who knows? Any way you look at it, it’s a great day for Llanfair, and the meeting tonight should be very exciting.”
“Not too exciting, we hope,” Even said as he sat down to his breakfast.
“Let’s just hope they don’t bring the poor old colonel’s body back here today,” Mrs. Williams went on. “We could never have the meeting with him lying in state in the chapel next door, could we?”
“I shouldn’t think it’s likely he’ll be buried here,” Evan said. “His home was in London, after all. He’s probably made funeral arrangements for himself down there.”
“More’s the pity,” Mrs. Williams said. “He loved these mountains.”
“He certainly did,” Evan agreed. He thought of the colonel, currently lying in a drawer in the police morgue. He didn’t know whether to hope that the pathologist would find suspicious circumstances or not. The old boy deserved a dignified funeral and the chance to rest in peace. But if he had been murdered, Evan definitely wanted to make sure that someone didn’t get away with it.
Mrs. Williams was obviously still in her mourning mode because breakfast was only toast that had been sitting for some time, getting cold in the toast rack. Evan ate a couple of slices and then made his way down the street to the police station. He had only gone a few yards when the milk float pulled up beside him and Evans-the-Milk leaned out.
“Have you seen what that bloody fool’s gone and done now then, eh, Evan bach?” he yelled.
“Who’s gone and done what?” Evan asked warily. Not another body in the river, he prayed.
“That hothead next door,” Evans-the-Milk said, nodding his head in the direction of the butcher’s shop. “Have you seen the paper yet? It was him. He was down in Caernarfon yesterday and he hears that a reporter from the Daily Post is in the bar. So he goes over to him and tells him that he’s got a scoop for him. He must have spun that journalist a good yarn too, because it made the front page.” He climbed down with three milk bottles in his hand and put them on a doorstep. “I just hope we don’t look stupid when the archaeologists go and take a look at the site,” he said, straightening up again. “And all that stuff about changing our name and going for the new record of the longest name in the world—we haven’t even decided anything yet, have we?”
“The meeting’s tonight,” Evan agreed.
“He’s got a screw loose, that man,” Evans-the-Milk went on. “I knew he was a raging nationalist, but I didn’t realize it went as far as doing anything to make Llanfair famous. I mean, what does it matter if we’ve got a saint’s tomb or not?”
“Just don’t say that to Evans-the-Meat or he’ll be after you with the meat chopper.” Evan chuckled.
“What I can’t see is this,” Evans-the-Milk said, climbing back into the milk float. “He wants Llanfair to be famous and to hold world records, but he doesn’t want any tourists to come here to see it. Doesn’t that sound to you like a screw loose?”
“He won’t be able to stop the tourists after this,” Evan said. “Even the column in the paper will bring them, won’t it?”
“Of course it will,” Evans-the-Milk called back from his driver’s seat. “So I’d better get cracking with my homemade ice cream, hadn’t I? What do you think about blackberry for a flavor? My wife makes lovely blackberry jam. I thought I could use that.”
The milk float took off with the low hum of its electric motor, leaving Evan shaking his head.
He put his key in the door of his little office that grandly called itself Llanfair District Community Police Substation, and went inside. There was no message from Sargeant Watkins and Evan hesitated to call. The pathologist might have shown up late to work after an exhausting fishing trip. He put the kettle on for his morning cup of tea and settled down to his paperwork.
It was just after ten when the phone rang.
“Okay, Evan boy, so you were right again.” Sergeant Watkin’s voice echoed down the line.
“The autopsy’s been done?” Evan asked.
“Yeah, and he didn’t die by drowning. The old boy was dead by the time he hit the water. No water in the lungs. The D.I. wants me to come right over and report back to him if I think we’re dealing with a murder.”
“Does he think the colonel might have clubbed himself to death?”
“No, but it’s just possible that he fell onto a rock, hit his head, and then slid into the water later.”
“Hit his head and then slid into the water later? Have you seen how the water flows over those rocks? He’d have be
en swept away before he was dead and there would be water in his lungs.”
“You’re probably right, but D.I. Hughes doesn’t particularly want another murder on his hands right now. He’d like to get some fishing in this summer.”
“You’d better spread the word to the criminal population,” Evan said dryly. “No more activity until the D.I. has caught a big one.”
Watkins chuckled. “I’ll be right over,” he said. “I’m bringing a couple of chaps from forensic with me, but play it down in the village, will you? Let them go on thinking it’s an accident. We don’t want to scare anyone unnecessarily.”
“And we don’t want to alert the murderer that we’re onto him,” Evan added.
“If it turns out to be murder,” Watkins said.
* * *
Half an hour later the white police van pulled up beside the bridge. Sergeant Watkins got out, followed by two serious-looking young men in raincoats. The clouds had come back that morning and it was threatening to rain any minute.
“I’m glad you got here,” Evan said, shaking Watkins’ hand. “I was worried the rain would wash away any evidence there might be.”
Together they ducked under the tape and walked along the riverbank.
“Exactly where was he lying when you found him?” Watkins asked.
Evan pointed to a spot about ten yards below the bridge. The river here no longer fell steeply over rocks, but flowed steadily, two or three feet deep, over pebbles and water weed. Watkins nodded. “If he’d fallen off the bridge, he’d have probably wound up here, given the force of water above,” he said.
Evan was examining the bank where they were now standing. “Look at this, sarge,” he said. “Someone has been here.”
The riverbank at this point was a riot of grass, wild flowers, and shrubs. Evan indicated a bare patch among the grass. “Someone has pulled up some plants here, and it looks like they’ve dug up the soil too,” he said.
“Why would they do that?”
“I’d guess there might have been some blood on the ground, or maybe the plants were flattened where the body fell.”
Watkins stared at the ground for a while. “It could also be dogs burying bones or wild pigs digging for roots, or even kiddies playing with mud pies,” he said.