Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us

by Rhys Bowen

  “But it wasn’t like this on Saturday,” Evan insisted. “I would have noticed it.”

  “I’ll ask the boys to take samples.”

  “Have them take samples here too,” Evan said, pointing between tall rye grasses. “There’s blood here.”

  “Where?” Watkins squatted and parted the grass with his pen, disturbing several big flies that rose, buzzing indignantly.

  “You can’t see it any more, because it’s been cleared away, but the flies know,” Evan said. “They can detect the smallest trace of blood. See how they were all congregated here and not anywhere else? I bet they could smell blood.”

  “Okay, Sherlock Holmes, so what was used as the murder weapon?” Watkins demanded.

  “That’s pretty obvious,” Evan said. “There are plenty of them still lying here.” The river’s edge was full of smooth, fist-sized rocks. “It would be the easiest thing in the world to choose a rock, lie in wait, then bam. He falls and you throw the rock back in the river where all the blood gets washed away.”

  Watkins nodded agreement. “So the big question is why anyone would want to lie in wait and hit him over the head.”

  “I’ve asked a few tactful questions around the village,” Evan said, “and frankly I’m stumped.”

  “I’m glad to hear that for once,” Watkins said. “I thought you were about to tell me that you’d solved the case single handed. He was a millionaire and his disgruntled nephew had been waiting for this chance.”

  “It’s possible,” Evan said. “We don’t know much about his life in London, but we do know he didn’t have much cash. His clothes were very well worn.”

  “So? Lots of millionaires are eccentric misers.”

  Evan shook his head. “I don’t think that applies to the colonel. He was a generous man by nature, always buying drinks for people. I think he was genuinely living on a small pension.”

  “So what’s your theory?”

  Evan stared past the police sergeant, his eyes following the path back to the pub. “Unless it was a madman waiting to clobber the first person who went by, then it had to be someone who knew the colonel’s habits,” he said. “The person who did this knew that the colonel took this shortcut from the pub every night.”

  “A local then?”

  “Except that I’ve talked to several people who were in the pub that night and between us we can account for most of the men in the village. The ones who weren’t there were good family men, home with the kiddies, or a couple of lads out at the pictures in Caernarfon.”

  “That makes it an outsider, or a woman,” Watkins commented. “But as you said, it would have been a pretty strong woman.”

  Evan nodded. “I got him out of the river. He was damned heavy. I don’t think a woman could have dragged him any distance alone. And anyway, do women go around hitting people over the head?”

  “If they’re desperate enough,” Watkins said, “and it’s the only way out. But what about a motive? No little feud the colonel had with anybody here? No complaints about loud music or telling young blokes to get their hair cut?”

  “Nothing like that,” Evan said. “The only thing really that happened before he died was that he found this ruin up on the hill.”

  “Oh yes,” Watkins said. “I’ve been reading about it in the paper. Quite an important find, I understand.”

  “If it’s really what they think it is,” Evan said. “They’ve still got to have the archaeologists from the university take a look at it.”

  “You say he discovered it?”

  “Yes, a couple of hours before he died. He came rushing into the pub, all excited, and we all went up there with him to take a look for ourselves. Then we came back, he gulped down another Scotch, and left in a hurry.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “It was odd, really. He started telling me this story about seeing someone he recognized and then he switched stories to an absurd tale about someone breaking his neck playing polo. He was definitely rattled.”

  “You think he’d just seen someone he recognized from somewhere else?”

  “Except that they were all locals in the pub and what’s more they all stayed in the pub when he left. We accounted for them all being there after he’d gone. It’s possible he ran into someone he knew earlier in the day, I suppose, but then why was he suddenly uncomfortable about telling the story?”

  “Doesn’t make sense, does it,” Watkins said. “I mean, even if he’d seen someone he recognized from somewhere else, it doesn’t follow that the person was out to kill him. Who’d want to kill an old man like that? Even if you had a grudge against him, you’d know he’d be dead in a couple of years.”

  “And I can’t imagine why anyone would have a grudge against the colonel,” Evan said. “As I said, everyone here was fond of him. They thought he was a funny old boffer and laughed about him, but in a good-natured way—no malice in it.”

  “There was plenty of malice in hitting him over the head and shoving him into the river,” Watkins observed. “Where was he staying? You’d better take me to talk to his landlady.”

  “Up there at Owens’ farm.” Evan indicated the square gray stone building on the hill above them. “I spoke to her on Saturday and she couldn’t really tell me anything. It didn’t seem that the colonel had any contact with the outside world while he was here. No phone calls or letters, no strangers coming to visit. You might get more out of her than I did. She was so upset that she kept breaking off to blow her nose when I was there.”

  “We better go and talk to her anyway,” Sergeant Watkins said. “You know what D.I. Hughes is like. He’ll chew me out if I tell him that you’d been interviewing people on my behalf.”

  “Then what’s the next step, sarge?” Evan asked as they crossed the bridge together and headed for Owens’ farm.

  “I expect the D.I. will want to take a look for himself and when the lab results from the site samples come in, we’ll look into his will and next of kin. Then he’ll probably get in touch with the Metropolitan Police in London and have them get us the details of his life down there. Hughes is not going to be happy about this. Damn.”

  “I’m not very happy about it myself,” Evan said. “I really liked the old boy. I want his murderer caught. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

  “You’re in a better position than anyone to keep your eyes and ears open around here,” Sergeant Watkins said. “If his killer is a local man, then something’s going to come out. One good thing about murderers is that they can never keep the murder to themselves. In the end the suspense is going to be so great that he’ll say or do something to give himself away. He might come forward and volunteer to help you with your enquiries. Keep close tabs on anyone who seems particularly interested in the case.”

  “Righto, sarge. So do you want me to let on that we suspect it’s murder?”

  “It will have to come out the moment the D.I. gets here. But until then, stay mum. It might rattle our killer into coming to ask us questions if he’s not sure how much we know.”

  “As long as it doesn’t rattle him into killing someone else,” Evan pointed out. “We’ve got a big meeting in the village tonight to discuss what we’re going to do about this ruin.”

  “Going to do about the ruin?” Sergeant Watkins looked amused.

  Evan grinned too. “Yes, they’ve got crazy ideas about changing the village’s name and God knows what else.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “I’ll have to. Things might get pretty lively.”

  “Good. Who knows, something might come out of it—some kind of motive, maybe.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve no idea at the moment. But see who shows special interest in this ruin.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me,” Evan said. “If someone hadn’t wanted the colonel to find the ruin, it was pretty senseless to kill him after he’d told the whole world about it. And anyway, why would someone want the ruin not to be found? It’
s only a few old rocks.”

  Sergeant Watkins patted Evan on the back. “That’s for you to find out, Sherlock.”

  Chapter 9

  The village hall was a rickety wooden building with a corrugated iron roof. It stood behind Chapel Bethel and was the only structure in the village that looked temporary, although it had actually been in place since 1941. It was packed to capacity by the time Evan arrived on Monday evening. All the chairs were occupied and people lined the walls. Evan squeezed in close to the door.

  “They certainly don’t get this kind of turnout on election day,” he commented to Mrs. Williams, who had come with him. “I’d no idea there were this many people in the village. I’ve never even seen some of them before.”

  “There’s a lot of strangers here,” Mrs. Williams said, after scrutinizing the crowd. “I shouldn’t be surprised if there aren’t reporters here and we’ll make the front page in the newspaper again tomorrow. Maybe we’ll even be on the telly.” She pushed her way forward and perched half of her large seat on a chair in the front row already occupied by Mary Hopkins.

  The reverend Parry Davies climbed onto a small raised platform at one end of the hall. An expectant hush fell over the packed room.

  “Welcome every one of you,” he said in the booming voice that had won him first place in several eisteddfods. “’Deed to goodness, this is a historic moment in the long history of Llanfair. As you all know by now, this meeting has been called to discuss the momentous discovery made by Colonel Arbuthnot on Friday last. But before we start, I’d like us to stand in a moment of silent prayer in memory of the colonel, who died tragically so soon after his moment of triumph.”

  Chairs scraped as over a hundred people rose to their feet. Evan’s gaze swept the room as they stood, heads bowed. But he noticed no signs of guilty behavior, no one shifting uncomfortably or glancing around nervously. If the murderer was here, then he was cool and confident enough not to give himself away. Evan shook his head. What a ridiculous idea—to think that someone from this village, people he had known for over a year now, might be involved in a murder.

  Chairs scraped again as the minute of silence ended and an undercurrent of excited conversation went around the room until Mr. Parry Davies raised his hand and spoke again. “As you have undoubtedly all heard, the colonel found what he thought might be King Arthur’s fort, up above the village. Several members of the village, including myself, went to examine his discovery. On observing the shape and size of the ruin, I determined that this was too small to be anything but a chapel. This had to be what we have all believed to exist, but never been able to find—the true resting place of Saint Celert. The real, the true Beddgelert! Not some trumped up legend of a dog’s grave but the final resting place of a saint!”

  There was mumbling from the audience, but Mr. Parry Davies raised his hand again and went on loudly. “I have been in touch with the archaeology department at Bangor University, and they have assured me that they will be sending out experts to verify our find at the earliest possible opportunity. If they confirm what we suspect, and I have every hope that they will, then it will be a proud day for Llanfair. Llanfair will then be the true Beddgelert.”

  A man sitting a few rows from the back tried to stand up but was restrained by the people on either side of him. On one side of the podium, Evans-the-Meat attempted to catch Rev. Parry Davies’ attention. The minister saw him and cleared his throat, a trifle nervously.

  “Our local butcher, Mr. Gareth Evans, has asked to be given the floor at this point. So I turn the meeting over to him.”

  Evans-the-Meat leaped onto the stage. He looked quite different without his bloodstained apron. In a dark suit, with his hair slicked down, he came across as a person of substance and authority. “Fellow citizens of Llanfair,” he said grandly. “This is indeed a proud moment for us. All these years we’ve had to sit by and watch while other villages glorified in the great history of Wales. We’ve never had an eisteddfod, we’ve never been able to celebrate great battles or even legends from our Celtic past. But now we have the true resting place of Saint Celert, and I’m sure you join with me in wanting the rest of Wales to know about it. I therefore propose that we let the world know of our great discovery by changing our name officially to Llanfairbeddgelert.”

  There was scattered applause and a few rowdy cheers from Barry-the-Bucket and his friends, who had already been in the Dragon since opening time. But the cheers were interrupted by a man who jumped to his feet, shaking off the people who tried to restrain him. “How dare you!” he yelled. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with this, because we’ll fight you every step of the way. Think you’ll change your name to Llanfairbeddgelert, is it now?” He fought his way forward and came down the aisle. He was a large man in a tweed jacket. His heavily jowled face was almost purple with rage, and his jowls quivered as his head shook. “Let me tell you that there already is a place that has rejoiced in the name of Beddgelert since before the village of Llanfair was even thought of. We’ve been the one and only Beddgelert for hundreds of years, and what’s more, we’re going to stay the one and only Beddgelert. We’re proud of our town and we’re proud of Gelert’s grave and we’ll stop this insanity any way we can. Go ahead and you’ll be facing us in court!”

  “Sit down! Shut up!” The protests grew around the room. Evan was about to take a step forward to prevent trouble when the big man spun around.

  “I’ve said what I came to say,” he yelled. “I hope that most people here are sensible enough not to go along with this damned-fool idea because if this goes to court, I’ll bankrupt you all.”

  He glared at the audience, then suddenly frowned and looked around as if he was no longer sure where he was. He shoved his way down the center aisle and hurried out. There was silence followed by nervous laughter.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Evans-the-Meat yelled after him. “Idle threats—that’s what it is. He’s just hot air. Thinks we’ll take away his precious tourist trade, isn’t it? Well, I tell him he’s welcome to his tourists. Keep them down there in the valley, but let us glory in our heritage!”

  More polite applause.

  “And while we’re on the subject of changing our name,” Evans-the-Meat went on, “I say let’s go the whole hog. We won’t just stop with Llanfairbeddgelert. Why not call ourselves Llanfairbeddgelert-who-was-not-a-dog-but-a-saint-and-who-had-his-chapel-up-on-the-mountain-at-the-top-of-the-pass-above-the-larch-trees-and-near-the-big-rocks…” Laughter drowned out the rest of his sentence.

  “They don’t make postcards big enough, man!” someone yelled from the back.

  Evans-the-Meat flushed a little then held up his hand for quiet. “You see what I’m suggesting, don’t you? Think about that other village called Llanfair over on Anglesey. What does it have that we don’t have? Nothing, except the longest name in the world. Everyone has heard of that Llanfair and nobody has heard of us, only because of the length of their name. So I say let’s put our Llanfair on the map. Let’s give ourselves a name that is one syllable longer than theirs and we’ll find ourselves in the Guinness book of records instead of them!”

  Several people near the front had risen to their feet. A distinguished-looking man strode to the podium. “I am mayor of the town of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch!” he announced proudly. “We read in the paper that you people up here were thinking of doing this unspeakable thing. I am here to tell you what the representative from Beddgelert has already told you. Do this and we will take legal action to put a stop to it!”

  “There’s nothing to stop us, man, and you know it!” Evans-the-Meat yelled back. His face was now beet red. “We can call ourselves what we like.”

  “Not when we are the true owners of the longest name in the world,” the man went on.

  “Longest name in the world? Hah!” Evans-the-Meat roared. “And when did you acquire this longest name in the world? Only when you got a railway station and you wanted something impr
essive to put on the sign.”

  “That’s not true!” the man started, but Evans-the-Meat cut in.

  “My great-auntie Mwfanwy came from Anglesey and she remembers that your village was just known as plain old Llanfair until the railway got there.”

  “Been alive for a hundred and fifty years, has she then?” one of the other Llanfair P.G. delegation demanded. “That’s how long we’ve had the railway. And we had our long name before that. We just didn’t care to use it officially in those days. It took too long to write.”

  “There was probably nobody who knew how to write in your village anyway,” a voice jeered from the back of the hall.

  “Order! Order!” The reverend Parry Davies thumped on the podium.

  “It doesn’t matter how long we’ve had our name,” the mayor went on. “It’s ours and we’re proud of it. Go ahead with this ridiculous publicity stunt and you’ll have not one but two lawsuits on your hands. I hope you all have deep pockets here because lawyers don’t come cheap.” He turned to those with him. “Come on, boys, we’ve said all that we came to say. Let’s leave these folk to come to their senses!”

  With that he swept out of the hall, followed by his retinue.

  “Anyone else who’s got something to say?” Barry-the-Bucket’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Is Saint Celert here, maybe, wanting to tell us that it’s not his grave after all?”

  Through the noisy outbursts that followed, the reverend Parry Davies mounted the podium again. “Please, please,” he begged. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The noise gradually subsided. “In the light of what has just occurred, I think it might be prudent to postpone any more discussion to another occasion. It also might be wise to contact a solicitor at this juncture and get his advice before hurtling ourselves headlong into the abyss. I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say that I have no wish to be part of any unpleasant court proceedings.”

  “They don’t scare me one bit,” Evans-the-Meat said loudly. “Let them just try it. We’ll make them look like the fools they are.”