by Rhys Bowen
“A big, fat healthy sheep.”
“That’s true. I think I’m going to miss him. When we finally move into a house of our own, can I have a pet lamb, do you think?”
“I thought most women wanted children.”
“I want both.” She smiled at him. “Children, dogs, lambs, chickens …”
“Hold on a minute, you’ll be turning the place into a bloody Noah’s ark.”
“And why not?” Then her smile faltered. “Evan, look,” she said.
“What?”
“The fields.”
“What about them?”
“They’re empty. No animals in them.”
“So they are. That’s not a good sign, is it?”
After they left the motorway at Shrewsbury and drove west, the silence became oppressive. Empty field after empty field. Hardly any traffic on the roads. And then they saw the brown pall ahead of them.
“What do you think that is?” Bronwen asked. “A forest fire? I thought we’d had plenty of rain this summer.”
They had been driving with the windows down. Soon the acrid smell was borne on the breeze toward them, not the pleasant odor of roasting meat but rather of singed hair and burning bone. Bronwen coughed and rolled up the window. Evan followed suit.
“This is terrible,” she said. “There seems to be burning going on everywhere you look.”
“I dread to think what we will find when we get home.” Evan slowed to negotiate a mound of disinfected straw across the road, then another. “I wonder if I could have done anything if I had stayed here?”
“Of course you couldn’t. These things are best left to strangers.”
By the time they reached Betys-y-Coed, there were no more burning pyres in the fields and Evan’s spirits began to rise. Maybe the disease had bypassed Llanfair after all. They drove past Capel Curig and up to where the road branched and dropped down to the Llanberis pass.
“I still don’t see any sheep,” Bronwen said.
There was an ominous silence as they got out of the car. Llanfair was basking in pink twilight, but the place appeared empty and abandoned. On a normal August day there would have been a stream of cars heading back to the hotels on the coast. The little general store and the petrol station would have been doing a roaring trade, but both were closed. As they watched, a lone figure came out of one of the cottages and made his way slowly down the street. Evan recognized Charlie Hopkins. He called out and Charlie came over to the car.
“Hello, Evan bach. I’d say welcome home, but it’s not much of a welcome, is it?”
“It looks pretty grim, Charlie,” Evan said. “What happened to all the sheep?”
“Slaughtered, every single one of them. They didn’t wait to check which ones were healthy and which were not. They all went. Poor Mr. Owens, he was shouting and cursing and pleading, but it didn’t do any good, did it? They threatened to arrest him if he got in their way. I’m glad you weren’t here to see it. And then they made a great big bonfire and everywhere you looked you could see other bonfires burning. The stench of it was something terrible. I said to Mair, I don’t think I’ll ever fancy lamb again.” He gave a resigned sigh.
“Poor Mr. Owens,” Bronwen said. “What will he do now, do you think? Are they going to compensate farmers for the animals they’ve lost?”
“Oh yes, they’ll do that,” Charlie Hopkins said. “But what good is compensation when he’s worked for years building up good breeding stock.”
“Like those two prize rams of his,” Evan said. “That must have been the most bitter blow.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that.” Charlie looked around, up and down the deserted street. “If you happen to be ever taking a hike up and over Glydr Fach, you come down to a little stand of evergreen trees in a corrie, and right behind it is a disused sheep byre. Not very visible unless you happen to know about it, which, of course, those soldiers from the outside didn’t.”
Evan gave Bronwen an incredulous grin. “You don’t mean that Mr. Owens has put his two prize rams in it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know, because I’m not sprightly enough to climb up there anymore, but I have seen him heading that way with a bag of fodder from time to time.”
“I know I shouldn’t really approve of breaking the law,” Evan said, “but I’m really glad for him. And glad I wasn’t here when he did it.”
“Well, anyway, I hope you two have had a nice holiday,” Charlie said. “You didn’t do anything stupid like run off and get married, did you?”
“Nothing stupid like that,” Evan said, smiling at the old man. Bronwen glanced down at the new sapphire ring on her finger and smiled too.
“Oh, and talking of getting married, you’ll never guess what’s been going on while you were away?” Charlie’s old, weathered face lit up. “Betsy’s gone and got herself a bloke.”
“Really?” Evan asked. “Who?”
“Who do you think? The last person in the world you’d expect. Barry-the-Bucket.” He was nodding delightedly. “He took her to the dance last week, and it seems they really hit it off just fine. And now he’s showing up at the Dragon every evening with flowers, and they’re both acting all daft.”
“Barry-the-Bucket. Who would have thought it. Now you’re off the hook.” Bronwen slipped her hand into Evan’s.
“I’ve lived long enough to know that little miracles are happening every day,” Charlie Hopkins said. “That’s what we need in times like this—a few little miracles. I’ll see you down at the Dragon later then, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Evan said. Charlie shuffled on down the street and into the pub. Evan put his arm around Bronwen’s shoulders and they stood together, watching the twilight fade behind the black silhouette of the mountains.
Glossary of Welsh Words
bach—little. Used as a term of endearment, similar to English “love” (pronounced like the composer)
noswaith dda—good evening (pronounced nos-why-th thah)
cariad—darling. Term of endearment (pronounced ca-ree-ad)
Hen Diawll—old devil. Harmless cussword like damn (pronounced he de — owl-ch)
bara brith—speckled bread (bread with mixed fruits in it) (pronounced as it looks)
Ydych chi’n siarad cymraeg?—Do you speak Welsh? (pronounced udich-een sharad cumrige)
Abertawe—Welsh name for Swansea. Means mouth of Tawe River (pronounced aber-tah-way)
Escob Annwyl—dear Bishop. Mild exclamation of horror (pronounced escobe an-wheel)
Nain—grandmother in North Wales (pronounced nine)
eisteddfod—Welsh cultural gathering. Literally means sitting (pronounced eye-steth-fod)
cawl—a thick lamb soup (pronounced cowl)
Also by Rhys Bowen
The Constable Evans Mysteries
Evans to Betsy
Evan Can Wait
Evan and Elle
Evan Help Us
Evans Above
Evanly Choirs
The Molly Murphy Mysteries
Death of Riley
Murphy’s Law
EVAN ONLY KNOWS. Copyright © 2003 by Rhys Bowen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
eISBN 9781429992176
First eBook Edition : June 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bowen, Rhys.
Evan only knows / Rhys Bowen.—1st ed. p. cm.
1. Evans, Evan (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Murder victims’ families—Fiction. 3. Trials (Murder)—Fiction. 4. Police—Wales—Fiction. 5. Swansea (Wales)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6052.O848 E886 2003
823’.914—dc21
2002031890
First Edition: March 2003
Rhys Bowen, Evan Only Knows