Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs (2 page)

He grabbed her arm. “Don’t be such a bloody fool, Christine. Can’t you get it into your head—it’s over. Finished. You are history, my sweet.”

“Let go of me!” She tried to shake herself loose.

“Go back to London, Chrissy, please, before you make a complete idiot of yourself and someone winds up getting hurt.”

“I said let go of me.” Her voice had risen dangerously. “Leave me alone. I’m a big girl, Justin. I can take care of myself.”

She pulled herself free from his grasp. “Bugger off, Justin!” She was yelling now. “I’m not just going to go home like a good little girl and forget it ever happened. You can’t get rid of me that easily!”

She pushed past him, slammed her car door, gunned the engine, and drove off with tires screeching. The young man watched her go, then punched angrily at the Powell-Joneses’ gatepost before cutting across their garden and disappearing through the hedge.

*   *   *

Mrs. Powell-Jones had been watching the whole thing from her sitting room window.

“Edward!” she called, her voice echoing through the house. “Edward! Something very strange is going on.”

The Reverend Powell-Jones’s head appeared around his study door. “What is it, my dear? I’m really very busy. I was just getting to the good part about eternal fires and sins of the flesh.”

“Edward, this is important, or I should not have dreamed of interrupting your sermon writing. A young man has just gone through our hedge, and we’ve just had an extraordinary visit from a young woman. I got the impression that she wanted to see you, but then she changed her mind.” She glared at him as only Mrs. Powell-Jones could glare. Boy Scouts and Sunday school students had been known to confess to any number of sins under the searing intensity of Mrs. Powell-Jones’s stare. “Edward,” she said with icy softness. “You don’t have anything you want to tell me about, do you?”

“To tell you about, my dear? Of what nature?”

“The nature of your sermon, Edward. Sins of the flesh, I think you called it.”

Edward Powell-Jones looked puzzled. “I don’t think I follow you, my love.”

“Then let me make myself clear. I was merely wondering why a young girl should be anxious to see you and ask me pointedly if I were your wife. I wondered exactly what might have gone on at that Christian youth conference you attended in Bangor last month.”

“You are not suggesting…” Edward Powell-Jones broke into horrified laughter … “that I, of all people…”

“It happens, Edward, even to the best of men. The beast lurks, even in the bosom of saints, and you are still an attractive man.”

Edward, who was fiftyish, grayish, frailish, and had never been what young girls would describe as sexy, flushed with embarrassment. “I do assure you, my dear, that there has only been one woman in my life—will only be one woman in my life.”

“Then what did she want?” Mrs. Powell-Jones demanded in exasperation.

“I have no idea.”

“And a very angry young man, walking across our lawn, as if he owned the place.”

Edward Powell-Jones’s expression changed as if a new and troubling thought had just entered his head. His wife, who never missed a thing, didn’t miss this either. “What is it?” she demanded. “You do know something.”

“It just occurred to me that this might have something to do with that estate agent from Caernarfon.”

“What estate agent?”

“The one who’s been pestering me to let the house for the summer.”

“Who’s been what?”

“I’m sure I must have told you. He called several times this week, while you were at your mother’s house.”

“No, Edward, you did not tell me.” Mrs. Powell-Jones’s voice was icily calm.

“Didn’t I? I meant to…” Edward Powell-Jones was distinctly flustered now. Icy calmness from his wife was worse than raging storms. “My memory, it’s really letting me down these days, but I suppose I dismissed the matter as being of no consequence…”

“Exactly what did this estate agent person want from you, Edward?”

“He said he had a client who was very anxious to rent this house for the summer.”

“This house?”

Edward Powell-Jones shrugged. “The client apparently wanted a large house with privacy in the vicinity of Llanfair and this was the only one that came to mind. I gather he was willing to pay a substantial sum for it.”

“The nerve of the fellow,” Mrs. Powell-Jones exclaimed.

“Exactly my thoughts, my dear. Showing up uninvited and fully expecting that we were going to comply just because he was waving money in our faces. I soon set him straight. I am the minister of the most important chapel in Llanfair, my good man, I told him. My flock needs me and I have no intention of going anywhere. Furthermore I told him that money was of no importance to us.”

“On the other hand, Edward…” Mrs. Powell-Jones said thoughtfully, “maybe we should not dismiss the matter out of hand. You could have been overhasty.”

“How so, my dear?”

“This might just be the answer to my prayers.”

“Your prayers? You were praying to let the house?”

Mrs. Powell-Jones sighed at his stupidity. “About Mummy, Edward. I’ve been praying about Mummy.” She perched herself on the arm of the faded print sofa. “You remember that the doctor told Mummy that she needs her hip replaced. She’s been putting it off and putting it off and now the poor old dear can barely hobble around. I didn’t offer to go and nurse her because my place is with you and the flock. How could I leave you to cope alone in this big house? Now, don’t you see, a solution has presented itself. Mummy could get her hip replaced and I could take care of her.”

“And what about me? There’s no room for me at your mother’s and anyway, I’m not closing up my chapel for the summer and letting Parry Davies get his hands on my congregation.”

“Of course not, dear. We’ll find somewhere in the village for you to board. Several villagers take in visitors don’t they? I’ll find somewhere suitable for you, don’t worry.” She looked around the room with satisfaction. “This couldn’t have come at a better time. It is definitely a gift from heaven. And think of what we could do with the money…”

Edward’s face lit up. “The organ has needed working on for some time. It’s very distressing when the pedals stick during ‘Cwm Rhondda.’”

“Organ be blowed. We need a new three-piece suite for this room.” Mrs. Powell-Jones’s voice rose alarmingly. She rose and pointed at the threadbare arm on which she had been perched. “Look at it, Edward. I’ve been ashamed for some time when we have had to hold chapel meetings here with the coils almost sticking through the cushions. And I am all too aware that the Parry Davies have that Naugahyde monstrosity, which, while only imitation leather and quite unsuitable for a pastor’s home, is almost new.”

“We could look into a new three-piece suite, I suppose,” Edward Powell-Jones said with a resigned sigh. “If you really think that is the best use of the money.”

“I do, Edward. I really do. Now get on the phone and call that estate agent. Tell him we’ve changed our minds and we can be out of here by the end of the week.”

*   *   *

The young girl slowed the car to a crawl as she came to a crossroad at the top of the pass. One way led down to Beddgelert and the coast, the other to Betws-y-Coed. She stopped, undecided which way to turn. Tears were welling up, blurring her vision. She had no idea what to do now.

Chapter 2

Constable Evan Evans came out of the Llanfair subpolice station and stood breathing in the good fresh air. He could smell the salt tang from the ocean today. He glanced up at the racing clouds. He hoped this didn’t mean a storm coming in just in time for the weekend. He was really looking forward to his day with Bronwen.

His friendship with the young schoolteacher had been deepening and the village was already speculating, although they had only been on a handful of dates together. Evan was keeping any thoughts of wedding bells firmly out of his own mind.

They had a long mountain hike planned for the next day—if the weather held. It wasn’t the sort of terrain you’d want to tackle in the rain, boggy in places and high enough to be mostly in cloud. If the wind kept blowing briskly like this it might clear out all these threatening clouds by then.

He glanced at his watch. Mrs. Williams, his landlady, would have his lunch waiting for him and would be upset if he let it get cold. It was Friday, so that probably meant fish. Mrs. Williams was very predictable in her choice of menus. He hoped it might be grilled herring today. There were wonderful fresh herrings at this time of year and Mrs. Williams cooked them to perfection, nicely crisp on the outside and moist in the middle, with maybe the added bonus of a soft row inside. Mrs. Williams was a wonderful cook and seemed to think that Evan would starve to death if he wasn’t fed three large cooked meals a day, and tea as well if he happened to be home.

He locked the station door and set off for Mrs. Williams’s cottage, his salivary glands working in anticipation.

“
Bore da,
Evans-the-Law,” Roberts-the-Pump called from his garage next door.

“
Bore da.
How’s business?” Evan asked.

“Can’t complain. Plenty of tourists around at this time of year, isn’t it? Of course we all know the one person who is complaining, don’t we now?” He laughed and indicated the butcher’s shop across the street. “Evans-the-Meat would build a bloody brick wall around the village if he had his way … and only let people through who spoke Welsh. You should have heard him ranting and raving this morning because some young fellow comes in and starts asking him questions about who lives where.”

Evan smiled. He was all too aware of Evans-the-Meat’s firm belief that foreigners had no business in Wales.

At that moment he heard raised voices, higher up the village street. He listened with interest. Speaking English, not Welsh. Probably tourists then. A woman’s voice had risen to a scream. Evan hesitated then started up the street. A young girl was struggling to break free from a young man’s grasp.

“Hey,” Evan yelled but at that moment the girl broke loose, ran to a waiting maroon Vauxhall Vectra, and drove away, tires screeching. The young man yelled something after her, then turned back into the front garden and was lost among the bushes.
Lovers’ tiff or something more serious?
Evan wondered. It took him a moment to register in surprise that the front garden belonged to the Powell-Joneses’ house.

“What was that all about?” Roberts-the-Pump asked him as he returned down the street.

Evan shrugged. “We’ll never know. They’d both gone by the time I got there. And I don’t suppose it was any of my business, apart from the speeding, and I can hardly chase her on foot, can I?”

“They should provide you with a squad car,” Roberts-the-Pump said. “I can get my hands on a lovely secondhand Ford Granada if you can get them interested.”

Evan chuckled. “It’s hard enough to get a new supply of paper clips out of them,” he said. “And anyway, the whole purpose of having me here is that I can do all my patrolling on foot.”

“And keep an eye on all the wicked goings on in Llanfair,” Roberts-the-Pump laughed. “Got it made, haven’t you, Evan
bach?
” he asked, although “little Evan” was hardly an accurate description for a six footer who climbed mountains and played rugby.

Evan smiled and walked on. He knew that this sentiment was echoed by most of the villagers—that he had a cushy job with little work. He also knew that they were glad enough to have him around.

“Is that you, Mr. Evans?” Mrs. Williams’s high voice echoed from the kitchen. Always the same greeting, even though she knew he was the only one with a key. As usual he was tempted to answer that it was a homicidal maniac.

“Yes, it’s me, Mrs. Williams.”

“
Diolch am hynny!
Thank goodness for that.” She came bustling down the dark hallway, smoothing down her apron as she spoke.

“Is something wrong then?” Evan asked.

“Only that I was worried you wouldn’t come home before your dinner dried out.” Mrs. Williams belonged to the old working-class tradition of calling lunch dinner and dinner supper. “I’ve made you a lovely fish pie, just,” she added.

Fish pie—that was one he hadn’t thought of. Not one of Mrs. Williams’s usual specialties either. In fact he couldn’t remember eating fish pie at her house before.

“I had to make it a fish pie today,” she said, by way of explanation. “Jones-the-Fish didn’t have a single decent herring in his van this morning. No mackerel either on account of the rough seas we’ve been getting.” She turned and headed back to the kitchen with Evan following her. “I blame it all on that El Niño,” she commented over her shoulder as she opened the oven door. “It’s all the Americans’ fault.”

“El Niño? Isn’t it a natural phenomenon?”

Mrs. Williams sniffed. “They started it with their atom bombs, didn’t they? We never heard of El Niños in the Pacific before the Americans started testing their atom bombs there.”

Evan kept wisely silent. He was steeling himself to face a fish pie, or wondering how to politely refuse it. Fish pie had never been one of his favorite foods. He associated it with school dinners. At school, fish pie had been a concoction of watery mashed potato with slight overtones of fish. He had never actually found fish in the pie, but there must have been some somewhere as he always got one or two bones.

While he was thinking these gloomy thoughts Mrs. Williams bent into the oven and produced a pie dish topped with a crispy, cheesy potato crust. The smell was definitely appetizing. Mrs. Williams scooped a big helping onto his plate. “Get that inside you and you won’t do too badly then,” she said proudly.

Evan prodded it with his fork. The bottom half of the slice was composed of chunks of firm white fish in a creamy sauce, then a layer of hardboiled egg and then the potato topping, fluffy underneath and crisp on top. The whole thing was crowned with bubbling cheese. One bite confirmed that it tasted as delicious as it looked.

“It’s very good,” he said in surprise.

Mrs. Williams nodded with satisfaction. “Now that’s what I call a meal for a man,” she said. “Good wholesome food that sticks to the ribs.” Immediately she started ladling runner beans and marrow slices onto his plate.