Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs (28 page)

In the center was an empty chair, decorated with vines, surrounded by several men in splendid green robes with crowns of leaves on their heads. Those were the past bards and the Arch Druids. Little girls in green dresses, their heads wreathed with garlands of flowers, sat at their feet.

“And now we come to the most solemn moment of the
eisteddfod,
” one of these green-clad figures announced. “Now we pay homage to this year’s bard, by crowning him and seating him in the chair of honor. We have heard all the candidates for the title of bard. We have been truly impressed with the quality of their eloquence and the richness of their poetry this year. The choice has not been an easy one, but one contestant stood out from all the rest. He spoke with fire, he spoke with eloquence, he spoke with passion.

“I am delighted to say that this man is one of our own, from here in North Wales. I call forth to be chaired the bard of the Harlech
eisteddfod,
from the little town of Llan…”

Mr. Powell-Jones had already risen to his feet. So had Mr. Parry Davies.

“… from the little town of Llanrwst in the beautiful Vale of Conwy, Mr. Rex Beynon!”

An inoffensive-looking little man with a toothbrush moustache rose to his feet, his head bobbing to the applause as he walked toward the bardic chair. Powell-Jones and Parry Davies remained standing, staring in disbelief.

Then, almost as if they had orchestrated it, they marched down the steps at either side and off the stage. They kept on walking until they met at the back exit of the pavilion.

“Rex Beynon!” Mr. Powell-Jones exclaimed in disgust. “He had no fire, no spirit, no rhythm to his verse. No voice at all.”

“He sounded like a mouse squeaking in a cathedral.”

“He’d never preached a rousing sermon in his life, I’ll be bound.”

“Never made people weep to hear him, eh Edward?”

“Never had a conversion on the spot, eh, Tomos
bach?
”

They stood there, looking slightly ridiculous in their white sheets and tablecloths.

“You should have won it, man,” Powell-Jones said huskily. “You had the voice and the fire and the passion.”

“So did you, Edward. So did you. Either one of us should have won it. It would have been hard to decide between us.”

Edward Powell-Jones’s face lit up. “That’s it!” he exclaimed. “That’s why they did it! They couldn’t decide between us and they didn’t want to hurt either of our feelings, so they chose that little squeaking windbag Rex Beynon.”

“You may just be right there, Edward. There was nothing to choose between us, was there? We were both streets ahead of the rest of the competition.”

“Next year you should enter alone. I’ll bow out and give you your chance for glory,” Edward Powell-Jones said.

“That’s very good of you, Edward, but maybe I’ll step down next year and let you have your chance.”

“Oh no, I insist. You’ve been working for it longer than I. It’s only fair.”

“Let’s not think about next year yet. Let’s go and get a drink and toast the true winners, eh Edward
bach?
”

“I don’t usually imbibe, Tomos
bach,
but seeing the solemnity of the occasion…”

The two men set off together, white sheets flying in the breeze.

Who would have thought it, Evan mused. It was definitely a night of minor miracles.

Chapter 23

The next morning Evan was back at work at the Llanfair subpolice station when Mrs. Llewellyn came in.

“I suppose we’ll be free to go now, won’t we, Constable?” she asked.

“I expect so, Mrs. Llewellyn.”

“And Ifor’s body will be released to us?”

“I see no reason why not. They’ve got a full confession from Mostyn Phillips and he’s in custody. This time I think the confession was genuine.”

Margaret Llewellyn smiled, then the smile faded. “Poor Mostyn. I feel so sorry for him. He could never understand why I chose Ifor … but it was no contest, was it? How could anyone want Mostyn when they could have an Ifor Llewellyn?” She smiled sadly. “In spite of everything he put me through he was the only man I ever loved. I truly loved him, Mr. Evans. Mostyn could never understand that.”

Evan could think of nothing to say.

“I’m taking the body back to Italy for the funeral,” she went on. “They want to give him a state funeral with all the trappings—black-plumed horses, the lot. Ifor would appreciate that. Going out in style.”

Evan smiled. “Pity. Mrs. Williams was rather hoping for a good funeral here.”

*   *   *

Back at Mrs. Williams’s house Mrs. Powell-Jones was busy packing up her husband’s clothes.

“It will be so nice to be back in our own place, won’t it, Edward,” she said. “It’s not easy living out of a suitcase.”

“It has been disagreeable,” Mr. Powell-Jones said. “The whole thing has been very uncomfortable and inconvenient. I think that’s why I lost the competition—I couldn’t put my mind fully to the task in hand, because I wasn’t in my own house and you weren’t there to look after me.”

Mrs. Powell-Jones put her arm awkwardly around his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Edward. I won’t go running off again. And next time anyone offers us a large sum of money for our house, I’ll resist the temptation and turn it down.”

“They won’t want a refund, will they?” Edward Powell-Jones asked. “Just because they’re going home early?”

“I hope not!” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “I’ve already got a deposit on a new three-piece suite!”

*   *   *

Over in the Red Dragon Betsy was doing the morning dusting.

“You can wave bye-bye to that date with Constable Evans, Betsy my girl,” Harry-the-Pub commented as he came in with a tray of clean glasses. “Rumor has it that he was seen going into Bronwen Price’s house very late last night.”

“I heard that, too,” Betsy said. She looked at herself in the mirror decorated with the words
WHAT WE WANT IS WATNEYS
. “I don’t understand it, Harry. What’s she got that I haven’t, I’d like to know. I keep myself looking nice, don’t I? I wear trendier clothes than her. I’ve got a better figure…” She paused and examined her hair. “Maybe it’s my hair. Maybe Mr. Llewellyn was right and I should dye it. How do you think I’d look with black hair, eh Harry?”

“Bloody daft,” Harry said. “Now stop gawping at yourself and put away those glasses.”

Also by Rhys Bowen

Evans Above

Evan Help Us

EVANLY CHOIRS
. Copyright © 1999 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.

Production Editor: David Stanford Burr

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bowen, Rhys.

Evanly choirs : a Constable Evans mystery / Rhys Bowen.— 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-312-20539-2

I. Title

PR6052.0848E9 1999

823'.914—dc21

99-19879
CIP

FIRST EDITION
: May 1999

eISBN 9781466840171

First eBook edition: February 2013