by Rhys Bowen
Chapter 23
Evan sat at his desk, scribbling on a notepad, making bold black doodles around names and getting nowhere. Why shouldn’t he believe that Edward Ferrers had killed Grantley? And why not Howard Bauer, who had admitted engineering his fall from a train, not to mention a relationship gone sour? Then there was Robert James, whose hands had been around Grantley’s throat once before. Maybe the police investigation should be focusing more on him. And that old German had threatened to stop the raising of the plane, one way or the other; another name he should give to Watkins. Apart from that, there wasn’t much that Evan could do except wait for Edward Ferrers to break down and confess—or not as the case may be.
He got up and decided to walk his usual afternoon beat around the village a little early. There was no point in just sitting in his office, becoming more and more frustrated, and he really didn’t want to be in when Mrs. Powell-Jones rang—as she most certainly would. He put on his jacket and hat and went out. The clouds had now broken into wild gray threads through which the sun painted moving stripes of light on the mountains. He noticed that the hillsides above Llanfair were now white with new snow and wondered if snow had covered the site beside the lake. If there was too much snow on the pass, then they wouldn’t be able to finish raising the plane this year.
Evans-the-Post was heading toward the post office, lost in concentration as he read a letter. He jumped guiltily when he saw Evan come out of the police station.
“It had the wrong address on it,” he said defensively. “I was taking a look to see who it should have gone to. It’s from someone’s Auntie Gwen in Australia. Do you know anyone in Llanfair with an Auntie Gwen?”
“You’re not supposed to open them, you know.” Evan tried not to smile. “You’re supposed to return them to sender.”
“Wouldn’t be no use in that, would there?” Evans-the-Post demanded. “Then the letter would be back where it came from. It’s my job to see it gets delivered. But we don’t have no Mrs. A. Jones at Number Twenty-nine and the lady at Number Twenty-nine don’t have no Auntie Gwen in Australia.” Then his large, lugubrious face lit up. “I know,” he said. “They must mean old Mrs. Jones. Remember her? She moved to live with her daughter a few years ago.” He glanced at the envelope. “Look, this was posted five years ago. I wonder where it’s been all this time? Funny how it’s caught up with her at last, isn’t it? I’ll just forward it to her daughter then.”
He loped across the street with his strange jerky run, his postal bag bouncing at his side. Evan smiled and walked on. There was no reasoning with Evans-the-Post. He definitely marched to a different drummer.
Harry-the-Pub came out of the Dragon and tipped a bucket of dirty water into the drain. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Mr. Evans,” he called. “Busy hobnobbing with those film stars, is it?”
“Nothing like that. Just busy with my job,” Evan called back.
“You’ll never hear the last of it if you don’t get our Betsy a part in that film,” Harry said. “On about it, night and day, she is. Set her heart on it.”
“Harry, I’ve tried to explain to her that it’s not that sort of film,” Evan said. “And anyway, it doesn’t look as if it will be finished now. We’ve had a spot of bother.”
“I heard. That good-looking bloke killed, wasn’t it? And they say the other one did it. They lead wild lives, these movie types. I told Betsy, ‘You’re better off out of it, my girl. Stay behind the bar where you’re safe and sound.’”
Evan walked on. Such a small place, Llanfair—so naive, so untouched by the world, so simple to understand. He was approaching the school. A light was already on in Bronwen’s window. He wanted to find out if she’d managed to find Edward a solicitor, but he hesitated. It wasn’t exactly easy to see Bronwen and know that she was pining after someone else.
He quickened his step and went to walk on. Then the door opened and Bronwen came out. “Evan!” she called. “Any news yet?” She ran across the playground, wearing only her indoor clothes and fluffy blue slippers on her feet. He came through the gate to meet her. “From the police, I mean. They haven’t called about Edward, have they?”
“I haven’t heard anything,” Evan said. “Did you fix him up with a solicitor?”
“Yes, that Mr. Lloyd-Jones you recommended was going straight over to the police station. It’s a pity I can’t be there. He gets so flustered, you know. I could tell them what he really meant to say, not what was coming out of his mouth.”
“I think that’s called coaching a witness,” Evan said.
Bronwen looked up at him and smiled. Their eyes met.
“Look, sorry I rushed off earlier. I’ve been so worried, I don’t really know what to do. It’s like a nightmare, isn’t it—someone you care about arrested and you can’t do anything to help them.” She shivered and looked down at her slippered feet in surprise. “Gosh, it’s cold out here, isn’t it? Why don’t you come in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
There were a thousand things he could have said. I’m afraid I’m on duty. I’m too busy. But he heard himself say, “All right. Thanks,” and followed her across the schoolyard, watching those ridiculous fuzzy slippers flap on the concrete. Her kitchen was warm and smelled of baking bread.
She turned and smiled at him. “Madame Yvette’s recipe for French bread. I’m trying it again. Somehow bread making is very therapeutic—all that kneading and punching.”
She put a kettle on the stove and checked the oven. “Almost ready. You can be my guinea pig if you like.”
“I suppose your guinea pig is better than nothing.”
She came around the table to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “What did you say? Evan, Edward has been arrested for murder. You wouldn’t sit by and let a friend flounder, would you?”
“No, but … I get the impression that he’s still more than a friend to you.”
“Of course he is. I was married to him once. You can’t ever undo that, however badly it ended. I once loved him enough to marry him.”
Evan turned away and looked into the fire.
“I’m sorry if I don’t have time for us, but at the moment I can’t think of anything else except getting Edward out of prison.”
“And if we do get him freed, what then?”
“What do you mean? He’ll go back to where he came from and get on with his life, I suppose—as well as he can without Grantley.”
Evan found this mildly reassuring but decided not to press it. Maybe she didn’t really know in her own mind what she wanted to do next.
“I’ve been thinking.” She went over to the stove and lifted the kettle. “Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way around.”
“Meaning what?”
She looked up. “I can’t help feeling that Grantley’s death might have had something to do with the mine.”
“An accident, you mean? He had bloody great marks around his throat and someone weighted his pockets with slabs of slate.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I’m not really sure what I mean. It’s just a feeling that maybe Grantley’s death had nothing to do with him or the people who knew him. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And found something he shouldn’t?” Evan shook his head. “I was down there. There was nothing but a lot of slate piles and pools of water.”
“But those old mines are huge,” Bronwen said. “An awful lot of space to hide anything, or to have an assignation. Maybe Grantley stumbled into something going on down there.”
Evan smiled. “A Satanist cult meeting? There are more accessible places, I should think. And if you wanted to meet someone in private, you could do it on a desolate mountain road—much easier than all those steps.”
Bronwen shrugged. “Maybe I’m clutching at straws because I don’t want it to be Edward. Tell me something, Evan. What do you think makes someone kill?”
“In my experience, people kill only if there’s no other way out. I’m not talking abo
ut drug dealers or organized crime bosses who’d gun you down without a second thought. I’m talking about ordinary people, like Edward. If someone has embarrassed you, blackened the family name, stolen your money or your girl, you might want to kill, but you won’t. Because we’ve all been brought up with a set of manners and they kick in before we do anything too daft. Ordinary people only kill because they have no choice.”
Relief flooded across Bronwen’s face. “If you put it that way, then Edward had plenty of choice, didn’t he? He could have broken all ties with Grantley and lived happily ever after. So it doesn’t look as if it was him, after all.”
Evan’s pager beeped for him. “Can I use your phone?” he asked. “It might be important.”
“Of course.”
He dialed the number and Watkins answered.
“Hello, Sarge. Any news yet?” Evan asked.
“Not really. He’s got a solicitor in there with him and it looks like we’re getting nowhere fast. It’s Lloyd-Jones from Bangor. Know him, do you? Very slow and methodical. He’s driving the D.I. up the wall, making him repeat every question three times and then not letting Edward answer it.”
“So he hasn’t done anything daft like confess?”
“Why, did you expect him to?”
“I understand he doesn’t do well under pressure. Look, Sarge, I think you should maybe check into Howard Bauer a little more closely, and into Robert James, too. Find out if either of them were seen near the mine on Saturday morning.”
“Now then, what are you getting at? What do you know that we don’t?”
“Nothing, Sarge. But I don’t feel too easy about Howard Bauer and I know that Robert James went for Grantley Smith once before. I don’t think we should neglect other likely suspects, that’s all.”
“Why exactly are you so sure we’ve got the wrong man here?”
“Because someone who knows Edward Ferrers very well is sure he couldn’t have done it.” Evan’s eyes met Bronwen’s.
“He’s the best suspect we have so far. Everyone heard him threaten Grantley Smith only a short while before he was killed. His footprint was found just outside the mine when he had told us he caught a taxi straight home. It would have taken a pretty strong bloke to kill Grantley Smith and dump him single-handed. Again, Ferrers fits the bill. And he was very, very flustered, babbling on about how sorry he was.”
Evan looked up to see if Bronwen could overhear.
“So, has he said anything about why his footprint was found outside the mine?”
“Oh yes. He admits now that he went there. He said he didn’t want to leave Smith with such bad feelings between them, so he changed his mind and went looking for him. He found the Land Rover parked, but no keys in it. He looked around, even went to the mine to see if he was there, but couldn’t find him. So he got angry again and went home in a taxi.”
“Sounds plausible enough to me,” Evan said.
“Forensics are working on the body,” Watkins said. “It’s just possible they might find something that would point to Ferrers. Of course, being underwater like that has spoiled things for us, but something might come up. If not, the evidence is all circumstantial and we’ll have to let him go.”
“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong direction altogether,” Evan said. “Have you thought that maybe someone came to the mine to meet him—someone we don’t even know about yet?”
“The mysterious stranger theory? Or, how about the butler? That usually works well in old books.” Watkins chuckled.
“I’m serious, Sarge. What about Smith’s mobile? Did he make any calls the day before he died?”
“Plenty,” Watkins said. “But no mysterious strangers, I’m afraid. A couple of calls to the consortium that owns the mine, asking for permission to have it opened up for him, so I gather. And several calls to the National Gallery in London. A call to the Daily Express. But no calls to individuals.”
“Any possibility that I could have those numbers?” Evan asked.
“I don’t see why not. There’s nothing private about any of them. Here, hold on a second.” Evan scribbled as the sergeant dictated.
“Right. Thanks a lot, Sarge,” Evan said. “So you won’t be releasing Ferrers before tomorrow morning, will you? Which means work can’t go on at the plane and I’ll have a little time to myself.”
“Be careful, boyo,” Watkins said.
“I’ll be careful.” Evan glanced at Bronwen, who was eyeing him with interest.
“Anything good to report?” she asked as he hung up the phone.
“Nothing bad either. Lloyd-Jones has arrived and is driving the D.I. crazy with his slow, methodical ways.”
“Is that good?”
“It means that they can’t get Edward rushed and flustered, which is what you were worrying about.”
She nodded. “You’re right. So what are you going to do now?”
“Check on the last phone calls he made from his mobile. I think they were all pretty routine, but you never know.”
She went to the oven. “The bread’s just about ready. Would you pour the tea, please?”
Evan picked up the teapot, poured one cup, then put it down again. “I think I should skip the tea, if you don’t mind. There are some phone calls I should make right away.” Then seeing her disappointment, he added, “But you can save me a piece of bread for later, please.”
“All right.” She managed a smile. “You’re onto something, aren’t you? You’ve just found out something important.”
“I’m not sure. It’s just a hunch. I’ll tell you later.” He went to kiss her, thought better of it, and waved awkwardly as he headed for the door. His footsteps echoed back from the steep valley sides as he strode down the street. The National Gallery, he thought. It had to have something to do with the National Gallery and those pictures stored in the mine during the war. Edward had said that Grantley Smith was excited about something and wouldn’t say what. He had wanted to change the focus of the whole film because of something he’d just learned. What if he’d discovered that pictures were stolen and never recovered all those years ago? What if he had come up with a clue as to where they were hidden?
He had almost broken into a run by the time he reached the police station and fumbled with his key. He glanced at his watch. Only just after four. That meant that nobody would have gone home yet. He dialed the number Sergeant Watkins had given him.
“Archives.” The woman’s voice sounded young, crisp, and efficient.
“Do I have the National Gallery?” Evan asked cautiously.
“Gallery Archives. What department did you want.”
“This is North Wales Police here.” He took a deep breath. “A Mr. Grantley Smith made several calls to this number a few days ago. Would you have been the one who took the calls?”
“Grantley Smith? Was he the man who was making the film about the war?”
“That’s right.” Evan felt his pulse quicken. “I wonder if you could tell me what he wanted to know and what you told him.”
“Oh, he was just asking general questions about how we moved the collection, how well it survived. I don’t think we were able to help him much. We’ve got all the documentation in the archives, of course, but there’s nobody still working here who was alive then.”
“Did he ask whether any paintings were stolen?”
“Yes, he did. And they weren’t.”
“Nothing was stolen? You’re sure?”
“Very sure. Security was very good, you know. I understand the whole operation went remarkably smoothly.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, thanks for your help.”
He hung up, deflated. It had seemed like such a promising lead. He called the other numbers Watkins had given him. The mine company merely confirmed that Grantley Smith had been insistent about being allowed to film inside the mine. He had told them it was for a major BBC production, and sounded very important, so they had agreed. But he hadn’t said anything about why he wanted to film
there.
The other call was to the Daily Express. The recipient, a Mr. Dan Raleigh, just happened to be at his desk, writing up his day’s stories. Yes, Grantley Smith was an old Cambridge pal. He had called to say he was going to let Dan have the scoop on a great story. He needed to check the facts for himself and he’d call back the next day. He never did.
“He couldn’t,” Evan said. “He was lying dead at the bottom of a mine.”
“Killed? Do we know how and why?”
“We’re still trying to find out. He didn’t give you any sort of hint about what this scoop would be, did he?”
“Grantley loved drama. He was suitably mysterious. Actually, he didn’t say much at all. I took it all with a pinch of salt. Grantley was a little prone to exaggeration, you know—and he liked to pose as the expert when he wasn’t. Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I liked the chap, actually. He was a lot of fun at Cambridge. It’s just that that kind of thing doesn’t always transfer well to real life, does it?”
Evan decided he had had enough for one day. He was going nowhere with his investigation. He might just as well go home. Soft pink wintry light was flooding the valley. If he hurried, he might have time for a short hike before it was completely dark. Walking in the hills often helped him to sort out his thoughts.
“Is that you, Mr. Evans?” Mrs. Williams called from the kitchen. “Home early, aren’t you? And your dinner not even cooked yet.”
A rich herby smell wafted along the passage, almost making him change his mind about the hike.
“No hurry, Mrs. Williams.” Evan poked his head through the kitchen doorway. “I thought I’d just change and go out for a short walk while it’s still light. It’s lovely out there right now.”
“It is indeed, lovely just.” She nodded agreement. “And snow up on the peaks already. Just like a Christmas card, isn’t it?” She stirred a large pot on the stove. “Well, you take your time, Mr. Evans, and I’ll have the dumplings ready by the time you get back. I’m doing hotpot tonight.”
Evan’s mouth watered. Mrs. Williams was famous for her dumplings—light, fluffy, floating daintily on top of a rich, brown gravy.
