Evans to Betsy

by Rhys Bowen

  Disturbing snatches of remembered conversation flashed through his mind. He heard Betsy’s voice—“If Bronwen Price wasn’t around any longer … do you think you might be interested in me then?” And what else had she said? Something about harnessing her powers and how real psychics could just think something and it would happen. He knew that witch doctors in Africa could will somebody to die and that person died. He found that his heart was racing and his mouth was dry. Had Betsy, either knowingly or not, put a similar curse on Bronwen?

  He was halfway down the hill, ready to challenge Betsy, when reason took over. What an absurd thing to think—that Bronwen had fallen ill because somehow Betsy had willed it! Everybody got stomach flu at some point in their lives. And Bronwen, exposed to all those children every day, was more at risk than most. She had even said that she was feeling slightly better, hadn’t she? Evan shook his head and strode out in the direction of the police station. All the strange goings-on at the Sacred Grove had started affecting him. He was glad they’d found Randy Wunderlich’s body and he wouldn’t have to go near the place again.

  Chapter 14

  Life in Llanfair went on smoothly—that is, apart from the occasional motorbike ridden by a screaming postman careening into a row of dustbins. Evan had delivered his stern warning to Evans-the-Post but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Mrs. Powell-Jones rang the police station at regular intervals to complain. She threatened also to ring the postmaster in Llanberis and probably the postmaster general in London, but Evans-the-Post was not to be halted on his morning rides of terror.

  There were no phone calls from Sergeant Watkins or Glynis Davies for the rest of that Tuesday or all day Wednesday. If the investigation was proceeding, then Evan wasn’t part of it. Evan gleaned from a phone call to headquarters that the autopsy had revealed no sign of a heart attack; also that the bandaged foot had minimal if any damage. Randy Wunderlich would definitely have been able to walk out of the cave. The death was ruled accidental, if puzzling.

  Betsy had gone back to work at the Sacred Grove on Wednesday morning. When Evan tried to dissuade her, she claimed that she liked it there better than at the Red Dragon, where she wasn’t appreciated and had no chance to use her talents.

  On Wednesday afternoon a board went up outside the Red Dragon, announcing Friday to be trivia night—Llanfair versus Beddgelert.

  “He’s getting desperate, wouldn’t you say, Evan?” Charlie Hopkins muttered as he passed Evan on his way to the pub.

  “Hurting for business, is he?” Evan asked.

  “Indeed he is. Nobody in there but me and Evans-the-Meat last night. Quiet as a grave.”

  “And he really thinks a trivia contest will help, does he?”

  “Trying everything, isn’t he?” Charlie sucked through his remaining teeth. “It will be beauty contests next week, sheepdog trials, striptease acts … .” He shuffled on, his old body shaking with laughter as he walked.

  It was just like old times when Evan entered the bar on Friday evening. Full of smoke and chatter and familiar faces. Evan was glad. He had had a hard week, spending every spare moment ministering to Bronwen while trying to drive two ministers’ wives away. The moment that Mrs. Parry Davies learned that Mrs. Powell-Jones had been tending to the sick, she had shown up on Bronwen’s doorstep with a bowl of homemade leek soup and some suitable reading material—mostly religious tracts on why everyone was going straight to hell.

  Evan had had little enthusiasm for cooking since the Bronwen disaster. He had thrown the mound of spaghetti away, in case it was somehow poisoned, and he had lived on tinned soup and grilled cheese all week. As he made his way across to the pub on Friday, he decided that a couple of bangers and perhaps a meat pie would go down a treat.

  “Here he is, the man himself,” Evans-the-Meat greeted him. “We’re going to need you on our team, boyo.”

  “Team?”

  “The trivia contest. We have to show those blokes from Beddgelert that we’re smarter than they are.”

  “I don’t know if I’m much good at trivia,” Evan said, but Evans-the-Meat waved down his protests. “Went to that posh grammar school in Swansea, didn’t you? Of course you’ll know all the answers.”

  Evan made his way to the counter. He remembered how nice it had been to see Betsy smiling at him and drawing his usual pint of Guinness. To the right of the counter, the blackboard had some words scrawled on it: “Not serving any food on account of the fact that the landlord only has one bloody pair of hands.”

  Evan ordered his Guinness.

  “Over here, boyo,” Evans-the-Meat beckoned Evan to join him. “We need to talk strategy.”

  As Evan joined the group, Roberts-the-Pump leaned close to him. “We don’t hang around the bar these days. Harry gets that bad tempered. He wants Betsy back but he’s too proud to ask.”

  “I don’t think he’ll get her back,” Evan said. “She’s having a good time at the Sacred Grove.”

  “What, down among the loonies?”

  “They’re loony enough to pay her for doing very little work, as far as I can see,” Evan said.

  “Talk of the devil.” Evans-the-Meat nudged Evan in the side. The door had opened and Betsy came in, looking strangely elegant in a long dark coat and heels.

  “What are you doing here, Betsy?” Evans-the-Meat asked. “Come to give Harry a hand?”

  “Not likely,” Betsy said. “I just popped in to see how things are. I’m meeting Emmy and we’re going to dinner in Conwy. It’s her last night—she’s leaving tomorrow so she’s taking me and Mrs. Williams out for a treat.”

  “I hope the restaurant can measure up to Mrs. Williams’s standards,” Evan said.

  “She won’t even notice. She’s so upset, she’s been crying all day. She says she lost a son and now she’s losing a daughter. Terrible, it is.”

  “Make up your minds. I haven’t got all day, you know,” came Harry’s gruff voice from behind the bar. “Dimple Haig? You bloody would—just because I have to stand on the stool to reach it!”

  “He’s not exactly making it fun to be here, is he?” Betsy said. “Still, he brought it on himself, didn’t he?”

  “So you like it down there, do you?” Owens-the-Sheep asked.

  “It’s a lovely place. Of course, it’s very sad at the moment because Randy died, but they’re all being so nice to me. Lady Annabel says she’s coming to rely on me and even Rhiannon is being nice to me.”

  “Rhiannon? Who the hell’s Rhiannon?” Evans-the-Meat demanded.

  “She’s the Druid priestess,” Betsy said, ignoring the chuckles around her. “You can laugh, but you’d be surprised. Rhiannon says I’m a true Celt and all true Celts have the old religion, in their blood. She says we’re bound to the forces of the universe, whether we like it or not.”

  “Never heard such a daft …” Evans-the-Meat began.

  “You just wait, Mr. Evans, until I’ve got my powers developed. Then you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face. Rhiannon has been telling me about the Goddess.”

  “Goddess? Betsy, don’t let the ministers hear you talking like that!” Charlie Hopkins looked around to see if Mr. Parry Davies was in his usual corner.

  “It’s a free country, isn’t it? And I think a Goddess might be rather nice after having to pray to an old man in a white nightie all my life.” She gave Evan a challenging look. “She wants me to come to one of her ceremonies. I think it might be fun.”

  “Just watch yourself, Betsy,” Evan said. “I don’t like that place. Never did.”

  “That’s because you don’t have powers, Evan,” Betsy said.

  “Powers!” Barry-the-Bucket came up to join them. “Are you still on about those powers?”

  “I’ve already had one psychic dream this week, for your information,” Betsy said. “There’s no knowing where my powers will take me next. Go on, test me.”

  “See if you can make that pint of Robinson’s float off the counter and into my hands, will you?
” Barry-the-Bucket said.

  “Not stuff like that. I’m not a magician. Things like seeing into the future.”

  “All right. Predict something that’s going to happen tomorrow,” Barry said, still grinning.

  “I won’t be going on a date with you, that’s for sure,” Betsy answered. “Tomorrow, let’s see.” Her face became suddenly serious. “I think it’s going to be a nice day. I can see myself feeling hot.”

  “Hot and bothered when I’m near you, Betsy cariad,” Barry said, but she pushed him away, laughing. “Never give up, do you?”

  “Can you come up with someone better? And don’t say Constable Evans here, because you’ll have to get rid of Bronwen Price first.”

  Betsy tossed back her blond curls. “As a matter of fact I might well have someone in mind,” she said. “A gentleman I work with at the Sacred Grove. He’s a bit shy, but he’s really nice when you get to know him.” A car horn sounded outside. “That’s Emmy. I’ve got to run.” She pushed her way through the crowd, just as a group of strangers entered the pub.

  “Here they are now, look you—the team from Beddgelert, come for the trivia contest,” Harry said loudly.

  “Come to be soundly beaten,” a Llanfair voice chimed in. Harry ignored the comment and went on, “Welcome, gentlemen. Let’s have the Llanfair team over here, at this end of the bar, and you gentlemen down at that table in the corner.”

  “How come we’re put down near the fire?” a Beddgelert man demanded. “It’s too bloody hot down here. We can’t think straight.”

  “You lot couldn’t think straight if you were standing on top of a bloody mountain,” Evans-the-Meat said.

  “Now, now, boys. Friendly contest, isn’t it, not a bloody war,” Harry interjected.

  Evan decided to beat a hasty and well-timed retreat. He was in no mood for trivia contests, nor for keeping the peace between two sparring villages. He stepped out into the crisp night air. From one of the cottages came the smell of onions frying, reminding him that he’d had nothing to eat and wasn’t likely to get anything now. He looked wistfully down the road, wishing he could have gone with Betsy, who was now on her way to a good restaurant with Mrs. Williams and Emmy.

  He started to walk up the street. At least Emmy would be gone in the morning, which was a good thing. Evan wished she had never come in the first place and never picked Betsy for her stupid tests. All this nonsense about powers and goddesses—and yet was it all nonsense? Betsy had, after all, dreamed where to find Randy Wunderlich’s body. He recalled her wide-eyed terror of that night, when she had knocked on his door.

  A cold wind rushed up the pass, rattling branches and making Evan shiver. He didn’t believe in rubbish like psychic powers, and yet he had been a witness at the extraordinary events that night. Was it also possible that she had used those newly awoken powers subconsciously to bring about Bronwen’s illness? If not, why wasn’t Bronwen getting better?

  Chapter 15

  Saturday dawned fine, if blustery, with white puffball clouds racing in from the Western ocean and the sigh of the wind moaning up the pass. Evan thought of going for a hike, but somehow the idea lost its appeal without Bronwen. He thought of driving down to the coast and searching for other domestic necessities at the flea market in Caernarfon, but that also lacked appeal alone. In the end he agreed to go and change Bronwen’s library books for her.

  “Nothing too heavy, please,” she said as she handed him the books she had finished. “I don’t seem to have the strength for more than the lightest books—I can’t concentrate or hold them up either.” She gave a sweet smile that twisted Evan’s insides. She looked like a pale shadow of herself lying there. Why wasn’t she getting better?

  “I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he said. “Maybe we could play Scrabble later and I’ll let you beat me as usual.”

  Bronwen nodded. “That would be nice, although you might even win for once.”

  He was just putting the books in the front seat of his old bone-shaker when his pager sounded. With a muttered damn he went back inside and dialed HQ.

  “Constable Evans?” It was Megan, the witty dispatcher. “D.C.I. Hughes would like a word with you. One moment, please.” He heard her say, “I’ve got Evans on the line for you, sir.”

  Then Hughes’s clipped, high voice. “Ah, Evans. Good man. I want you to meet me at that place—the Sacred Grove—in half an hour.”

  Evan could hardly remind a newly appointed D.C.I. that it was his day off. Besides, if something was going on, it was a miracle that he was being included.

  “Has something happened, sir?” He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice.

  “Interesting development. Look, I understand there is a young woman who claimed to have had a dream that led people to the body. And I’m told she’s working at the Sacred Grove as well. So I’ll find her down there, shall I?”

  “I think she has the weekend off, sir,” Evan said, tempted to add, “like me.”

  “Then I’d like you to find her and bring her down to me, so that I can ask her some questions. Let’s say—ten o’clock.”

  The phone went dead. Evan stared at it for a second, then replaced the receiver and went in search of Betsy.

  “What’s it all about then?” Betsy asked. “He wants to hear about my dream, does he? How exciting. Do you think he might want to use me as the police psychic someday? The police do use psychics, don’t they?”

  She grabbed her coat and ran out of the house. “Can we go on your new bike?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to ride a motorbike.”

  “I don’t think I’m supposed to give rides,” Evan said.

  “Oh, come on, don’t be a spoilsport,” Betsy pleaded. “It’s official police business, isn’t it? And you’re taking me along as a witness. And that’s your official police transportation.”

  “I suppose it is,” Evan said. “All right. Jump on.”

  Betsy let out little yells of delight as they went around each of the hairpin bends down the Nantgwynant Pass. Evan had picked up some of Betsy’s excitement. He had suspected that Randy Wunderlich’s death hadn’t made sense. Now maybe he was going to find out the truth.

  The security gate swung open for them. As Evan pulled up in the car park, D.C.I. Hughes appeared from the security post. As usual he was immaculately dressed in a well-cut suit, a royal blue bow tie, and a white handkerchief showing in his top pocket. Not an iron gray hair out of place. Neat little moustache trimmed to a slim line on his upper lip. He always looked as if he should be working in a high-class gentlemen’s clothier’s, not a police station.

  “Evans!” He strode across to the motorbike. “What do you think you’re doing, man? Giving joyrides on a police motorbike?”

  “Sorry, sir, but you did ask me to bring the young lady down here, and this is my only official police vehicle.” Evan stared the D.C.I. in the eye.

  “Oh, yes, well, I suppose it is.” Hughes gave an embarrassed cough at the back of his throat. “Well, I’m glad you got here so quickly. I’ve spread the word that I want to question people up at the main house. Come along then, this way.” He set off with quick, mincing strides, like a large windup toy. Again, as Evan watched him, he found himself wondering how such a person could rise so easily to the rank of detective chief inspector, while he, Evan, was still firmly planted on the very bottom rung.

  “Rum sort of place, isn’t it?” Hughes slowed to let Evan catch up with him. “Not quite real, if you know what I mean.” Evan did know. He nodded.

  “Still, I suppose there are enough people interested in New Age kind of things these days for them to make a go of it,” Hughes commented.

  Evan kept his views to himself.

  “I’ll need you to take notes, Evans,” Hughes continued. “I thought Watkins and his team would be here to assist me, but there was a nasty hit-and-run outside Caernarfon this morning so I’ve sent them over there instead.”

  “Very good, sir.” Evan tried to hide a smile. For o
nce he wasn’t being dismissed as soon as things got interesting. That was hopeful.

  “And you, young lady.” Hughes addressed Betsy for the first time. “I think we’ll start by talking to you. A most interesting case, by the way. Fascinating.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but have they found out anything more about Randy Wunderlich’s death?” Evan asked. “Is that why we’re here?”

  “What have you heard so far?” Hughes asked.

  “Only that it wasn’t a heart attack, there was no sign of external injury, and cause of death was drowning,” Evan said. “But I always suspected there had to be more to it.”

  “Why was that?”

  “A young, fit man doesn’t wait in a cave to be drowned.”

  “Ah.” Hughes gave a satisfied little nod. “Quite perceptive of you, Constable. As it turns out—” he moved closer to Evan so that Betsy couldn’t overhear “—the lab has done a splendid job of hurrying through the toxicology, and we got the report this morning. It indicates that Mr. Wunderlich stayed in the cave, waiting to be drowned, because he was fast asleep at the time.”

  “Fast asleep. You mean in a trance?”

  “No, I mean a damned great dose of flurazepam.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sleeping pills. Sold under the name of Dalanine. Either he took them intentionally, to kill himself, or someone made damned sure he didn’t wake up when the tide came in.”

  “I’d be inclined to go along with the latter,” Evan said.

  “Oh, and why is that?”

  “I met Mr. Wunderlich. He thought a lot of himself. He acted the part of the famous psychic. He wasn’t the sort of man to die in a cave where his body might never have been found. If he was going to commit suicide, he’d make damned sure he staged a good one.”

  Hughes nodded. “Interesting. I’ll bear that in mind. So if he didn’t kill himself, then someone else fed him enough drugs to knock him out.”