by Rhys Bowen
Evan and Elle
Also by Rhys Bowen
Evanly Choirs
Evans Above
Evan Help Us
Evan
and Elle
A Constable Evans Mystery
Rhys Bowen
EVAN AND ELLE. Copyright © 2000 by Rhys Bowen. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. 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.
ISBN 0-312-25244-7 ISBN 978-0-312-25244-1
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Glossary of Welsh Words
Halftitle
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Reagan Arthur, and my publicist, Elizabeth Shipley, for making my life at St. Martin’s run so smoothly. Thanks also to Tom Novara for his arson advice. And I dedicate this book to my fellow mystery authors, mystery booksellers, librarians, and readers who make me feel that I am part of a wonderful extended family.
Glossary of Welsh Words
Noswaith dda—good evening (pronounced noss-why-th thah)
bach/fach—little. A term of endearment: bach for a male, fach for a female (pronounced like Johann Sebastian Each)
taid—grandad (pronounced tied)
Bore da—good day, hello (pronounced hooray dah)
Sut wyt ti—How are you? (pronounced sit wit tee)
esgob annwyl—literally “dear bishop!” An exclamation like “good heavens.” (pronounced esgob an-wheel)
or gore—all right, okay (pronounced or gor-ay)
Diolch yn fawr—Thank you very much (pronounced dee olh n vower)
cariad—love, darling (pronounced car-ee-ad)
Diolch am hynny—Thank goodness (pronounced dee-olh am hinny)
siarad cywraen, typyn bach—speak a little Welsh (pronounced sharad cumry-g tippen bach)
ty bryn—house on the hill (pronounced tee brin)
Evan and Elle
Chapter 1
The Reverend Tomos Parry Davies, minister of Chapel Bethel in the village of Llanfair, sang loudly to himself as he drove up the pass from Caernarfon. Heaven had certainly smiled on him today! What a stroke of luck that he had spotted the advertisement for a government surplus auction. This van was the answer to his prayers—high mileage, of course, and painted a depressing institutional gray, but it seated fifteen and was perfect for his needs.
He had long been aware that his congregation was dwindling. There was little interest in religion these days, and no fear of the hellfire that he preached so eloquently. All over Wales chapels were being abandoned and turned into beauty parlors, garages, or even worse, New Age healing centers. Tomos Parry Davies shuddered.
Chapel Ebenezer, only a couple of miles down the pass from Llanfair, had been abandoned last year. Tomos feared for the souls of its former flock. If a way could be found to bring them up to Llanfair . . . but many older parishioners didn’t drive and there were no buses on Sunday. That’s when the idea of a van came to him. To put it in non-Christian terms—if Mohammed couldn’t come to the mountain, then the mountain would come to Mohammed. He had said nothing to anyone except his wife, and Roberts-the-Pump at the petrol station, who always had an ear to the ground when it came to secondhand cars for sale—and he had watched, waited, and prayed. And now his prayers were answered!
He closed his eyes and pictured all those new worshipers pouring out of his van and into Chapel Bethel, while his rival, Rev. Powell-Jones of Chapel Beulah across the street, could only stare in disbelief. A satisfied smile spread across his plump, middle-aged face. And so cheap, too. A stroke of luck indeed—or rather the Lord’s doing. The Lord knew which chapel He wanted to prosper!
And this was just the beginning, Rev. Parry Davies said to himself. A bigger congregation meant more money coming in. Then he could replace the oil stove in the corner with a real central heating system, and maybe update the sound system to reach out to the young people. He’d have slide shows and video presentations to enhance his sermons. He was going to bring religion back to Llanfair in a big way.
He drove through Llanberis, carefully negotiating the last vacationers of the season as they crossed the street to catch the mountain railway to the summit of Yr Wyddfa, which the English insisted on calling Mount Snowdon.
Right after Llanberis the road began to climb. He put his foot down and heard a satisfying roar of power from the engine. He chose not to notice the black smoke that hung behind him in the clear mountain air.
The village of Nant Peris passed by in a blur. He knew he should have slowed to thirty but he was so excited by the power of his new vehicle that he couldn’t slow down. Besides, there was no policeman closer than Constable Evans up in Llanfair. Nobody here to give him a ticket.
He came to the last straggling buildings before the pass narrowed and climbed again to reach Llanfair. He turned to look at the abandoned chapel whose congregation he hoped to round up every Sunday. It had been a sad sight, with windows boarded up and door nailed shut. He had almost passed it when he realized that something was going on there. He braked and rammed the heavy gear into reverse with much grinding, followed by an ominous clank. A builder’s lorry was parked outside and two men were carrying in a slab of marble.
Tomos’s face grew hot with anger. What kind of dirty trick was the Lord playing on him? To reopen the chapel when he’d just spent his savings on the new van! Was his beautiful plan now doomed to failure?
Then he saw the sign over the arched doorway to one side:
CHEZ YVETTE. RESTAURANT FRANÇAIS.
HIGH QUALITY FRENCH CUISINE.
Over it a banner proclaimed, Grand Opening Tomorrow! Tomos felt his blood pressure rising to boiling point. The Lord’s house—or what had been the Lord’s house until recently—being turned into a restaurant! And not only a restaurant, but a French restaurant. Chez Yvette. Even the name sounded positively sinful.
Tomos Parry Davies put his foot down and roared on up the pass to spread the dreadful news.
Chapter 2
Constable Evan Evans of the North Wales Police came down the steep mountain track. It was a crisp autumn evening. Snowdon and her sister peaks were already black silhouettes against a clear pink sky. The last swallows swooped overhead, ready to fly south. Below him the village of Llanfair lay nestled in an autumnal haze. Evan paused and sniffed the smell of wood smoke with satisfaction—so different from the smell of the coal fires he remembered from the cottage of his early childhood. That had been an acrid smell that clung to the nostrils and sent him to bed with bronchitis every winter. Now most of the cottages had radiators and it had become a status symbol to have a wood-burning fireplace.
It had been another glorious day—the latest of a prolonged Indian summer that people were already calling a drought. Of course one week without rain counted as a drought in North Wales. Evan could feel the windburn on his face, the resu
lt of a long day’s climbing on Glyder Fawr, the peak across the valley from Snowdon. His sore muscles were beginning to remind him that he was no longer in climbing condition. There never seemed to be time for weekend climbs these days. His job as community police officer in Llanfair couldn’t exactly be described as strenuous, but he found it hard to say no to the constant stream of volunteer projects.
And then, of course, there was Bronwen. The young village schoolteacher shared his love of the outdoors and expected to share his weekends. Not that he objected to spending his free time with Bronwen, but it meant that he hadn’t done any serious climbing in a while and he missed it.
His corduroy trouser legs swished through dying bracken as he continued down the mountain. To his right the dark square of a Norwegian Spruce plantation broke the smooth sweep of the pastures. Evan looked at it with distaste. Another ugly blot on the landscape, like the Everest Inn, Evan thought. Nobody asked the locals before they came in and planted their Christmas trees!
Lights were coming on in Llanfair. He’d better hurry if he wanted to get back before dark. Discreet floodlights already outlined the monstrous shape of the Everest Inn, perched, like an overgrown Swiss chalet, at the top of the pass. Like the rest of the villagers he felt that it looked completely out of place on a Welsh mountainside.
The village itself was a poorly lit straggle of cottages except for the Red Dragon pub. Harry-the-Pub had invested in a floodlight this summer, now that more tourists were coming to Llanfair. Not everybody was in favor of a floodlit pub sign. The two ministers of Chapel Bethel and Chapel Beulah, usually deadly enemies, had teamed up for once to denounce this brazen advertisement of the demon alcohol—especially when lit on the Sabbath. Evans-the-Meat had gone one step further and lodged an official complaint, saying that the light was a public nuisance and shone directly into his bedroom. The joke around Llanfair was that Evansthe-Meat’s system couldn’t take the shock of seeing Mrs. Evans-the-Meat in her face cream and curlers. But nobody else had complained. In fact some people felt that the extra light had long been needed on the dark village street.
Sheep scattered at Evan’s approach and the sound of their bleating echoed across the valley. Now that the sun had gone down, a cold wind was blowing from the Atlantic. It sighed through the grass, rattled the dry bracken and moaned through the crags. Suddenly Evan felt a tension invading the tranquil scene. With his fine-tuned senses, he was almost certain that he was being watched. He stopped and looked around.
He heard the splashing of the young stream close by and the distant drone of a car as it climbed the pass. The dark shape of a ruined sheep byre loomed to his right. He peered in that direction, imagining he saw a fleeting movement. His torch was in his pack but he didn’t want to stop and retrieve it now—not when a pint of beer in the Red Dragon was calling. If anyone was sheltering up on the mountain, it was probably nothing more than a passing tramp or a courting couple from the village, which would explain the tension and watchfulness he sensed.
He had only gone a few more paces when he heard the tread of boots on the path close behind him. He spun around.
“Noswaith dda. Evening, Constable Evans,” a deep voice called.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Owens,” Evan breathed a sigh of relief as the farmer caught up with him. “You’re out late. Anything wrong?”
“No, nothing wrong. I’ve just been to take a look at Rhodri’s cottage—I wanted to make sure those English people closed the gate this time so that they can’t accuse my sheep of eating their bloody flowers!”
“They’ve gone, then?” Evan asked, looking across to the low squat outline of the shepherd’s cottage perched above the village.
“My wife saw them go this afternoon. And good riddance, I say.” Evan looked at him in surprise. Mr. Owens was usually the most mild-mannered of the villagers.
“Nothing but trouble they’ve been since they bought the place.” He moved closer to Evan. “I don’t blame old Rhodri for going to live with his daughter—he was getting on in years, poor old chap, but he had no right selling his cottage to foreigners, did he?”
“I hear they offered him a very good price,” Evan said. “And nobody in the village was interested.”
“Well, nobody in the village was daft enough to put all that money into an old shepherd’s cottage, were they? You should see it now, Mr. Evans. My wife goes up there to clean for them and she says they’ve got all mod cons, including an indoor bathroom with one of those French beedy things. Must have cost them a fortune, but then the English always did have more money than sense.”
Evan grinned. “Still, it’s good for business to have visitors, isn’t it, Mr. Owens?”
“It would be if they bought anything locally. My wife says they come with ice chests packed full of food every weekend. They probably think good Welsh produce would poison them.” His wheezy laugh betrayed years of smoking and ended in a rattling cough. “I don’t rightly know why they want to come here. They don’t seem to like us very much.”
“Lots of English people are buying cottages in Wales,” Evan said. “They like to get away from the cities for the weekend, and I can’t say I blame them. I couldn’t wait to escape from Swansea like a shot when I lived there.”
“I don’t mind English people, look you, Mr. Evans,” the farmer said, leaning confidentially close. “Old Colonel Arbuthnot who used to stay with us was the salt of the earth, wasn’t he? But then he was of the old school—he had manners. I just don’t like it when they come here and act all toffy nosed, as if they’re the landlords and we’re the peasants.”
“Do these people act like that?” Evan asked. “I can’t say I’ve seen much of them, apart from their Jaguar driving past.”
“Too bloody fast, I’ll warrant,” Mr. Owens commented. “He nearly hit my dog the other day. She’s not used to cars, is she? That Englishman came up the track, driving like a madman and at the same time my bitch decides to go after a sheep that’s wandering off. He bloody near hit her, and then instead of apologizing, he had the nerve to tell me to keep her under control. That’s the kind of people they are, Mr. Evans. Acting like they own the place.”
“Lucky they’re only here on weekends then, eh, Mr. Owens?” Evan said. “And I don’t suppose we’ll see much of them when the weather finally turns cold.”
“My, but it’s been a lovely long summer this year, hasn’t it, Mr. Evans?” Mr. Owens spoke with pride in his voice, as if he was personally responsible for the weather. “I’ve got the hay all stacked and ready for winter, which is more than I can say most years.” He looked at the rope hanging from Evan’s pack. “You’ve been climbing today, I see.”
“I have. Up on Glyder Fawr.”
“There’s some good climbing country up there—good challenging rocks.”
“A little too challenging,” Evan confessed. “At one point I thought I’d got myself stuck. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. I thought I’d have to call for the mountain rescue.”
Farmer Owens slapped him on the shoulder. “What you need is a pint at the Dragon.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” Evan said with a smile. “A pint of Robinson’s would go down a treat. Are you heading that way too?”
The farmer glanced at the lights of his farm, just above the houses of the village. “Mrs. Owens is waiting for me, worst luck, and she doesn’t like it when my dinner dries out in the oven.” His face lit up. “But it’s Sunday, isn’t it? We usually have cold on Sundays! And she won’t know exactly how long it took me to get up to the cottage and back, will she now?”
As the voices died away, a figure came out of the ruined sheep byre and stood watching. That was a close shave, having the local copper almost find him. One good thing—he now knew where the policeman was. He’d be safely in the pub until it was too late.
He could feel the blood pounding in his temples as the adrenaline raced through his body. He followed the track across the meadow to the cottage gate. A movement in the hedge to
his left made him jump, until he saw an old sheep lumbering away into the darkness. Obviously hoping to get at those flowers again, he thought with a grin. Well, too late now. By the time he’d finished there wouldn’t be any flowers.
The garden gate squeaked as he opened it. He walked up the newly flagged front path to the door. Then he paused and took the pack from his back. The can clanked loudly as it put it down on the front step and he felt his heart jump again. Calm down, he told himself. There’s nobody for miles around. You have all the time in the world to do this.
He took the rags from his pack and put them down beside the path while he saturated them. Then, one by one, he dropped them through the letter box.
Then he went around to the back of the house. The windows were all locked but it was easy enough to break a pane and pour more petrol inside.
Then he used up the last of the can on the creeper growing up the front of the house and the bushes beneath the front window. It would take a bit to get a really good blaze going in an old stone cottage like this.
Lastly he took out a fuse. It was the kind they once used in the old slate mines—especially slow-burning, to give the men time to get back to the surface. By the time the fuse burned all the way down from the letter box to the rags on the floor, he’d be far away.
He secured the fuse through the open letter box, then, fingers trembling with excitement, he lit it. There was a gentle hiss, like exhaling breath, and the end of the fuse glowed red. He stuffed the empty can and any other telltale bits of rubbish into his pack and hurried back down the path. At the gate he paused and took a piece of paper from his pocket. The note was made up of words he’d cut from a newspaper. It said,
GO HOME. YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE.
He found a nail protruding from the gate and he stuck the note on it. When he turned to look, the fuse was glowing like a red eye in the darkness. Then he fled down the mountain.
