by Rhys Bowen
He looked pleased with himself as he grinned at the company.
“You keep quiet now, Barry-the-Bucket,” Betsy said, frowning at the grinning man. “If the colonel says he’s found King Arthur, he has.”
“And was the round table in it?” Barry continued, undaunted.
“Tell us all about it, colonel,” Betsy said encouragingly.
The colonel was still breathing hard and his face was still almost purple. “It’s completely covered in gorse and bracken,” he said. “So you could walk right past and not notice it. But it’s very old, all right. Solid stone walls and a big stone on the floor. And just in the right position to guard the pass. It has to be a medieval fort.”
“Where was this, colonel?” Evan asked, “Up above Morgan’s farm where I saw you earlier?”
“Precisely,” Colonel Arbuthnot said. “And not too far from the old slate mines. I must have walked past it a hundred times before and never noticed.” He gasped for breath again. “I think I need another Scotch, Harry my good man. The excitement’s all been too much.” He took out an ancient silk handkerchief with moth holes in it and mopped his forehead. “I hurried all the way down and I would have come straight here, but I slipped on that confounded steep section and got mud on my trousers, so of course I had to pop into Owens’ and change my clothes first.”
Betsy gave Evan a knowing grin.
“This is most interesting,” the Rev. Parry Davies said, coming to join them. “Most interesting indeed. We should notify the archaeology department at Bangor University in the morning.”
“Why don’t we go up and take a look at it now?” Barry-the-Bucket said.
“Tonight?” Betsy demanded.
“You want to make sure the colonel’s really found something before you go calling up the professors at Bangor, don’t you? And it won’t be dark for another couple of hours,” Barry said.
“But the colonel’s tired. He won’t want to go up there again.”
“My dear Miss Betsy,” Colonel Arbuthnot said, drawing himself up to his full stature, “never let it be said that a member of the Khyber Rifles was too tired for anything. Another Scotch and I could scale Mount Everest!”
He downed the shot in one gulp amid applause and was swept out of the pub on a noisy tide of Welshmen. Roberts-the-Pump put down his tray of beers. Some of the men from the next room came out to see what was happening.
“The colonel’s found King Arthur’s castle,” Roberts-the-Pump yelled. “We’re going up to take a look.”
“King Arthur’s castle? I don’t believe it.” Evans-the-Milk laughed.
“Well, I believe it,” Evans-the-Meat said. “I always knew if they found King Arthur anywhere, they’d find him here, in Wales.”
“Well, I’m not running up a mountain on a wild-goose chase,” Evans-the-Milk said.
“Not up to it, are you?” Evans-the-Meat jeered. “But then I always said you came from the weaker side of the family, didn’t I?”
“Who says I’m not up to it?” Evans-the-Milk demanded and joined the fight to get through the narrow bar door.
Like a pack of hounds on the scent they surged up through the village and on up the sheep path without slackening speed until after a stiff climb the colonel stood, breathing hard but triumphant at the site of his discovery. Willing hands wrenched away gorse and grasses.
“It’s a ruin all right,” Evans-the-Meat declared. “Good solid walls too. Just the kind of thing King Arthur would have built.”
“But not very big, is it?” Barry-the-Bucket chuckled. “I mean, it would have to be a very small round table to fit in here, wouldn’t it? There’s less room to swing a cat in here than the bar down at the Dragon and that’s saying a lot.”
“It need not have been his main residence,” Colonel Arbuthnot said. “This was obviously a guard post. But if we can find some artifacts…”
“Maybe a crown or two,” Barry suggested, nudging his friends.
“Or a rotted wooden table?” One of the men chuckled.
“Or Excalibur would do nicely,” another suggested.
“Just a minute. Quiet all of you,” Rev. Parry Davies said with such authority that everyone fell silent. “I think we’ve made a significant find here. I have believed in the existence of this place and now I think we’ve found it at last.”
“King Arthur’s castle?” voices demanded in disbelief.
“No, not King Arthur’s castle,” Rev. Parry Davies said grandly. “This, my friends, is Gelert’s grave.”
There was stunned silence, then general laughter.
“What are you talking about, reverend?” someone demanded. “Everyone knows where Gelert’s grave is. I’ve seen it myself, down beside the church in Beddgelert.”
The reverend shook his head. “No, that was just a nineteenth-century confidence trick, a legend invented by a local innkeeper to attract tourists.”
“You’re saying Prince Llewellyn’s dog Gelert wasn’t really buried there?” Evans-the-Meat demanded.
“I’m saying that the dog Gelert probably didn’t really exist,” Rev. Parry Davies declared, “and almost certainly wasn’t buried in a fancy grave.”
“But the village has been called Beddgelert for hundreds of years,” Evans-the-Milk said. “And even I, not speaking Welsh as fluently as Evans-the-Meat, know that the word means Gelert’s grave.”
“Precisely,” Rev. Parry Davies said as if he had just scored a point. “It has long been assumed, in religious circles, that Gelert was the same as Saint Celert, an early Christian saint. He was reputed to have lived in a simple hermitage high on the pass so that he could be close to God. This little stone building would have been just about the right size for a hermitage, don’t you agree?”
Several heads nodded.
“Too small for King Arthur, anyway,” Barry-the-Bucket commented.
“And the big stone slab on the floor,” Rev. Parry Davies went on, “surely that must be the saint’s grave. The local people buried him here, where he was at home.”
Evans-the-Meat pushed his way through the crowd until he was standing beside the minister. “So what you’re saying is that Gelert wasn’t really Prince Llewellyn’s famous dog and Beddgelert doesn’t really have Gelert’s grave at all?” he asked.
“That is correct.”
Evans-the-Meat let out a sudden whoop of laughter. “How about that, eh? This will be one in the eye for the folk down in Beddgelert, won’t it? And it will put Llanfair on the map at last. Llanfair—home of Saint Celert’s grave. We should call ourselves that, like that other Llanfair.”
“You mean the other Llanfair over on Anglesey; the one that claims to have the longest name in the world?” Barry-the-Bucket asked.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Evans-the-Meat said grandly. “If they can call themselves Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, which we all know means nothing more important than Saint Mary’s church in the hollow of white hazel near the rapid whirlpool and Saint Tisilio’s church near the red cave, then why shouldn’t we start calling ourselves Llanfair-up-on-the-pass-with-the-brook-running-through-it-and-Saint-Celert’s-grave-right-above-it?”
There was general laughter.
“You’re not serious, man?” Barry-the-Bucket asked.
“Indeed I am,” Evans-the-Meat replied. “It’s about time we put our Llanfair on the map. Now that we’ve got the real Celert’s grave, we’ve got something to shout about, haven’t we?”
“You’re sure it couldn’t be a small fort?” Colonel Arbuthnot asked, the disappointment showing on his face.
Evans-the-Meat slapped him on the back. “A saint is just as good as a king, colonel bach,” he said.
“Either way you’ve made an important discovery, colonel,” Evan said. “We’ll just have to wait and see what the trained archaeologists from Bangor say about it.”
“I’m sure I’m right,” Rev. Parry Davies said. “I’ve always thought that the saint’s final resting pl
ace would be found one day.”
“I thought Methodists weren’t supposed to believe in saints?” Barry-the-Bucket chuckled.
“Of course we believe in holy men and women. We respect them for the lives they led. We just don’t go praying to them like the heathen Catholics.” He stood in the doorway to St. Celert’s cell, head bowed with reverence. “And from what I’ve read, Saint Celert was among the most holy of the early Christians. I shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t convert this whole valley himself, single-handedly.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” someone in the crowd muttered as they started down the mountain again.
“Then I think it behooves me to do a little research,” Rev. Parry Davies said. “Yes, maybe I should write a simple life of Saint Celert. We could sell it, for a modest sum, when tourists want to visit.”
“You should do an article in the North Wales weekly, reverend,” someone suggested.
“That’s right,” Evans-the-Meat said proudly. “We should let the world know that Llanfair now has its own historic monument—just as long as the bloody tourists don’t want to come and look at it.”
The men walked down the mountain calling out absurd suggestions and laughing loudly.
“Don’t forget to put in your book that the grave was discovered by the colonel, will you reverend?” Evan suggested, noting that the colonel had been walking along silent and tight-lipped.
“Of course he must,” Barry-the-Bucket said, slapping the colonel on the back. “Go down in history, you will, colonel! They might want you to help them dig it up. I wonder if I could get my bulldozer up this path? That would speed things up, wouldn’t it?”
“You don’t excavate archaeological sites with a bulldozer, Barry-the-Bucket, man,” Rev. Parry Davies exclaimed in horror.
Evan smiled as he fell into step beside the colonel.
“Maybe they could use an extra hand when they start excavating,” Colonel Arthunot muttered to Evan, his good spirits revived. “I’ve always wanted to be in on a real dig. And if we actually find some artifacts…”
The sun had finally set behind the mountains, plunging the valley into deep gloom, as they dropped down the final steep section of path and came into the village. The higher slopes still glowed with evening light, tingeing the fleeces of the grazing sheep with pink. Evan looked around him with contentment.
“Going to be a beautiful day tomorrow,” he said.
“It was lovely up here earlier,” Colonel Arbuthnot commented. “So clear that you could see the ocean, and with my binoculars—good German ones, not this Japanese rubbish—I could see…” He paused, remembering just what he had seen. “You know, it was the most extraordinary thing,” he went on, his loud voice booming as they walked down the street toward the Red Dragon, “but I thought I saw someone I recognized from somewhere else.”
“Did you, colonel?” Evan asked politely.
The noisy crowd swept back into the pub, calling out their discovery to those who had stayed behind. Hands slapped the colonel on the back again and a double Scotch was shoved into his hand.
“This is the man who’s going to put Llanfair on the map,” Evans-the-Meat exclaimed proudly. “I’ve been thinking about it all the way down and I’ve decided we should call ourselves Llanfairbeddgelert, who-was-not-a-dog-but-a-saint-and-was-buried-high-on-the-pass-above-the-larch-trees-with-a-view-of-Snowdon. How does that sound then?”
“That’s what we’re going to call ourselves?” Harry-the-Pub chuckled. “My hand would get tired before I wrote all that.”
“And the address wouldn’t fit on a postcard,” Betsy added.
“It would make us like that other Llanfair, the famous one,” Roberts-the-Pump said. “What does that Llanfair have that we don’t, except for the longest name in the world?”
“So we’ll make ours one syllable longer,” Evans-the-Milk suggested.
“Then we’d be famous!” Betsy exclaimed excitedly. “All the tourists would come here!”
“Hold on a second—who said anything about tourists?” Evans-the-Meat roared. “We just want the respect that is due to us, not hordes of bloody foreigners flocking here to take pictures.”
“What’s wrong with more tourists?” Evans-the-Milk demanded. “I for one would welcome more business.”
“And I for one—” Evans-the-Meat began, raising his right fist in a threatening manner, until Evan stepped between him and Evans-the-Milk.
“Easy now, man,” he said. “Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. It’s a free country, isn’t it?”
“Not if I had my way,” Evans-the-Meat remarked. “I’d get rid of all the bloody foreigners.”
“Not the colonel, surely,” said Barry-the-Bucket, “after he was the one who found your historic site for you?”
The reverend Parry Davies joined Evan between the two feuding men. “I suggest we have a village meeting to discuss calmly what this new discovery means to Llanfair and how we’re going to proceed from here. Nothing should be said or done in haste. It’s the grave of a saint we’re talking about, not a tourist attraction. It should be treated with the utmost respect.”
“You’re right, reverend,” Harry-the-Pub said. “So drink up, gentlemen, and let’s leave the discussion until another time, right?”
Evan stepped aside and joined the colonel at the bar. He found his beer still standing there, only half-finished, its froth gone. He drained it. “We’re a hot-headed lot, we Welsh, when our passions are roused.” He grinned at the colonel. “The English have always found us hard to subdue.”
“I felt the same about my wife,” Colonel Arbuthnot said, smiling back. “She was Welsh, you know. Usually she was the most serene woman in the world, but when something upset her, watch out. I usually took a long walk until she had cooled off.”
Evan chuckled. “So what did you start telling me about a strange person you had seen?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Colonel Arbuthnot said. “It was most extraordinary. I was looking through the binoculars and I thought I recognized—” he broke off suddenly, staring out across the bar with a strange, almost embarrassed, look on his face. “I recognized a chap I used to know in India many years ago,” he went on in a louder, heartier voice. “But of course it couldn’t have been him. Poor old Monty Hallford broke his neck, falling off a polo pony back in thirty-nine!” He examined his watch. “Heavens, is that the time already? Mrs Owens will be wondering where I’ve got to and my dinner will be ruined. I really must go. See you chaps tomorrow then!”
He pushed his way through the crowd and hurried out of the bar, almost colliding with Annie Pigeon, who had just come in. Evan was glad to see that she had changed out of the skimpy shorts and was wearing an attractive sundress. The colonel hardly noticed her. He half muttered an apology and hurried on.
Evan stared after him with interest. What had made the colonel decide to leave in such a hurry?
Chapter 5
It was almost dark when Colonel Arbuthnot came out of the Red Dragon. As the cool night breeze blew in his face he slowed his pace. How stupidly he had behaved. He would never have held off that attack on the Afghan border if he’d lost his nerve so easily in those days. And anyway, what did he have to fear? They would pretend not to know each other and nothing would be said. He was perfectly safe, perfectly.
All the same, he glanced over his shoulder as he left the lights of the village behind and struck out on the path to Owens’ farm. The path wound beside the stream, crossing it by a rather precarious little bridge. It wasn’t easy to follow in the dark, but the colonel knew it well. He took the same route every night, rather than walk all the way through the village and then up the main track to Owens’. Usually he brought a flashlight with him, but he’d been in such a hurry tonight that he’d forgotten it.
He thought a twig snapped behind him and glanced over his shoulder again. Tree branches were moving in a ghostly dance. Pull yourself together, man, he told himself firmly. It was extraordinary what stran
ge shapes trees could take on in the twilight. He broke into a trot again, taking out his silk handkerchief to mop at the sweat trickling down his forehead. Why should he feel threatened like this? Nothing to worry about. Over the bridge, across that last field, and he’d be home. He could see the welcoming light streaming from Mrs. Owens’ parlor window. Tomorrow this would all seem rather amusing.
He sensed, rather than heard, someone moving behind him.
* * *
Evans-the-Post came out of the post office and general store with a bulging mailbag slung over his shoulder. A big smile spread across his vacant-looking face as he headed for the bridge. This was going to be a good day. There were several picture postcards among the mail he had to deliver and he could read those without anybody getting angry with him. And there was what looked like a wedding invitation for the Hopkinses. He’d have to find out who was getting married!
He glanced back to see if old Miss Roberts was watching him. She gave him a good scolding whenever she caught him reading the mail. “Crabby old woman,” he muttered to himself. Getting a peek at other people’s lives was one of the perks of being a postman, wasn’t it? And he didn’t mean any harm—everyone in Llanfair knew that.
The bridge was deserted and bathed in dappled sunlight as he loped toward it, his long limbs moving jerkily like an uncontrolled puppet. He was just about to settle himself when he glanced over the parapet to the rushing stream below. There was something moving in the water that glinted in the sunlight. It was cream-colored and shiny, moving gracefully among the reeds. At first Evans-the-Post thought that it was a new flower he’d never seen before. Some kind of water lily maybe. He decided to try and pick it. The policeman would know what it was, or the schoolteacher, if he wasn’t too shy to ask her.
He left his mailbag beside the bridge and clambered down the steep bank. Holding onto one of the alder trees that grew there, he leaned out into the stream and reached for the flower. After a couple of attempts he grabbed it. His smile of triumph faded when he lifted it out and saw what it was. It wasn’t a flower at all. It was a square of shiny, cream-colored fabric, silk maybe.
