Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs

by Rhys Bowen

  “Is that a fact?” Jim Abbott looked impressed. “I was told that he didn’t want anyone to know that he was going to be here.”

  “You can’t keep anything secret in a village,” Evan said.

  “Anyway, they’re sending up extra patrols to keep an eye on him and handle the press,” Jim Abbott said. “He was worried there would be trouble with the paparazzi. He wants peace and quiet.”

  “Why didn’t they talk to me about it?” Evan said, trying to control his annoyance.

  “Ah well,” Jim Abbott paused noticeably. “I think they wanted someone with experience in this kind of thing. I mean, I’m sure you’re a thoroughly good chap, but handling lost cats isn’t exactly the same somehow, is it?” He grinned at Evan. He had an annoying grin with even white teeth. Evan had never trusted anyone with perfect teeth.

  “So you’ve done a lot of this down in Caernarfon, have you?” he asked pleasantly. “I’d imagine there’d be world-class celebrities passing through almost every day down there.”

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Jim Abbott “I’ve done my share of crowd control at the rugby games,” he said. “And we had a rock concert last year.”

  Evan said nothing. He felt that he had scored a point. Jim Abbott obviously thought so, too. “The boss just wanted an extra man on the spot, ready to call in reinforcements in case any crowd control was needed, that’s all.”

  “I don’t think there’s much of a crowd to control at the moment,” Evan said, surveying the street that was empty apart from Evans-the-Post, sitting on the bridge, reading the morning mail.

  “What does he think he’s doing?” Abbott asked. “He’s not reading the mail, is he?”

  Evans glanced back at the lanky mailman, who went on with his reading, completely oblivious of their presence. “He does it all the time,” he said with a grin. “He’s harmless and nobody seems to mind.”

  “A lot of dafties you’ve got up here,” he said. “Now be a good chap and make me that cup of tea.”

  * * *

  Ifor Llewellyn didn’t show his face outside the house all day, although a big voice, doing vocal exercises, confirmed that he was indeed in residence. No other voice sounded like that. No hoards of paparazzi appeared either. Much to Evan’s delight Jim Abbott had to spend the day doing the crossword and drinking cups of tea. When he left he muttered that he didn’t see why they needed him up there, when Evan had a perfectly good telephone and could get reinforcements in fifteen minutes.

  That evening Evan went to the Red Dragon soon after opening time.

  “You’re here early tonight, Mr. Evans,” Harry-the-Pub commented. “Got a thirst on you, have you then?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a pint, but what I’d really like is food.”

  Harry shrugged apologetically. “I’ve only got the usual things, Constable—you know, meat pies, sausages, fish fingers, that kind of thing.”

  “Lovely,” Evan said. “A meat pie, a couple of sausages, and some chips would go down a treat.”

  “Is Mrs. Williams not feeling well then?” Harry asked.

  “I’m the one not feeling well, Harry,” Evan said. “We’ve got old Powell-Jones lodging with us and he’s dictating the menus. It’s muesli and prunes in the morning and it was steamed fish and spinach tonight. He’s allergic to anything fried and he won’t eat pastry or starch in the evenings—bad for his digestion. So I’m getting it, too—he’s convinced Mrs. Williams it will be healthy for us all.”

  Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Evans. We’ll make sure you don’t starve,” he said. “Betsy love,” he called. “I’ve got your favorite young man in here and he’s dying of starvation. Get some sausages going for him and put a meat pie in the microwave, will you?”

  Half an hour later, as the pub began to fill up, Evan was a happier man.

  “Imagine her trying to starve you,” Betsy said, turning her searchlight blue eyes on him. “You can come in here any time, Evan bach, and I’ll take care of you. I know exactly what you want—”

  She broke off suddenly and looked at the door. Her face took on the appearance of a saint, having a vision.

  “It’s him,” she whispered to Evan.

  Every head in the public bar turned in the direction she was looking. Ifor Llewellyn was filling the doorway with his commanding presence. He was a giant figure of a man, not fat, just big, and made even more impressive by the curling black beard and shoulder-length curling black hair. The impression was that of a biblical giant—Goliath or Samson.

  “Noswaith dda, gyfeillion,” he said. “Good evening, my friends.” His smile lit up his whole face. The crowd parted as he walked up to the bar. “Ydych chi ’n siarad Cymraeg yma? Does everyone still speak Welsh?”

  “Oh we do,” Betsy answered, still gazing at him in awe. “Most everyone does around here.”

  “I’m a little rusty, but I’ll give it a try,” Ifor Llewellyn said. “You’ll just have to be patient if I’ve forgotten too much.”

  “Oh no, you sound lovely just,” Betsy said.

  He did sound lovely just, Evan thought. His speaking voice had that rich, rumbling quality that made his singing so unique.

  “And who might you be, young lady?” Ifor asked Betsy.

  “I’m Betsy Edwards … sir. I … work here.” For once Betsy was almost lost for words.

  “Don’t call me sir, I haven’t been knighted yet,” Ifor Llewellyn chuckled. “They’ll wait for that until I retire and I’ve still got a few good years in me yet, Miss Betsy.” He reached out across the counter and took her hand. “Betsy. A beautiful name, to match a beautiful person, but tell me, why do you dye your hair that color?”

  “My hair sir … I mean, Mr. Llewellyn,” Betsy stammered. “I don’t really dye it, just touch it up, you know, bring out the blond highlights…”

  “You women,” Ifor said, shaking his head. “If you only realized that brunettes are far more alluring than blonds. The Italian girls with their black hair … they exude sexuality, not like the pale dreary English and Welsh girls. You’d be stunning as a brunette, Betsy.”

  “Would I, sir?” Betsy was lost for words for the first time since Evan had known her. She put her hand up to touch her flyaway blond curls.

  “Absolutely stunning,” Ifor said. He was still holding her hand. “I hope you’ll take good care of me this summer, Betsy. I’m going to rely on you. You could show me around the old place sometime, and maybe I’ll need some Welsh lessons, too?”

  “I’d be happy to. Anything. Anytime,” Betsy said, her face bright pink with pleasure and confusion.

  He certainly was a smooth operator, Evan thought. No wonder he had broken hearts all over Europe.

  Ifor turned to the men in the bar. “You don’t know how good it is to be back here among friends,” he said. “When my doctor told me I had to take it easy and rest, this was the first place that sprang into my mind. I said to Margaret, my wife, let’s go home, shall we? And I’ve come home and it feels wonderful.”

  He stopped and looked around, almost as if he was expecting applause. Instead he saw nodding, smiling faces.

  “We’re honored to have you here, Ifor,” Evans-the-Meat said. “It’s a great honor for Llanfair.”

  “Oh, don’t make a big thing of it, man,” Ifor said. “I just want to lie low and fit right in. Think of me as a neighbor, just like anyone else. Invite me to play darts or whatever you do these days. I’d like that.” He turned his soulful dark eyes back to Betsy. “The first request I have of you, my love, is to get me a double whiskey—Jameson Irish Whiskey, if you have it: No ice. Then you can get these gentlemen anything they want to drink. The first round’s on me.”

  There was loud approval from the crowd. Betsy and Harry began drawing pints. Ifor picked up his glass. “Iachyd da. Cheers,” he said and drained it in one gulp.

  “So you’re here to take it easy, are you, Mr. Llewellyn?” Roberts-the-Pump asked.

  “Call me Ifor. I don’t go for
ceremony. And yes, I’m here on doctor’s orders. I’m not hiding out from the Mafia or some woman’s husband, whatever the Daily Mirror tells you.” His big laugh filled the room. “I’m not the type to sit idle, though,” he went on, looking around conspiratorially. “I’ve decided to write my memoirs. No sense in waiting until I’m old and my memory’s going and I forget the good parts. I’m going to put it down while it’s all fresh in my mind.”

  “I bet you’ve got some good tales to tell, Ifor,” Harry-the-Pub commented.

  “Tales that would curl your hair,” Ifor said with a conspiratorial wink. “If I put down everything I’ve done, I’ll need three volumes and my readers will need ice packs to cool them down, too.” He laughed loudly. “I’ll probably have enough lawsuits on my hands to last my lifetime. Not that they can touch me—everything I’m going to tell is true, however embarrassing it will be for certain people.” He waved his empty glass at Betsy. “Another Jameson if you don’t mind, my lovely.”

  The third and fourth Jamesons followed with no apparent ill effects, except that Ifor became friendlier by the minute. “So tell me, my friends,” he said, draping a huge arm over Evans-the-Meat’s shoulder, “what do you do around here for fun these days? Cricket is it this time of year? I rather fancy myself as a fast bowler.”

  “The local cricket team sort of fizzled out,” Evans-the-Meat said. “Not enough young men in the village anymore.”

  “I remember when I was a boy, we had a splendid cricket team in Llanfair,” Ifor said. “And football and rugby, too. All those men who worked in the slate mine. They were as fit as fiddles, weren’t they? And the Côr Meibion—what a choir. That’s what got me started in singing. I wanted to sound like them. Don’t tell me the choir’s dead, too?”

  “Oh no, the choir’s still going,” Evans-the-Meat said. “It’s not what it was, though. Austin Mostyn does his best but…”

  “Austin Mostyn?” Ifor looked amused.

  “That’s what we call our choir director, Mostyn Phillips—”

  “Mostyn Phillips?” Ifor exclaimed loudly. “Is he still going strong? I knew him. We were students together in London—fancy old Mostyn Phillips still being around. I must look him up.”

  “He was going to pay a call on you,” Evans-the-Meat said. “We wanted him to ask you…” He paused with an embarrassed laugh. “To see if you’d…”

  “Ask me what?” Ifor demanded.

  There was embarrassed shuffling.

  “Whether you’d have the time to help out with the choir,” Evan finished for them. “The eisteddfod’s coming up and the choir really needs help.”

  “An eisteddfod coming up?” Ifor’s face lit up again. All his expressions were giant-size, too, as if he was on stage at La Scala and not in the middle of the public bar at the Red Dragon. “That’s wonderful news. I particularly wanted to go to an eisteddfod while I was here. I won my first singing competition at the little eisteddfod down in Criccieth. Is that the one?”

  “This is the regional in Harlech,” Reverend Parry Davies said. “Second in prestige only to the national.”

  “Wonderful,” Ifor nodded. “So when does your choir rehearse? I’ll be there.”

  Evans-the-Meat slapped Ifor on his broad back. “It’s a great day for Llanfair, having you here, Ifor bach,” he said. “Things are going to start looking up now, I know it.”

  Chapter 6

  “Noswaith dda, good evening one and all.” Mostyn Phillips came bustling through the door of the village hall, clutching a sheaf of music to him. His normally immaculate hair was windswept from the walk up from the road. “Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. I was going through the final selection of music and getting copies made.”

  He put the music down up on a music stand. “And I have been doing some serious soul-searching. I’m afraid I really cannot presume on my former friendship to ask a singer of the calibre of Ifor Llewellyn to join our little choir. I just wouldn’t have the cheek. I mean, to think that a world-renowned man like that would ever—”

  “Would ever what, Mostyn?” A huge voice resounded from the doorway.

  Mostyn’s jaw dropped. “Ifor,” he said. “Is it really you?”

  “In the flesh, old friend,” Ifor said, striding across the floor so that the rickety floorboards creaked alarmingly. “In the flesh as you can see, and plenty of it.” He enveloped Mostyn in a huge bear hug, sending the music stand and all the music flying. “Here I am, as you can see, ready to do my part.”

  “Ifor, I don’t know what to say. I am overwhelmed.” Mostyn dropped to his knees and started picking up the music. “I don’t know how to thank you. As Constable Evans said, this is indeed a miracle.”

  “Come on then,” Ifor said. “Don’t just stand there, man. Let’s get to work. Show me what music you’re planning to sing for the eisteddfod.”

  Mostyn juggled papers on the music stand. He was clearly flustered. “Well, look you, this is what I’d planned to start with.”

  He nodded to Miss Johns at the piano and raised his baton. Ifor sat without moving until they had finished the song.

  “And what was that supposed to be then?” he enquired.

  “A Byrd motet. In praise of music.”

  “A Byrd motet?” Ifor exploded. “It sounded like a flock of birds, if you don’t mind my saying so—or the Luton Girls’ Choir. I’ve never heard such a dreary noise in my life. You want to start with a good rousing chorus, man. Make the audience sit up and listen. Something like ‘Men of Harlech’!”

  Mostyn’s face was bright red. His little moustache twitched nervously. “We can hardly start with ‘Men of Harlech’ when we’re singing in Harlech and half the audience will be men of Harlech, can we?” he demanded. “That wouldn’t make us any friends. And every choir sings songs like that. If we want to make an impression, we should sound different.”

  “Balderdash,” Ifor boomed. “Give the audience something they know and like—‘All Through he Night,’ or ‘Land of My Fathers,’ or even a chorus from a popular musical. Oklahoma!…”

  “Oklahoma!?” Mostyn looked horrified.

  “Too old-fashioned. Maybe you’re right. Something from Les Misérables then.” He launched into “Do you hear the people sing, singing a song of angry men.” His huge voice filled the room and soon all the choir members were nodding in time.

  “There you are,” he said. “That’s what a chorus should sound like. Not this pansy nonsense. It’s not called a Choir of Daughters, is it? Well then, let them sound like men. I think I’ve got the score of Lohengrin with me. They could handle the Anvil Chorus. Or maybe the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust?”

  “Everyone does the Soldier’s Chorus,” Mostyn said through clenched teeth. “We don’t have the numbers for a big sound, so I was trying for a different sound.”

  “Yes, but not bloody effeminate wailing,” Ifor said, still smiling amiably. Evan got the impression he enjoyed baiting Mostyn. “You never did get it, did you, old chap? Remember that presentation you gave at college on medieval lute music? Half the audience fell asleep and even the professor fell off his chair!” He laughed loudly, slapping his tree-trunk thigh. “Well, you can forget all this rubbish. You’ve got a big sound now. You’ve got me!” He turned to the choir. “Do any of you boys happen to know the parts to ‘Land of My Fathers’?”

  By the end of the evening Evan had to admit that they sounded a lot better. Actually they sounded like Ifor singing with background noise. But that was preferable to the sound they had made before. At least it drowned out the out-of-tune baritones. But he noticed that Mostyn hastily put together his papers and scurried out to his car, without waiting to socialize. He was just getting into the car when Ifor appeared. “Is that what you’re driving, Mostyn bach?” His voice resounded back from the hills. “That’s the Austin? How does it go—a clockwork motor, or do you pedal it?”

  “Oh dear me,” he muttered to the men standing around him as Mostyn drove away. “I think I’ve upset him. He a
lways was quick to take offence. Unfortunately it was always too easy to tease poor old Mostyn. It was almost as if he was asking for it. He always did take himself too seriously. Just think what would happen if I drove off in a huff every time I got bad press! I just say publish and be damned and laugh it off.” He draped his arms over the nearest shoulders. “Alright then lads, who’s ready for a drink?”

  * * *

  The general consensus was that Ifor was a thoroughly good bloke who had arrived in the nick of time to save the eisteddfod. Evan wasn’t so sure. He watched Mostyn, tight-lipped and increasingly nervous during rehearsals as they belted out “Land of My Fathers” and Ifor sang the drinking song from La Traviata with oompahs from the choir.

  As the Llewellyns settled in, other villagers beside Evan started to wonder if having him in residence was a good thing.

  “Would you listen to that, Constable Evans,” Gladys, the Powell-Joneses’ daily help, said as she came out of the grocer’s shop and met Evan. “Imagine trying to do the dusting with that noise in the next room.”

  The sound of Ifor’s huge tenor voice, practicing scales, echoed around the narrow valley.

  “He’s always singing, Mr. Evans. Morning, noon, and night,” Gladys said, shaking her head. “And I thought he came here to rest his voice. I’d hate to hear what he sounds like when he’s not resting it.”

  Evan grinned. “Some people pay hundreds of pounds and queue all night to hear him sing, Gladys. They’d think you were lucky to hear him for free.”

  “They can have my job anytime,” Gladys said. “I’m thinking of writing to Mrs. Powell-Jones and handing in my notice. The minister and Mrs. Powell-Jones are no trouble at all—at least she can be picky and she always manages to find a spot I haven’t dusted, but they let me get on with my work in peace. These people have no idea of time. They’re just getting up at eleven o’clock in the morning and they want to use the bathroom when I’m trying to clean it and they want lunch at three o’clock in the afternoon. I tell you, Mr. Evans, I’m at sixes and sevens with them.”