by Rhys Bowen
“And how did he look to you then?”
“I didn’t like to touch him more than necessary,” Evan said, “but he didn’t look as if he’d been dead long, if you know what I mean. His skin was still pinkish, not white like it is now. His arm moved easily.”
“That confirms what I’m seeing here. Off the top of my head I’d say seven to seven-thirty, not much earlier than that.”
He got to his feet and tucked the notebook back into his pocket. “I’ll have the body taken down to the morgue, then you can lock up this place for the night. Nothing more we can do here until the morning.”
“Excuse me, Doctor,” Evan began tentatively.
Dr. Owens looked up.
“Can we definitely tell that this was an accident?”
“In what way?”
“There’s something about the way he’s fallen. I can’t reconstruct it in my head. I can’t see what he would have tripped over, for one thing. I wondered if we’d know if there were any other factors—a heart attack, for example, that would have caused him to pitch forward like that.”
“Oh we’ll know right enough,” Dr. Owens said. “We always do a full autopsy in cases like this. We need to see if he was mixing drugs and alcohol or if, as you say, it was a medical condition. If he was an ordinary chap, we’d probably put him on ice until Monday, but we’ve got orders from the powers that be to come up with a definitive cause of death as soon as possible. So I’m going to be working on him first thing in the morning—which puts paid to my sailing plans for the weekend. Ah well, goes with the job, doesn’t it? I’d imagine we’d know conclusively what killed him by midday tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” Evan said. “That’s a load off my mind.”
The doctor patted his back. “You’re a village constable, young man. You’re not supposed to carry the worries of the world on your mind. We’ll call the morgue van up here and then you can go and get a good night’s sleep.”
* * *
It was a little after 11:00 P.M. when Evan finally let himself into Mrs. Williams’s front hall. He realized that he’d had no dinner and he was starving. Mrs. Williams would have gone to bed by now but it was possible she’d left him something in the oven, but the thought of dried-out vegetable puree was not an appealing one. He went into the kitchen and cut himself a couple of slices of bread and a wedge of Caerpfilly cheese. Then he poured himself a glass of milk to go with it. Beer would have been better, but Mrs. Williams came from a long line of teetotalers.
Evan was definitely feeling more human as he tiptoed up the stairs, pausing every time a stairboard creaked. Reverend Powell-Jones had stressed to him more than once that he was a light sleeper and could never get back to sleep if woken.
Evan had just reached the top step when the door at the front of the hall flew open and the minister stood there, like an avenging ghost in his long white nightshirt. Evan began to feel that he’d plunged into the middle of A Christmas Carol.
“Young man,” Reverend Powell-Jones declaimed, evidently not caring if he woke Mrs. Williams in the process. “You and I have to talk.”
“About what?” Evan eyed him warily. With his knobby knees sticking out from below the nightshirt the minister was not the most attractive figure Evan had seen recently, and that counted the corpse.
“Your drinking problem.”
“My what?” Evan couldn’t have been more astounded. “Where did you get the idea I had a drinking problem?”
“I should have thought it was fairly obvious,” Reverend Powell-Jones said. “You are down at the public house every evening of your life. You stagger up the stairs at—” he consulted his watch—“eleven-twenty-five and you deny you have a drinking problem. Come now, young man. Be brave. Face up to it. You’ll feel better if you do.”
Evan fought back a strong desire to punch him. “Mr. Powell-Jones,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and even. “Has it ever occurred to you that I spend every evening at the pub because you have taken over my house and I’ve had my fill of lectures and tasteless food? And as for tonight—I have just returned from an accidental death scene where I was on duty until twenty minutes ago. I missed my dinner. I missed my drink at the pub. I’m tired and exceedingly bad tempered and I’m going to bed.”
He started in the direction of his bedroom. He heard Reverend Powell-Jones mutter, “Well, I never did!” Then he remembered something and turned back at his doorway. “Oh and one more thing, Reverend. It was your house the person was killed in. You might find yourself being questioned as an accessory!”
With that he strode into his bedroom and shut the door. Once he was behind the closed door, a big grin spread across his face.
“Now I feel a lot better,” he said out loud and just wished that the pub were still open.
Chapter 10
“Treadful, isn’t it? Treadful just.” Mrs. Williams stood over Evan’s bed with a morning cup of tea. “Treadful,” she said again. It was one of the few English words she chose to use, being more expressive than the Welsh in the circumstances. “That poor man, cut off in the prime of his life.”
Evan often wondered why the government hadn’t looked into using the occupants of Llanfair as international spies. They had an uncanny way of finding out exactly what was going on, long before the authorities did in most cases.
Evan took the tea from her. “How did you hear about it?”
“Evan-the-Milk told me. He got it from Mrs. Hopkins, who watched the whole thing.”
“Watched the whole thing?” Evan sat up. Was it possible there was an eyewitness?
“Well, she could hardly help seeing all those police cars, could she? And then the poor man being carried out to the ambulance,” Mrs. Williams clarified. “And his poor wife arrived back to find her husband dead, so they say.”
Evan nodded. Mrs. Williams wasn’t going to get any more juicy details out of him.
“I expect you’ll be needed early, to control the crowds.” she said.
“Are there crowds already?” He attempted to get up.
“Only local people from the village. No reporters yet, but I expect there will be. He was a very famous man, after all. They say he fell and hit his head. I never did like the looks of that fender in the minister’s house.”
Evan got up and grabbed his shaving kit. This was one morning when he had to make the bathroom before Mr. Powell-Jones.
“I hope his family lets him be buried here,” Mrs. Williams called after him as he hurried down the hall. “We haven’t had a decent funeral for ages now, have we, and they could afford to put on a lovely one with all the trimmings. Maybe that famous Italian lady will come and sing at it.”
Evan thought that Ifor’s widow would hardly be likely to invite his famous mistress to sing at his funeral. He also doubted that she’d want Ifor buried in a place she so disliked.
He was on his way out of the bathroom when his way was barred by the Revered Powell-Jones. “Who was killed in my house? I have a right to know,” the minister demanded. Evan had ignored the persistent taps on his door the night before. “I’ve been awake all night worrying,” the minister went on “and it’s not good for me. I need my rest if I’m to be at my best tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine in the poetry competition, Reverend,” Evan said. “You’ve already learned how to rhyme. Rest and best. That’s good for starters.”
“This is no time for facetious jokes, young man.” The reverend’s face was stony. “Who was killed in my house? It wasn’t in my bed, was it? My wife could never sleep in a bed in which someone had been murdered.”
“Who said anything about murder?” Evan said calmly. “It was an unfortunate accident and it wasn’t in your bed. Mr. Llewellyn fell and hit his head, in the living room. It looks as if he hit your fender.”
“Terrible. How tragic.” The reverend’s face had brightened up considerably. “I must call my wife at once. I wanted to spare her unnecessary worry until I knew all the details, b
ut I’m sure she’ll want to be here. And I must get up there right away. The grieving widow will need someone to console her.”
He scuttled off to his bedroom like a large crab. Evan thought that the last person Mrs. Llewellyn would want around her at the moment was the Reverend Powell-Jones, quoting Scripture and offering her plates of prunes.
He hurried back to his own room to get dressed. He wanted to make sure he was up at the house before any Powell-Joneses showed up.
“I’ve got your breakfast ready, Mr. Evans,” Mrs. Williams called as he ran down the stairs.
“Sorry Mrs. W. Can’t wait,” Evan said. “I’ll just grab a slice of your bara brith. That will keep me going.”
“Bara brith for breakfast. ’Deed to goodness, what is the world coming to?” Mrs. Williams demanded.
“Not bran and prunes, we hope,” Evan said as he exited the kitchen.
The weather had dawned bright and fine for the eisteddfod. Evan remembered it as he came out of the front door. With all the excitement of the last night, he had forgotten that today he was supposed to be a member of the Llanfair Côr Meibion, taking part in his first eisteddfod.
A brisk wind was rushing up the pass from the ocean, ruffling the coats of the sheep on the hillside. A good day for walking, Evan thought, and his gaze strayed to the gray stone schoolhouse. He hadn’t spoken to Bronwen since their misunderstanding about his date with Betsy, but he remembered that she would be down at the eisteddfod today with her schoolchildren. Now he wouldn’t even have a chance to join her. He’d probably be too busy fending off pushy journalists.
Evans-the-Post was coming toward him, his eyes wide with excitement, his lanky limbs flapping so that he looked like an oversize rag doll. “They say they found a body, Plisman,” he called to Evan. “They say he had his head all bashed in. I tried to take a look, but they wouldn’t let me.”
“The body’s already gone,” Evan said.
“Who did it then?” Evans-the-Post asked, his limbs twitching with suppressed excitement. “Is it another murder?” “It was just an accident,” Evan said. “He fell and hit his head, that’s all.”
“Oh. That’s all, eh?” The smile faded. “My brother Tomos fell and hit his head once. He was never rightly the same after.”
He went on his way, fingering the letters he hoped to read if Miss Roberts, the postmistress, didn’t catch him. Evan wondered if he, too, hadn’t fallen on his head at some stage.
A small crowd had gathered outside the chapel, where today’s text read “Let your light shine before men.” Across the street the biblical text read “Blessed are the meek.”
A police car was already parked in the Powell-Joneses’ driveway beside the black Mercedes. Evan wondered briefly how Mrs. Llewellyn had come up from Bangor station last night. Taxi, he supposed. People with their kind of money probably never thought twice about taking taxies.
Jim Abbott and another officer were standing beside the police car.
“Morning, Evans,” Jim Abbott called. “Is this the time you usually show up for work? Cushy job.” He grinned to his partner.
“I shouldn’t be showing up at all today,” Evan said. “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”
Jim Abbott nodded. “I suppose they don’t get crimes on the weekends up here. If someone’s going to be drunk and disorderly, they show consideration and do it during your working week.”
“So what’s happening?” Evan asked, indicating the house. “Has Mrs. Llewellyn come back here yet?”
“No. The place is empty. We’ve got Forensic coming to take samples from where he bashed his head and nobody’s to be let in. If Mrs. Llewellyn wants to go in, she’s to be escorted and she’s not allowed into the room where the body was.”
“Oh, and Evans,” Abbott’s fellow officer said. He was a skinny young man with sandy hair. Evan thought his name was Harris. “We’re not to answer any questions. When the media shows up we’re to tell them that we know no details and refer them to D.I. Hughes at HQ.”
“Fine with me,” Evan said. “Do you want me to stand here and help you control the crowd?” He kept a straight face as he indicated the ten to twelve people who were loitering respectfully a few yards away.
“They’ll be here, don’t you worry,” Abbott said with a momentary frown of annoyance. “Just as soon as the word gets out, they’ll be pouring in from all over Europe.”
Evan went over to the group of villagers. Charlie’s wife, Mair, was in the middle of recounting her story again. “And then I looked out of the window again and bless me if they weren’t carrying the poor man out on a stretcher. He must have been a load, too. They were staggering all over the place. I thought they were going to drop him once and I said to Charlie, You better go out and give them a hand…”
Evans-the-Meat came out of his shop to join them and soon most of the members of the Llanfair choir were assembled there.
“What they’re saying is true, then, is it?” the butcher asked Evan. “Ifor Llewellyn is dead?”
Evan nodded. “I’m afraid so, Gareth.”
“What do you think will happen then, Mr. Evans?” Harry-the-Pub asked. “About the eisteddfod, I mean. We surely won’t be singing after this. It wouldn’t be right.”
“I think we should go ahead and sing,” Evans-the-Meat said. “In tribute to our famous native son. Remember what he said to us? He said the grandest thing a Welshman can do is to sing in an eisteddfod.”
“I think he said win an eisteddfod, Gareth,” Roberts-the-Pump said dryly. “And I don’t think we’re likely to do that without Ifor, do you?”
“At least I think we should give it our best shot,” Evans-the-Meat said.
“I think it would be up to Mostyn,” Evan suggested. “He’s the choir director, isn’t he? I don’t know if he’ll feel like singing today. He was very shaken up last night.”
“Well he’s got a very weak stomach, Austin Mostyn has,” Evans-the-Meat said. “He’s not exactly what you’d call robust, is he—in fact I can’t imagine him rooming with Ifor Llewellyn when they were students. They must have driven each other mad.”
“Ifor certainly enjoyed baiting him, that’s for sure,” Harry chuckled. “You know there never were any men from Blenau Ffestiniog here that night he claimed that they’d been to see him. He was just making that up to get a rise out of Mostyn—he told me so.”
“Well, he won’t be getting a rise out of anyone anymore,” Roberts-the-Pump said dryly. “It just shows you. You can never tell when your number’s going to be up.”
The men nodded. Having worked in the precarious conditions of the slate mine, they knew this to be true. Life wasn’t always easy in a mountain village.
“So should we plan on going down to the eisteddfod this afternoon or not?” Harry-the-Pub persisted.
“Why don’t we wait until we’ve heard from Mostyn,” Evan said. “I’m not sure that they’ll let me get away to sing. They’re anticipating crowds later.”
At that moment the bus came groaning up the steep grade, belching a cloud of black diesel fumes, and stopped outside the pub. Several hikers got off and headed straight for the Mount Snowdon trails, hitching up their packs as they went. They were followed by a tiny, sparrowlike woman in a well-worn black coat, clutching a shopping basket that seemed too large for her. She started up the street toward the chapels, then saw the crowd standing around and broke into a brisk trot.
“’Deed to goodness—what’s happening here then?” she asked, pushing her way into the middle of the crowd.
“Oh, it’s you, Gladys,” Mair Hopkins said. “I didn’t think you worked on Saturdays.”
“I don’t usually, but they asked me to come in, seeing that the mistress has been away.” Her eyes strayed to the police car in the driveway. “What’s going on here then?”
Evan stepped forward before anyone could give her an amended version. “There’s been an accident, Gladys. I’m afraid Mr. Llewellyn’s dead.”
Gladys’s jaw dropped
open. “Mr. Llewellyn dead, is it? No! It can’t be. He was right as rain when I left him last night, talking and laughing as if he hadn’t got a care in the world.”
Evan’s ears pricked up. “Last night? You were here last night—until what time?”
“I was working late, see,” Gladys said, frowning to remember, “on account of the mistress being gone. I thought I’d stay on and make them some dinner, so she had a good meal when she got back—not just that cold salami stuff that they seem to eat. It must have been around six when I left. Yes, it must have been, of course, because I got the six-ten bus, didn’t I?”
“And Mr. Llewellyn had someone with him then?”
“He had to have, didn’t he? I could hear them chatting away in the living room.”
“Do you know who it was?”
Gladys shook her head. “I couldn’t rightly say. I was in the kitchen with the door shut, look you, and I don’t think the master knew I was still there. I usually go by four, but I thought I’d just make a nice shepherd’s pie so they’d get something warm in their stomachs.” She paused and looked around at the crowd. She was clearly enjoying being the center of attention for once. “Well, I’d got the pie out of the oven, look you, so I thought that maybe I should go and tell him that it was on the table ready, whenever he was hungry. But when I got to the living room door, I heard him talking and laughing and I didn’t like to disturb him. He doesn’t always take kindly to being disturbed, especially when he’s singing, poor man.”
“So you’ve no idea who the other person was?” Evan asked. “A man or a woman?”
Gladys frowned. “I couldn’t rightly say. Not a high woman’s voice but it could have been either. “I couldn’t hear the other voice as well as the master’s. He’s got a very big voice, hasn’t he? The other one was very faint through the door and Mr. Llewellyn was doing most of the talking, and laughing, too. I didn’t hear what they were saying though. I just went on home.”
“Thank you, Gladys. You’ve been very helpful,” Evan said.
“Can I go in and do my dusting now, sir?” Gladys asked.
