by Rhys Bowen
The tent seemed to contain displays of knitted baby clothes, crocheted afghans and sweaters, woven rugs—nothing that could possibly attract a thief or a vandal. He pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered. “Alright. Calm down everyone. North Wales Police,” he announced. “What’s going on here?”
“Fighting like wildcats they were,” an elderly official said, taking out his handkerchief to mop a perspiring bald head.
“She started it,” an angry woman’s voice cut in.
“You had no right to try to copy me!” Another voice retorted. Evan knew that voice instantly. He saw that the two fighting wildcats, now being held apart by obliging spectators, were none other than Mrs. Powell-Jones and Mrs. Parry Davies.
“You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Ministers’ wives, too!” He stepped in between them.
“I was pushed beyond my limits, Constable Evans,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “I am a Christian, God-fearing woman, but that woman riles me to the extent that I can no longer control myself.” She grabbed Evan’s arm. “Look you, what she had the nerve to do this time!”
She indicated a table full of tapestry work. Side by side were two tapestry pictures, one labeled, “Caernarfon Castle,” by E. Powell-Jones. The other “Caernarfon Castle at Sunset” by J. Parry Davies.
“How was I to know the stupid woman was also doing a tapestry of Caernarfon Castle?” Mrs. Parry Davies demanded.
“Because you spied on me, that’s why,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “You know I always work on my tapestry in the living room and I don’t always draw the curtains.”
“How do I know that you didn’t spy on me?” Mrs. Parry Davies asked. “I always work on my tapestry in MY living room and that gives directly onto the street.”
“Of course your house, or should one say cottage, is visible to all and sundry, not set back in its own grounds, that is true,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “But I can assure you that I have never had the desire to peek in at your windows. I have been working on this particular tapestry for almost a year now.”
“What do you think I did with mine—run it up last night?” Mrs. Parry Davies demanded. “I’ve been working on mine for over a year.”
“Hmmph. Obviously a slow worker,” Mrs. Powell-Jones shot back.
Evan held out his hands as the two women were about to start again. “Ladies. There’s no law that says you can’t do the same subject, is there? Why not let the judges decide who has done the better work?”
“Because mine is worked in the true subtle hues of North Wales and hers has the lurid glow of a Caribbean sunset,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “Naturally those overbright colors will attract the judge’s eye first.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you admit that mine is more outstanding,” Mrs. Parry Davies retorted.
Evan glanced at the worried-looking official, then frowned at the two women. “If this gentleman wishes to press charges of disturbing the peace, I shall have to confiscate these two works of art as evidence,” he said. “Then neither of you will have a chance in the judging.”
“You couldn’t … you wouldn’t!” Mrs. Powell-Jones’s face flushed brick red.
“I most certainly would.” Evan couldn’t resist a smile. “So are you going to promise to behave, or do I take the pictures with me?”
“Really!” Mrs. Parry Davies glared at Mrs. Powell-Jones. “I don’t see why my chances of winning should be spoiled by a jealous imitator.”
“Me, the imitator?”
Evan picked up the two pictures and tucked them under his arm. “Do I take these with me or do you promise to go away and not come back until the judging is over?”
“Oh, very well, Constable,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said at last. “Put them back. I expect the judges will be able to detect superior needlework when they see it.”
“I want you both to leave first,” Evan said.
The two women glared at him, then swept out of the tent like two ships in full sail.
“Diolch yn fawr, Constable,” the official said, tucking his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. “Thanks very much. I didn’t know what I was going to do with them. Proper pair of wildcats they were.”
“I know. I have to live in the same village as them,” Evan said. He left the tent and hurried to catch up with his choir.
Applause was spilling from one of the larger pavilions. Evan glanced inside and was rooted to the spot. A young woman sat on stage, holding a harp to her. Her long blond hair spilled over her shoulders like spun gold. Her dark blue skirt was spread out around her so that she looked like an exquisite white nymph in the middle of a pool of blue water. For a second Evan’s heart flip-flopped. He thought it was Bronwen. Then he realized that this girl was younger and a stranger.
He walked on, still shaken by what he had seen and by his reaction. He hadn’t realized it before, but Bronwen was beautiful. She had that same otherworldly quality of the young harpist, a special something that made people turn and stare … and that made his heart lurch.
He looked around hopefully. Was it possible that she was still here? Hardly. It was getting late. She would have taken her young schoolchildren home by now. And she hadn’t displayed any great enthusiasm for coming to his performance tonight. He had spoiled everything by agreeing to go on a meaningless date with Betsy. How could he have been such a fool? Of course Bronwen misunderstood. As soon as he got back, he’d tell Betsy that the date was off. He had to stop trying to please everybody. It never worked. If only he could find Bronwen and …
He wondered for a second if he was hallucinating. She was coming toward him through the crowd, her long braid over one shoulder, wearing a red cape that flowed out behind her and made her look ridiculously like a children’s book illustration of Little Red Riding Hood.
“Bron!” he called.
Her face lit up as she spotted him. “Evan! I didn’t think you’d be here, after all the goings-on in the village.”
“They didn’t need me anymore. D.I. Hughes has taken over,” Evan said.
“Taken over what?” Bronwen looked puzzled.
“You hadn’t heard. It wasn’t an accident at all. Ifor Llewellyn was killed and afterward it was made to look like an accident.”
“Well, I never!” She sounded like Mrs. Williams. “Was it a robbery?”
“No. Nothing was taken. There was nothing worth stealing. They had left all their good stuff in Italy.”
“Do they have any idea who might have done it? And, more to the point, do you have any idea who might have done it?”
“I’ve got some ideas,” Evan said. “The D.I.’s inclined to go along with the Mafia theory at the moment. It makes him feel important to keep getting calls from Interpol.” He grinned at her and she smiled back. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said. “I thought you would have had to take the children back home by now.”
“One of the fathers took them back in his van,” she said. “I wanted to stay a little longer and get a look at the exhibits for myself … and listen to some of the singing.”
“Don’t expect too much from our choir,” Evan said. “We’re not exactly Covent Garden material without Ifor.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve brought my earplugs,” she said, smiling.
“Do you want to get something to eat after we’ve finished,” he asked, “and walk around a little?”
She nodded. “I’d like that—if you’re not planning to meet Betsy at the rock concert.”
“Rock concert? That’s too tame for us. We only go to raves,” Evan said. Then he grew serious. “Look, I’m sorry about Betsy. I just didn’t want to hurt her feelings. You know that.”
“Yes. I know that. Evan the Boy Scout.”
“I’m getting better. I just told Mrs. Powell-Jones to pipe down and behave herself.”
“Evan, you didn’t!”
“I certainly did. Enjoyed every moment of it, too.”
Bronwen slipped her arm through his. “Are you heading for the choir pavilion r
ight now?”
“I should be. We’re on soon. Mostyn will get in a state if I’m not there.”
“I’ll walk over with you.”
The crowd was thicker here in the middle of things. People streamed from one marquee to the next as new events started. A children’s dance troop had just finished performing in one of the main pavilions. They came running out, twelve little girls all dressed in white with flowers in their hair, like little angels from a Renaissance painting.
“Now can we get hot dogs?” they demanded of their chaperon.
Evan and Bronwen exchanged a smile.
“I’m sorry I overreacted about Betsy,” she said. “I must be an insecure person. It comes from a failed marriage, I suppose.”
“You’ve no reason to feel insecure,” Evan said. “I’m a reliable kind of chap who—”
A loud scream made him break off in midsentence. “Evan Evans! Oh my goodness. It is you!” A young woman flung herself into his arms and kissed him full on the mouth.
Chapter 16
“Maggie!” Evan gasped when the girl finally released him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m helping a friend with her dance troop,” she said, still beaming up at him delightedly. “She wanted someone to help chaperon the children so I said I’d come along for a bit of a lark. Makes a change from Swansea, doesn’t it? And who knows, I might even get interested in culture.” She ran her fingers through dark curls. “So where are you these days? You’re not still in that godforsaken little village, are you?”
“That’s right. Still in the same place.”
“I couldn’t believe it when your mother told me that you’d gone back to North Wales. Whatever for, I said. There’s nothing but rain and sheep up there—and people who look like sheep.”
Evan felt a light tap on his arm. “Would you like to introduce me, Evan?”
“Oh Bronwen. Of course. This is Maggie Pole. We knew each other down in Swansea.”
“We knew each other very well, down in Swansea,” the girl said, eyeing Bronwen’s long hair and swirling cloak. “Are you performing here?”
“No, just a supporter.”
“Oh, I thought because of the costume.” She herself was wearing jeans and a Swansea Rugby Club sweat shirt saying FOR RUGBY PLAYERS A TRY IS A SCORE.
“This is Bronwen Price,” Evan said quickly. “She teaches at the village school in Llanfair.”
“A schoolteacher?” Maggie shook her head. “I reckon you deserve a medal, having to put up with the little brats every day. One trip up in the bus was enough to convince me that children and I don’t get along.” She smiled up at Evan. “So do you have time for a chat? My little angels have just gone off to get food so I’m free for a while and I’d love to give you all the news from back home. Have you heard about the rugby club? It’s gone pro. They’re paying their best players now. How about that—if you’d stuck around, you could have quit being a policeman and made your fortune at rugby.”
“Hardly,” Evan said awkwardly. “I was never that good.”
“You were bloody good and you know it,” Maggie said. She looked past Evan to Bronwen. “He always was too modest. That was one of his very few deficiencies, wasn’t it, Evan love?”
“Look, Maggie, I’d love to talk but my choir is about to sing and the choir director will have a fit if I don’t show up.”
“Singing? You? That’s a new one!” Maggie laughed loudly. “The only time I heard you sing was in the bus on the way home from rugby games and you couldn’t sing those songs at an eisteddfod, could you?” She looked around then leaned closer to Evan. “What a bloody boring thing this is, isn’t it? All in Welsh, too, and you know how bad my Welsh is. I mean—”
“Look, Maggie. I’m sorry but I have to go,” Evan interrupted. He could feel Bronwen’s eyes boring into him.
“You won’t be singing that long, will you?” Maggie asked. “Let’s go for a drink afterward. They’ve got decent South Wales beer, I notice. You, too, if you’d like, Miss Price,” she added.
“Oh, that’s okay, thanks,” Bronwen said. “I should be getting back home. I’m sure you and Evan have a lot to talk about.”
“Don’t go Bron,” Evan said but she shook her head solemnly. “I think this is one case where three is definitely a crowd.” She moved off into the crowd before Evan could stop her.
“Oh dear, have I upset her?” Maggie asked, turning big surprised eyes on him. “I didn’t mean anything—only I was so surprised to see you and I have to hear how you’re doing. I’ll meet you at the beer tent shall I?”
“If you like,” Evan said.
He could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he went into the choir pavilion. Of all the people in the world, why did she have to be here tonight?
* * *
“Here he is now,” Evan heard muttered in the darkness as he joined his choir backstage.
“Sorry, Mostyn. I got waylaid by an old friend,” Evan said. “How are you doing?”
“I am not sure I can go through with this,” Mostyn said. “This has been a great shock to me. I really don’t know…”
“You’ll be fine, Austin Mostyn,” Evans-the-Meat clamped a big hand on the fragile shoulder of the choir director. “We’re going to get out there and give a slap-up performance as a tribute to our old friend Ifor. Right men?”
Evan didn’t think the reply sounded overenthusiastic.
“But what are we going to sing?” Young Billy Hopkins asked nervously. “Ifor sang all the solos, didn’t he? We can hardly have big gaps where we hum.”
“We’ll have to go back to our old program, won’t we?” Roberts-the-Pump said.
“No, we’ll stick to the songs we have practiced,” Mostyn said, as if every word was a great effort for him. “I’ll take the solos myself.”
He straightened his bow tie then motioned them to follow him into the wings.
Evan could feel the tension around him and he felt tenser than most. He wished that they’d canceled their performance tonight. If he hadn’t been here he would never have known that Maggie Pole was in North Wales. He still felt clammy and in shock. He could picture her so clearly—same bubbly personality, unruly dark curls, big dark eyes, talking a mile a minute—was it possible that he still had feelings for her after all this time, after all that had happened?
Rubbish, he said to himself. He would go and have a quick drink with her and tomorrow he’d tell Bronwen the whole story. He should have told her sooner. They had been wrong to keep so much of their pasts hidden from each other.
The choir before them ended with a rousing rendering of “All Through the Night.”
“And now, annwyl gyfeillion, dear friends,” the announcer’s voice boomed through the large tent. “The Côr Meibion from Llanfair under the direction of Mr. Mostyn Phillips.”
They filed out onto the stage, hair slicked down, black boots shining, faces shining with sweat. Evan took his place in the back row. Mostyn raised the baton and they started to sing.
They opened as planned with the drinking song from La Traviata. Their voices resonated, loud, clear, and rich in the packed marquee. Evan thought they had never sounded so good. Then Mostyn’s voice took up the solo part. He had sung through passages for them before during practice, to show what he wanted but Evan had never heard his full voice before. Obviously neither had any of the other choir members. They forgot that they were supposed to be staring straight ahead and glanced at each other or gave each other subtle nudges. Mostyn had a nice voice—not of the power or quality of Ifor’s but a high, sweet tenor.
An amazed thought shot through Evan’s mind—they might just make it to the final after all! Then suddenly, abruptly, Mostyn stopped singing.
“I’m sorry,” he said, both to choir and audience. “It’s no good. I can’t do this. A very great man was supposed to be singing this solo … he was struck down unnecessarily, before his time—I was stupid to think that I could ever fill his shoes. Plea
se excuse us…” He fled into the wings, leaving the choir to march offstage alone, amid the rising murmur of the audience.
The announcer quickly took over the mike and explained the full details of the tragedy. “We understand what Mr. Phillips and his choir must be going through right now. They have our deepest sympathy. The music world and Wales in particular have lost a giant in the field.”
Evan followed the other choir members out into the open air. The sun had now set and lights were twinkling from half-open tents and booths. The sound of sweet children’s song, of harps and flutes and drums, the smells of wood smoke and roasting, the glow of fires and the fluttering of flags gave the whole scene a distinctly medieval feel that contributed to Evan’s sense of unreality.
He didn’t see Sergeant Watkins until the latter grabbed his arm. “Too bad,” he said. “I was looking forward to hearing you sing.”
“What are you doing here, Sarge?” Evan asked, shaking himself back to reality and the present.
“Looking for you. I thought you’d like to know that the wife has confessed. She’s down in Caernarfon with the D.I. right now.”
Evan stood rooted to the spot. “Mrs. Llewellyn? She’s confessed to the murder?”
Watkins nodded. “She turned up in Caernarfon, cool as a cucumber. ‘I have decided to come forward and straighten this whole mess out before my family and friends are dragged into it.’ She said. ‘I want you to know that I killed my husband.’”
Evan gave Watkins a stunned look. “She’s certainly a cool customer, isn’t she?”
“And a good actress, too. I would have bet my pension she didn’t do it, even though she had the motive and the opportunity.”
“Me, too,” Evan agreed. “I could imagine her putting a neat little bullet into her husband or poisoning him slowly, but bashing him over the head? Has she told you what she used as the weapon?”
“She hadn’t told us anything by the time I left. She probably won’t if the D.I. uses his subtle methods of interrogation. Did you come here in your own car?”
“Yes, but…”
“You can follow me then.”
