Evan Only Knows

by Rhys Bowen

  “The beach on a day like this? You must be out of your mind. All the beaches will be crawling with holidaymakers. English people, most of them.”

  “We can pack a picnic and go for a drive anyway,” Evan said. “We’ll keep going until we find a secluded spot. Come on, Ma. It will do you good to go out for a drive.”

  “I don’t know why people like picnics,” Mrs. Evans grumbled. “All ants and sand in the sandwiches.” Still she insisted on making a huge pile of food for Evan to load into the car. They set off along the seafront down the Oystermouth Road in the direction of the Gower Peninsula.

  “This is the wealthy part of town,” Evan commented. “A lot of boys from my school used to live out here.”

  “Ashleigh Drive,” Mrs. Evans said suddenly as they passed an area of large homes. “Wasn’t that where Tony Mancini murdered that poor girl? I’m sure it was.”

  Evan glanced up at the big houses behind walls and hedges. “I wonder what made him come out here?” he asked himself out loud.

  “Probably planning a bit of burglary, I shouldn’t be surprised,” his mother said. “Always up to no good, since he was a little boy.”

  Evan gave the road a second glance as they drove past. Why Alison Turnbull? he found himself wondering.

  They stopped in the village of Oystermouth at the far end of the seafront drive. “We have to show Bronwen the old Mumbles pier,” Evan said.

  “Whatever for? Ugly, rusty old thing.”

  “Ma, it’s a local landmark.” Evan laughed. “And remember how Dad used to take me there fishing?”

  “Not that you ever caught anything,” Mrs. Evans said, chuckling. “I’ll wait for you in the car then.”

  “Oh, come with us, Mrs. Evans,” Bronwen insisted. “A little walk will do you good.”

  “No benches in sight and I’m not walking that far. Go on. Off you go. I’ll be all right here.”

  “You see it’s not easy,” Evan said as they set off. “Come on then.” The promenade along the seafront was crowded with holiday-makers. They joined the crowd, negotiating the families pushing prams, old people trailing dogs, and children trailing candy floss.

  “Did you know that the oldest passenger railway in the world used to run here,” Evan said. “They closed it before I was born.”

  “I remember reading about it in my history books.” Bronwen looked around with pleasure. “You wouldn’t think this was only five miles from the city, would you? You must have come here a lot when you were young.”

  “Yes, but don’t mention it to my mother. I was forbidden to come here, but my friends and I were always riding our bikes out here in summer for a quick swim. I was also forbidden to swim alone, so I had to dry my trunks by hanging them from the back of my bike.”

  “Quite a little rebel,” Bronwen said.

  Once past the village of Oystermouth, the path narrowed between steep sandy cliffs on one side and a stoney beach on the other. When they finally reached the pier, it had a derelict look to it and a sign out in front saying, SORRY, NO DOGS. SORRY NO BICYCLES.

  SORRY NO PICNICS.

  “Miserable lot,” Bronwen commented. “I don’t think we should pay fifty pence to go on it, then, do you?” She slipped her arm through Evan’s. “You’re extra quiet today. Was it going to court yesterday that has upset you?”

  Evan nodded. “I suppose it is. The whole thing has made me very uneasy. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “It was bound to upset you,” Bronwen said. “But the police sound pretty confident they’ll put him away this time, don’t they?”

  “Yes. Yes they do.” Evan blinked his eyes to shut out an image that wouldn’t go away.

  They turned around and headed back to the car.

  “Oh look.” Bronwen suddenly grabbed Evan’s hand and dragged him across the street. “There’s a shop that makes love spoons. We have to take a look.”

  “We shouldn’t leave Mum alone for too long,” Evan said as he allowed himself to be dragged into the shop. “Is this a hint you’d like me to buy you a love spoon? I thought an engagement ring was what you wanted. You’d find a spoon harder to put on your finger.”

  “Silly.” Bronwen laughed. “No, I just wanted to take a look. I think this was such a romantic idea—carving a spoon in secret to show your love? That is true devotion, don’t you think?”

  They examined the intricately carved spoons, noting that the price on the best of them came close to that of a ring.

  After that the day went downhill. The beaches around the Gower Peninsula were all so full of holidaymakers that parking was impossible.

  “I warned you, didn’t I?” Mrs. Evans said triumphantly. “Packed in like sardines, they are.”

  In the end they ate their sandwiches in a pub car park and drove home again. On the way home, again they passed the street that led to the Turnbull home. Evan tried to relax and join in the conversation that Bronwen was trying to hold with his mother, but he couldn’t take his mind off Tony Mancini. When his mother indicated that she had to do some shopping and Bronwen offered to go with her, he took this as his cue and drove to the police station.

  The new station was exactly as his mother had described — panels of bottle glass and purple tiles that made it look more like a swimming pool or a recreation center. He managed to park in an alley nearby. He spoke to a receptionist through a microphone in a glass wall and asked for Sergeant Howells. He was told to wait. It was stiflingly hot in that glass-fronted holding area. Obviously the designers of the new police station hadn’t considered heat waves in their planning and hadn’t installed air-conditioning. He had almost decided to give up and go home when Bill’s head popped around the door.

  “Hello, Evan. This is a surprise. I thought you were off.”

  “We are. We’re going to Bronwen’s parents later this afternoon, but I had a couple of questions, if you’ve got a minute.”

  “Well, come on in,” Sergeant Howells said, waving him through the door. “I’m just about to take a break and go for a coffee. Want to come?”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Sergeant Howells asked as they left the station together and crossed the street to a café.

  “It was being in court with Tony Mancini,” Evan said. “I found it very unsettling. I was wondering—I know you’re not on the official team for this case, but they do have enough evidence to prove that he did it, don’t they?”

  “Don’t worry yourself about that. As luck would have it, one of our blokes picked up the kid on the Oystermouth Road, only a few steps from the house, right about the time the medical examiner says she was killed. Our bloke recognized him, of course, and stopped to question him. He says the kid seemed flustered and couldn’t give a good reason for being out there. I mean, what good reason would someone like Tony Mancini have for hanging around a posh area like that? He tried to say that Alison Turnbull was a mate of his, but we weren’t buying it. That girl was treated like a china doll—wrapped in cotton wool all her life. Posh boarding school, riding lessons, never let out of their sight. So I don’t know where Tony Mancini thought he might have met her. Then you add to that the motive—old man Turnbull sacked him because he caught him helping himself to the petty cash.” He gave Evan a reassuring grin. “Don’t you worry, old son. We’ve got him this time.”

  ��

  Later that afternoon Evan and Bronwen loaded up the car and got ready to leave Swansea.

  “It wasn’t much of a visit, was it?” Evan’s mother said in a pained voice. “Here today, gone tomorrow.”

  “We can drop in on the way back, if you like,” Evan found himself promising. “I know you don’t like your routine being upset.”

  “Routine? Anyone would think I was an old fogie.” Mrs. Evans sniffed as Evan tried to maneuver the lamb’s crate onto the backseat. “And I don’t know why you had to keep that poor lamb shut away all the time. It wasn’t as if he was any trouble. Good as gold if you ask me, poor little th
ing.”

  “It’s never easy,” Evan said as they drove away. “It’s always a little like walking on eggshells. I bet it will be a relief to get to your parents’ house.”

  “Maybe,” Bronwen said hesitantly.

  “You don’t think they’ll take to me? Is that it?”

  “Oh no. They’ll make you feel very welcome. They are great at hospitality. They’re really very nice people. Just a little—over-whelming. Best taken in small doses, I always think.”

  It was five o’clock when they left the motorway at Newport and drove on a smaller road toward Monmouth. They were in a green valley, dotted with peaceful farms. The fields had fat cows in them, and willows marked the banks of a meandering stream. Gentle hills rose on either side.

  “Here we are,” Bronwen directed. “Turn left here.”

  A narrow road crossed the river by a humpbacked bridge. They passed between brick gateposts and continued up a long gravel drive with spacious lawns on either side. A large house came into view, gracious but relatively modern redbrick. It had bay windows, and a conservatory had been built on one side.

  “Where is everybody?” Bronwen commented as they stopped and opened the car doors.

  As if in answer there was the sound of a fast-approaching vehicle. A sleek, racing green Jaguar came to a screeching halt, and a woman jumped out. She was also sleek—slim, wearing tailored slacks, an open-necked sage green shirt, and with neat, short-cropped graying blond hair.

  “How terrible, darlings, you almost beat me to it,” she called, running across to them. “We didn’t think you’d get here until almost six. The traffic around Newport is beastly these days. So I thought I had time to pop into the village. Mrs. Todd forgot to pick up endive for the starter.” She pronounced it ahndeeve, the French way. “And I don’t know where Alan can have got to. I told him to be on the lookout for you, but you know he never listens to a thing I say. I bet he’s playing with those horrible animals again. Did I tell you he’s started a farm of all things? At his age, and with such poor timing too. We heard about the foot-and-mouth outbreak the day he brought home the last of his rams.” She had reached them by this point and gave Bronwen a kiss on both cheeks. “But no matter, you’re here now, and it’s so lovely to see you. We’ve been positively dying for you to come. And you must be Evan. How lovely.” She gave him the same treatment—a brushing kiss on both cheeks. “Well, don’t stand there. Do come in. You must be dying for something to drink. It’s so hot today, isn’t it? I thought we’d have a bowl of Pimm’s on the back lawn, unless of course you’d prefer tea; but I always think tea makes one so hot, although Alan, of course, claims that it’s the reverse, and his family always drank tea in India to keep them cool, which is utter nonsense to me.”

  Bronwen gave Evan an I-told-you-so glance as her mother put an arm around both of them and shepherded them toward the house. Evan realized that neither of them had been allowed to say a word so far.

  “We really ought not to leave Prince William in the car on a day like this,” Evan dared to interrupt the monologue.

  “Prince William?” Bronwen’s mother looked amused. “Who have you got in there?” She peered into the backseat and saw the crate. “Oh, have you brought a pet with you?”

  “It’s a lamb, Mummy,” Bronwen said. “I’m looking after it for one of the little girls in my school. He’s awfully sweet and no trouble. I thought perhaps we could find somewhere to put him … .”

  Bronwen’s mother had already opened the rear door. “Of course we can. How absolutely adorable. Let’s put him in the shade for now, and then we can think about it.”

  Evan extracted the crate from the car and left it in a deep pool of shade under a large tree.

  “Let’s have some refreshment before we get any of your luggage out,” Mrs. Price suggested. “It’s too hot to do anything today, isn’t it? It reminds me of the time we were in Saudi. Unnaturally warm for Wales. My dears, I think the world climate is changing, don’t you? I’ll have to throw away my fur coats if this keeps up much longer.”

  They were swept in through a cool entrance hall decorated with an old oak chest, topped with a large vase of fresh flowers, then along a flagstoned hallway and out onto a back patio. A perfectly manicured lawn stretched down to the river. A large copper beech threw shade over part of it, and under the tree a white-clothed table had been set up, with lawn chairs around it.

  “Go and sit down, darlings, and I’ll find Daddy and drinks,” Mrs. Price said.

  Evan sank onto what looked like the sturdiest of the chairs. Bronwen glanced at him and gave him a reassuring grin. “Don’t mind Mummy.”

  It was pleasant in the shade. Pigeons cooed from the branches above them. The air smelled of roses and freshly cut grass. Evan felt the tension of the past days slipping away. Then from the house came a great explosion of sound—a man’s voice raised angrily. “Of all the bloody stupid ideas! Where are they? It’s not staying here!”

  Evan sat up hastily as a large man wearing a bush jacket, shorts, and hiking boots came storming out of the house.

  “This bloody lamb, Bronwen,” he bellowed as he caught sight of her. “What on earth possessed you to bring a bloody lamb with you?”

  Bronwen got to her feet. “And hello to you too, Daddy,” she said calmly. “I brought it because it is a pet lamb and it would have been slaughtered.”

  “You must have taken leave of your senses.” Mr. Price’s voice was still at maximum volume. “Didn’t your mother tell you that I’ve started a farm here? You could be bringing the bloody foot-and-mouth with you, for Christ’s sake.”

  Bronwen went over to him and put her hand gently on his arm. “Would you please calm down, Daddy. You’re making Evan nervous.”

  Mr. Price seemed to notice him for the first time and nodded to him. “What? Oh yes. How do you do. Nice to meet you.” He swung back to Bronwen. “It will have to go, you know. It can’t stay here.”

  “If you’d listen for a moment, Daddy. It has been a house pet. It hasn’t even been with the other sheep. And it’s going to stay in the house while we’re here. We can keep it in the laundry room, if you like.”

  “You’d bloody well better. Do you know what I’m attempting to do on my farm, Bronny? I’m rescuing rare breeds of sheep — the old breeds that might become extinct if someone doesn’t keep them going. Two of those breeds are down to seven or eight specimens in the entire country. And your little lamb might just wipe out the whole damned lot.”

  “It won’t, Daddy, I promise,” Bronwen said.

  “And what about your boots, eh?” He scowled at Bronwen and Evan’s feet. “And the car tires? Have you driven through disinfectant or are you carrying bloody infected soil with you?”

  “We’ve driven through Swansea in the rain, which I imagine is pretty much the same thing,” Bronwen said. “Do stop worrying, Daddy.”

  Mr. Price gave a sigh. “It’s bad enough knowing that this rotten disease is working its way toward us and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it,” he said in a quieter voice.

  “Do stop blustering and serve some drinks, Alan.” Bronwen’s mother appeared again, carrying a big glass bowl of amber liquid, on which floated a variety of flowers. Evan’s first thought was that this was the table decoration, until he saw Mr. Price dip a ladle into it and fill a tall glass. “Here you are. Get that inside you.” He handed the first glass to Evan.

  “I’ll be back with the canapés.” Mrs. Price disappeared back into the house.

  Evan pushed a violet aside and sipped his drink. He had thought that the encounter with his mother would be the difficult part of the trip. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Bronwen’s mother said as she shepherded them back into the house and led them upstairs to their rooms, “but I’ve invited some people to dinner.”

  “Oh, Mummy, not one of your dinner parties,” Bronwen complained.

  “Only a few people, darling.” Mrs. Price sounded hurt. �
��The Fearnalls were dying to see you again. You remember them, don’t you? They’ve got that lovely manor house across the valley. And then we owed the Davies a dinner so this seemed a good way to take care of them.”

  “I’m sorry about this,” Bronwen whispered to Evan as her mother disappeared down the stairs, leaving them alone. “My mother is horribly social. We’re just lucky it isn’t a full-scale party.”

  “I expect I’ll survive,” Evan said, stroking back a wisp of her ash blond hair. “Just as long as she doesn’t start planning a big wedding.”

  “Oh, she’s bound to,” Bronwen said. “Our only escape will be to elope.”

  “Have you actually told them we’re getting married?”

  “Not outright. I might have dropped a hint, and my mother is very good at picking up clues.”

  Evan sighed. “So what am I supposed to wear for dinner tonight? I didn’t bring my dinner jacket.”

  “Nothing like that, silly. I expect Daddy will wear a blazer. Your blue shirt will be just fine.”

  Evan put on the blue shirt as directed, but still felt uncomfortably underdressed when he saw that the other men were all wearing jackets in spite of the warm evening.

  “Here they are.” Bronwen’s mother ran to drag Evan and Bronwen toward the company. “You know our daughter Bronwen, don’t you, and this is her young man Evan.”

  Hands were shaken. Pleasantries were murmured. Sherry and whiskies were poured. Mrs. Price produced more canapés—bacon wrapped around kidneys, cheese straws, potted shrimp spread on toast.

  “So we understand that you’re a policeman up in the wilds of North Wales, young man,” the distinguished-looking man with iron gray hair, who had been introduced to him as Tom Fearnall, turned to Evan. “Don’t imagine there’s much crime up there among all those sheep.”

  “You’d be surprised, actually,” Evan began.

  “Evan has been instrumental in solving several murders,” Bronwen finished for him.