Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us (9 page)

Ted Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “He had to go some time, didn’t he—and falling off a bridge and hitting his head on a rock was as good as any. At least it was quick. The poor old bloke didn’t have to lie there suffering in a hospital like a lot of them do.”

“That’s true,” Evan said, “But he still loved life, you know.”

Ted shifted uneasily. “Yeah, well, I’ll buy you a beer another time then. I always make sure I start off by bribing the local police.” He grinned, nodded, and went back inside.

Evan watched him go back into the farmhouse. A pleasant enough chap, he thought, but clearly not on the same wavelength as the villagers. He found himself echoing the question Ted had asked about Annie—I wonder what made him come back here?

*   *   *

There was no sign of Annie by the time he had finished talking to Ted Morgan. She must have decided to take Jenny home. Evan wondered if he had a chance of catching up with Bronwen on her hike. He was unlikely to catch her before she reached Llyn Ogwen but she’d probably stop there for lunch. So he hurried in that direction and reached Llyn Ogwen, only to find no sign of Bronwen there. He had no way of knowing which route she’d take back to the village, and suddenly he felt angry with himself for following her in the first place. It was like admitting he was wrong and feeling guilty, wasn’t it? He hastily retraced his steps back to the village by the route he had come.

That evening he intercepted her as she came down from the mountains, making sure he was out in the village street as she came past.

“Had a good hike?” he asked casually.

Her face was glowing with sun and excitement. “Wonderful,” she said. “Pity you couldn’t have been there. I saw two mountain goats and a fox. But then I expect you saw quite a bit of wildlife of your own.”

She went to walk past him. Even grabbed her arm. “Bronwen, you’ve nothing to be jealous about, you know.”

Her face really flushed then. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve nothing to be jealous about, have I? I’m only a friend, like any other person in this village. In fact you’re probably only being nice to me because it’s your job.”

“You know that’s not true, Bron.”

“So tell me why I should think I’m in any way special to you?” she demanded. “We’ve never even been on a date together.”

“We’ve been out walking enough.”

“You go out hiking with anyone who has the time to go with you. You’ve been up to the mountains with old Charlie Hopkins.”

Evan took a deep breath. “So where would you want to go?”

“Somewhere fancy. Somewhere special.” Bronwen brushed stray wisps of corn-colored hair from her face.

“I didn’t think you were the kind of person who liked fancy places.”

“I’d like to be asked,” she said, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face.

“There’s a new Italian restaurant opened in Conwy,” Evan said cautiously. “I hear it’s pretty good. Would you like to go there to dinner some time?”

“That would be very nice,” she answered. “Just as long as you’re not thinking of inviting Annie to make up a threesome.”

“I was thinking of asking Betsy as well. I hate uneven numbers.”

Bronwen had to smile.

“Next Saturday maybe?” Even suggested.

“Alright.”

Evan watched her walk away. He loved the easy grace with which she moved, the way her long braid swung behind her with a life of its own. It was only when he was back inside the house that the full impact of their conversation hit him. Now you’ve done it, he told himself. Dinner at an Italian restaurant definitely qualified as a date. And no matter how careful they might be, the village would hear about it and he’d be as good as engaged in their eyes. Still, it had to happen sometime, didn’t it? He couldn’t keep away from women forever.

Chapter 8

“Mr. Evans—look you here! You’ll never believe it!” Mrs. Williams’ shrill voice echoed up the narrow stairs as Evan was shaving on Monday morning. Hastily he dried his face and hurried downstairs, not knowing what he was going to find. With Mrs. Williams the summons could mean anything from a new rose on her bush to Martians landing in the street outside.

“What’s happening then?” Even burst into the kitchen.

“Look you here!” Mrs. Williams repeated, waving the newspaper at him. “It’s all here in black and white. We’re famous.”

Evan took the paper from her. On the front page, right under the banner “
The Daily Post.
Newspaper for North Wales,” was a headline that said, “MAJOR ARCHAEOLOGICAL DISCOVERY WILL PUT LLANFAIR ON THE MAP.”

“Put us on the map, that’s what it says.” Mrs. Williams put her hands to her ample bosom in excitement. “’Deed to goodness. Who would have thought it?”

Evan scanned the column quickly. “It says the find still has to be verified by archaeologists from the university,” he said.

“Yes, but look you what else it says,” Mrs. Williams went on. “It says that if it turns out to be true, then Llanfair will have the better claim to the name of Beddgelert than the town that has called itself that since the Middle Ages. That will show those snooty folk down in the valley, won’t it now?”

“I think we’ll have to wait and see,” Evan said with a smile. “Personally I think that everyone’s hoping for too much from this. There are saints’ tombs and chapels all over Wales. And nobody’s even heard of Saint Celert.”

“It gives us something to be proud of though, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Williams went on. “Until now Llanfair was just a few farms and a village where the slate workers lived. Since the mine closed, it’s had nothing. Of course, if they open the mine again, the way they’re talking of doing, then who knows? Any way you look at it, it’s a great day for Llanfair, and the meeting tonight should be very exciting.”

“Not too exciting, we hope,” Even said as he sat down to his breakfast.

“Let’s just hope they don’t bring the poor old colonel’s body back here today,” Mrs. Williams went on. “We could never have the meeting with him lying in state in the chapel next door, could we?”

“I shouldn’t think it’s likely he’ll be buried here,” Evan said. “His home was in London, after all. He’s probably made funeral arrangements for himself down there.”

“More’s the pity,” Mrs. Williams said. “He loved these mountains.”

“He certainly did,” Evan agreed. He thought of the colonel, currently lying in a drawer in the police morgue. He didn’t know whether to hope that the pathologist would find suspicious circumstances or not. The old boy deserved a dignified funeral and the chance to rest in peace. But if he had been murdered, Evan definitely wanted to make sure that someone didn’t get away with it.

Mrs. Williams was obviously still in her mourning mode because breakfast was only toast that had been sitting for some time, getting cold in the toast rack. Evan ate a couple of slices and then made his way down the street to the police station. He had only gone a few yards when the milk float pulled up beside him and Evans-the-Milk leaned out.

“Have you seen what that bloody fool’s gone and done now then, eh, Evan bach?” he yelled.

“Who’s gone and done what?” Evan asked warily. Not another body in the river, he prayed.

“That hothead next door,” Evans-the-Milk said, nodding his head in the direction of the butcher’s shop. “Have you seen the paper yet? It was him. He was down in Caernarfon yesterday and he hears that a reporter from the
Daily Post
is in the bar. So he goes over to him and tells him that he’s got a scoop for him. He must have spun that journalist a good yarn too, because it made the front page.” He climbed down with three milk bottles in his hand and put them on a doorstep. “I just hope we don’t look stupid when the archaeologists go and take a look at the site,” he said, straightening up again. “And all that stuff about changing our name and going for the new record of the longest name in the world—we haven’t even decided anything yet, have we?”

“The meeting’s tonight,” Evan agreed.

“He’s got a screw loose, that man,” Evans-the-Milk went on. “I knew he was a raging nationalist, but I didn’t realize it went as far as doing anything to make Llanfair famous. I mean, what does it matter if we’ve got a saint’s tomb or not?”

“Just don’t say that to Evans-the-Meat or he’ll be after you with the meat chopper.” Evan chuckled.

“What I can’t see is this,” Evans-the-Milk said, climbing back into the milk float. “He wants Llanfair to be famous and to hold world records, but he doesn’t want any tourists to come here to see it. Doesn’t that sound to you like a screw loose?”

“He won’t be able to stop the tourists after this,” Evan said. “Even the column in the paper will bring them, won’t it?”

“Of course it will,” Evans-the-Milk called back from his driver’s seat. “So I’d better get cracking with my homemade ice cream, hadn’t I? What do you think about blackberry for a flavor? My wife makes lovely blackberry jam. I thought I could use that.”

The milk float took off with the low hum of its electric motor, leaving Evan shaking his head.

He put his key in the door of his little office that grandly called itself Llanfair District Community Police Substation, and went inside. There was no message from Sargeant Watkins and Evan hesitated to call. The pathologist might have shown up late to work after an exhausting fishing trip. He put the kettle on for his morning cup of tea and settled down to his paperwork.

It was just after ten when the phone rang.

“Okay, Evan boy, so you were right again.” Sergeant Watkin’s voice echoed down the line.

“The autopsy’s been done?” Evan asked.

“Yeah, and he didn’t die by drowning. The old boy was dead by the time he hit the water. No water in the lungs. The D.I. wants me to come right over and report back to him if I think we’re dealing with a murder.”

“Does he think the colonel might have clubbed himself to death?”

“No, but it’s just possible that he fell onto a rock, hit his head, and then slid into the water later.”

“Hit his head and then slid into the water later? Have you seen how the water flows over those rocks? He’d have been swept away before he was dead and there would be water in his lungs.”

“You’re probably right, but D.I. Hughes doesn’t particularly want another murder on his hands right now. He’d like to get some fishing in this summer.”

“You’d better spread the word to the criminal population,” Evan said dryly. “No more activity until the D.I. has caught a big one.”

Watkins chuckled. “I’ll be right over,” he said. “I’m bringing a couple of chaps from forensic with me, but play it down in the village, will you? Let them go on thinking it’s an accident. We don’t want to scare anyone unnecessarily.”

“And we don’t want to alert the murderer that we’re onto him,” Evan added.

“If it turns out to be murder,” Watkins said.

*   *   *

Half an hour later the white police van pulled up beside the bridge. Sergeant Watkins got out, followed by two serious-looking young men in raincoats. The clouds had come back that morning and it was threatening to rain any minute.

“I’m glad you got here,” Evan said, shaking Watkins’ hand. “I was worried the rain would wash away any evidence there might be.”

Together they ducked under the tape and walked along the riverbank.

“Exactly where was he lying when you found him?” Watkins asked.

Evan pointed to a spot about ten yards below the bridge. The river here no longer fell steeply over rocks, but flowed steadily, two or three feet deep, over pebbles and water weed. Watkins nodded. “If he’d fallen off the bridge, he’d have probably wound up here, given the force of water above,” he said.

Evan was examining the bank where they were now standing. “Look at this, sarge,” he said. “Someone has been here.”

The riverbank at this point was a riot of grass, wild flowers, and shrubs. Evan indicated a bare patch among the grass. “Someone has pulled up some plants here, and it looks like they’ve dug up the soil too,” he said.

“Why would they do that?”

“I’d guess there might have been some blood on the ground, or maybe the plants were flattened where the body fell.”

Watkins stared at the ground for a while. “It could also be dogs burying bones or wild pigs digging for roots, or even kiddies playing with mud pies,” he said.

“But it wasn’t like this on Saturday,” Evan insisted. “I would have noticed it.”

“I’ll ask the boys to take samples.”

“Have them take samples here too,” Evan said, pointing between tall rye grasses. “There’s blood here.”

“Where?” Watkins squatted and parted the grass with his pen, disturbing several big flies that rose, buzzing indignantly.

“You can’t see it any more, because it’s been cleared away, but the flies know,” Evan said. “They can detect the smallest trace of blood. See how they were all congregated here and not anywhere else? I bet they could smell blood.”

“Okay, Sherlock Holmes, so what was used as the murder weapon?” Watkins demanded.

“That’s pretty obvious,” Evan said. “There are plenty of them still lying here.” The river’s edge was full of smooth, fist-sized rocks. “It would be the easiest thing in the world to choose a rock, lie in wait, then bam. He falls and you throw the rock back in the river where all the blood gets washed away.”

Watkins nodded agreement. “So the big question is why anyone would want to lie in wait and hit him over the head.”

“I’ve asked a few tactful questions around the village,” Evan said, “and frankly I’m stumped.”

“I’m glad to hear that for once,” Watkins said. “I thought you were about to tell me that you’d solved the case single handed. He was a millionaire and his disgruntled nephew had been waiting for this chance.”

“It’s possible,” Evan said. “We don’t know much about his life in London, but we do know he didn’t have much cash. His clothes were very well worn.”

“So? Lots of millionaires are eccentric misers.”

Evan shook his head. “I don’t think that applies to the colonel. He was a generous man by nature, always buying drinks for people. I think he was genuinely living on a small pension.”

“So what’s your theory?”

Evan stared past the police sergeant, his eyes following the path back to the pub. “Unless it was a madman waiting to clobber the first person who went by, then it had to be someone who knew the colonel’s habits,” he said. “The person who did this knew that the colonel took this shortcut from the pub every night.”