Evan and Elle Read online

  Chapter 3

  The bar at the Red Dragon was crowded as Evan pushed open the heavy oak door and ducked under the beam to enter. A fire was burning in the big fireplace on the far wall. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke.

  “Look you—there he is now!” A high voice rose over the murmur in the bar. Betsy the barmaid’s face lit up as she spotted Evan. “Noswaith dda, Evan bach!”

  Heads turned in their direction.

  “We were wondering where you’d got to, Evan bach,” Charlie Hopkins called. “It’s not like you to miss opening time. Betsy was all set to send out a search party . . .”

  “I was not!” Betsy said, her cheeks flushing. Evan was startled to see that Betsy’s hair was a dark, rich auburn color this evening. Ever since she had almost been seduced by a famous opera singer who liked his women dark she had been experimenting with hair color. She was also wearing a leopard print velour tank top with a low scooped neckline. The result was disconcerting, to say the least.

  “I know very well that Evan Evans can take care of himself,” Betsy went on, giving him a challenging smile. “I mean, he’s built for it, isn’t he?”

  “Unless he managed to find himself trapped by you someday,” Charlie Hopkins said, and his skinny body shook with soundless mirth, revealing missing front teeth. “I’d like to see him fight his way out of that!”

  Betsy smoothed down her tank top, pulling the low neckline to an almost X-rated level. “When I manage to get Evan Evans alone, he won’t want to fight his way out!” she announced to the assembled crowd. “And it won’t be bird-watching that will keep us busy, either . . . unless I decide to go ahead with those tattoos I’ve been thinking about.”

  The low ceiling echoed back the laughter. Evan gave a good-natured grin and decided there was nothing he could say that Betsy wouldn’t take as encouragement.

  “So what will it be tonight, Evan bach? Your usual Guinness?”

  “I think I’ll join Mr. Owens-the-Sheep and have a Robinson’s tonight,” Evan said. “I’ve worked up a powerful thirst.”

  Betsy’s hands deftly drew two pints of Robinson’s bitter with just the right amount of froth on top. “Here, get those down you, and then you can tell us where you’ve been.”

  “I told you he went out climbing today,” Roberts-the-Pump said. “I saw him heading for Glyder Fawr.”

  There was nothing that escaped the Llanfair bush telegraph.

  “I heard that Bronwen Price had a teachers’ meeting at the university in Bangor,” Evans-the-Milk said with a knowing wink.

  “Bronwen-bloody-Price!” Betsy muttered and set down a pint glass none too gently. Evan loosened his collar. It really was warm in here tonight.

  “Young Betsy was dying for you to come back, Evan,” Charlie Hopkins said, “so that you could invite her to the new French restaurant.”

  Betsy gave Evan a challenging smile. “I wouldn’t say no to an evening with Evan Evans, but I don’t fancy a French restaurant, thank you. They eat snails and frog’s legs, don’t they—and little birds with the heads still on them . . .”

  There was a mixed expression of disgust and laughter from the crowd.

  “They do,” she insisted. “I saw a travel program once on the telly.”

  “Just a minute—what French restaurant are we talking about?” Evan interrupted.

  “The new one that’s opening in the old chapel above Nant Peris,” Charlie Hopkins said. “Reverend Parry Davies spotted it this afternoon, didn’t you, Reverend?”

  “Indeed I did, Mr. Hopkins. It made my blood boil to see a house of the Lord turned into a den of iniquity.” The voice came from a table in a darkened corner. Unlike his counterpart at Chapel Beulah, Reverend Parry Davies was not above an occasional pint at the pub—so that my congregation knows I am human, was how he explained it. In fact he often took the back exit from the chapel and the back path to the Red Dragon with other male members of his congregation on Sunday nights.

  “It’s a restaurant, Reverend,” Evans-the-Milk pointed out, “Not a brothel.”

  “How do you know, boyo?” Barry-the-Bucket, the young bulldozer driver, chuckled. “It might be a front. I think I’d better go and check it out for myself, anyway. Chez Yvette, I like the sound of that—I bet she’s hot stuff. I bet she wears black lace corsets—Frenchwomen wear that sort of thing, you know.”

  “And how would you know that, Barry-the-Bucket?” Betsy’s voice was scathing.

  “I’ve been around.”

  “You’ve never been farther south than Birmingham,” Betsy said triumphantly.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing you in a black corset, Betsy.” Barry grinned at her.

  “And I wouldn’t mind winning the lottery. The chances of either happening are about equal, I’d say.”

  Evan laughed with the other men. He had always admired Betsy’s quick wit.

  “Well, I’m not going near any French restaurant,” Evans-the-Meat said loudly. “There are too many foreigners here already. Planting stupid fir trees and wrecking the hillsides, buying up all our cottages . . . If I had my way—”

  “You’d build a bloody great wall around Llanfair and make people show a Welsh passport before they were allowed in,” Evans-the-Milk chuckled, getting a general laugh.

  “I would indeed,” Evans-the-Meat agreed. “Same again, Betsy love, if you don’t mind.”

  Betsy refilled the pint glass. “Tell Evan Evans about your van, Reverend,” she said. “He’s bought himself a big van—”

  “To bring in the people from down the valley,” the minister said. “I’ve been worrying about those poor people who’ve had no chapel this past year and no way of getting up here on a Sunday when the buses don’t run. The van was the answer to my prayers.”

  “You’d better ask Farmer Owens here to be your driver,” Barry-the-Bucket said. “He’s good at rounding up sheep. Maybe he’ll lend you his dogs.”

  “Speaking of dogs, how is your bitch now, Mr. Owens?” Roberts-the-Pump asked. “All right, is she?”

  “Luckily,” Mr. Owens said.

  “Why, what happened to her?” Betsy asked, leaning across the bar and stretching her neckline enough to make the patrons stop drinking again.

  “She almost got run over by that Englishman, didn’t she?” Roberts-the-Pump said. “And not even on the road either. Driving up the track to the cottage.”

  “And he had the nerve to shout at me and tell me to keep her under control,” Mr. Owens said. “On my own land, too!”

  “I knew we were in for trouble when Rhodri sold his cottage to foreigners,” Evans-the-Meat said angrily. “I told you, didn’t I? No good can come of it, letting foreigners into the community. It’s not as if they patronize the local shops, do they? Only once I think she’s been in to my shop, and then she had the nerve to ask me if I spoke English and she waved her arms around as if she was speaking to an idiot.”

  “Perhaps she thought you were Evans-the-Post’s brother,” the milkman chuckled. “Perhaps she thought daftness was in the family.”

  Evans-the-Meat put down his glass with a bang. “If anyone’s related to that daftie, it’s you!”

  Evan had been standing at the bar, downing his drink, too tired and relaxed to feel like joining in the conversation. Now he stepped out between the two men, just as Evansthe-Meat raised his fists.

  “Easy, Gareth bach. I’m an Evans, too, remember,” he said lightly.

  Evans-the-Meat lowered his fists. “I just wish I’d known Rhodri’s cottage was for sale. I’d have bought it myself.”

  “And gone to live up on the mountain? Don’t be daft, boyo.”

  “Anything to stop foreigners buying it!”

  “Too late now, anyway,” Farmer Owens said. “They’ve put a lot of money into that place. They’re not going to leave in a hurry.”

  “Unless somebody makes them,” Evans-the-Meat muttered.

  “Well, they’ve gone now for a while,” Farmer Owens added. “And they won’t be
coming back so often when the weather turns nasty. A few good rainstorms and that track will be a rushing stream. Let’s see him get his Jaguar up there then!”

  “I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Betsy said. “They don’t bother us. It’s not like they’ve ever been in here.”

  “There you are, that’s what I’ve been saying,” Evansthe-Meat said triumphantly.

  Everyone looked up as the door was suddenly flung open. A young man came in, his sandy hair windswept and his freckled cheeks glowing from the wind.

  “Well, if it isn’t young Bryn,” Charlie Hopkins exclaimed. He turned to the other men. “You know my daughter’s boy, don’t you? He’s just joined the fire brigade. I told him now we’ll have to call him Bryn-the-Bell.”

  “Where’s the fire then, boyo?” Barry-the-Bucket called, chuckling loudly.

  “Don’t just stand there. Come and have a pint,” Charlie began, lifting his arm to slap his grandson on the back.

  The young man shook him off. “Not now, Taid. I need a telephone. I’ve got to call the station right away. There’s a fire on the mountain!”

  Chapter 4

  Instantly the pub emptied out, the occupants scrambling up the steep mountain track in their polished Sunday boots.

  “It’s Rhodri’s cottage!” Evans-the-Meat shouted. “What’s the betting those bloody English people left the gas on?”

  Flames were already consuming the cottage, shooting out through shattered windows and the partially collapsed roof. Sparks shot into a clear night sky.

  “What a sight. This is better than Guy Fawkes night!” Barry-the-Bucket exclaimed.

  “The fire brigade better get here in a hurry or the whole mountain will go up.” Farmer Owens glanced nervously at his meadows full of sheep.

  “All right everybody, not too close,” Evan yelled over the roar of the flames and the excited shouts of the men. “Keep well away from the track so that the fire engine can get up here. Come on. Move over, please.” He ushered the spectators to one side.

  “Shouldn’t we see if we can start putting it out, Mr. Evans?” Farmer Owens asked. “I’ve got spades at my place . . .”

  Evan hesitated. There was a real danger of the whole hillside going up, but he didn’t want to risk putting inexperienced people in harm’s way.

  “Let me get to it.” Bryn pushed past Evan. “Don’t worry. I’m trained to do this kind of thing, Constable Evans.” He was halfway down the path when he called. “They’ve got a tap here with a hose on it, Constable Evans. Now let’s just hope they haven’t turned the water off.”

  A feeble stream of water came out of the hose. Evan didn’t believe it could possibly do any good against the raging inferno a few yards away, but Bryn stood there, steadfastly wetting down the ground around the cottage until the sound of a siren echoed up the pass, then the fire engine lurched up the track. It was followed by a tanker whose powerful hoses rapidly extinguished the blaze.

  “At least it didn’t spread.” A gray-haired fireman came over to Evan as the men dragged their hoses away from the ruined cottage. “Thanks for keeping the crowd back.” He held out his hand. “Geraint Jones. I’m the head of this mob. You must be Constable Evans.”

  “That’s right.” Evan shook the offered hand. “We were lucky you got here in such a hurry. And we were lucky young Bryn happened to be up here visiting his grandmother. He stopped it from spreading until you got here.”

  Captain Jones nodded. “He’s a good lad. A bit too keen, but then I expect I was too at his age.” He tapped Evan on the arm. “I imagine you’ll want to notify your chaps about this, won’t you? Definitely a suspicious fire.”

  “You think it was deliberately set?”

  The fireman sucked through his teeth. “When we arrived the whole place was already in flames, so I can’t tell you where it started, but I do know from experience—it takes a lot to make one of these old cottages burn like that. Stone walls, stone floors. Fires don’t spread without a little help, you know. I’d put in a report, just to cover your rear end.”

  “Thanks, I will,” Evan said.

  “And I’d keep people out of the place until your arson specialists have taken a look in daylight. You’d be amazed what people like to cart away as souvenirs.”

  “Thanks. I’ll cordon it off tonight, then,” Evan said. “I’d better call HQ and see if they want to send up someone to keep watch for the night.”

  “I’ll be leaving a couple of my men up here for a while anyway,” Captain Jones said. “They might need to wet down hot spots. We don’t want the hillside catching fire if a wind gets up, do we?”

  “I’ll get these people back to their homes.” Evan headed toward the crowd that was still watching, fascinated. “All right everybody. Show’s over. Go home. And I don’t want anybody near this place until we’ve finished up here.”

  He was slightly surprised at the power of his own voice and at the way they meekly began to leave.

  “Come on, boys. The Red Dragon’s still open,” Charlie Hopkins called. “Where’s young Bryn? I want to buy him that pint now.”

  Evan watched the old man make his way down the hillside with his arm around his grandson’s shoulder.

  As the crowd was dispersing a woman’s scream rose above the murmured conversation. “He’s not here! Oh my God—where is he?”

  Evan pushed through the crowd to see a distraught woman looking around her in utter terror. He recognized her as the owner of the cottage next to Bronwen’s school. Her name was Ellie Jenkins and she worked as a maid at the Everest Inn.

  “What’s the matter, Mrs. Jenkins?” He grabbed her arm.

  “My Terry. You haven’t seen him, have you? He’s missing.” She could scarcely get the words out.

  “Young Terry? No, I can’t say I’ve seen him.”

  “He has to be up here.” Her eyes darted around nervously as she spoke. “Where else could he be?”

  Evan put a restraining hand on her arm. “It’s going to be all right, Mrs. Jenkins. Young boys are always getting into mischief, you know that. Now take a deep breath—when did you see him last?”

  The breath came out as a shuddering sigh. “I thought he was in his bed, didn’t I? Then I heard the fire engine go past and I was surprised he didn’t get up to see what was going on. He’s mad about fire engines. That’s when I saw his bed was empty. So I was sure he must have come up here and . . .”

  Evan tried to give her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure we’ll find him, Mrs. Jenkins. Don’t worry. Come on. I’ll help you look.”

  The crowd was now streaming down from the mountain. Evan stopped any young boys he met, asking them about Terry Jenkins but nobody seemed to have noticed him.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him, Mr. Evans,” Mrs. Jenkins sighed as they made their way up to the fire engines beside the smoldering ruin. “He’s that wild since his father walked out on us. I can’t make him see sense anymore. Anything dangerous—that’s what he likes. Fires, explosions, bombs. All those action shows on the telly and people being blown up. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him—”

  “Just a second,” Evan interrupted. He had overheard one of the firemen yelling, “Out of the way, son, or you might get hurt.”

  Evan caught sight of a small figure darting among the tall shapes carrying the hose.

  “Terry?” he shouted.

  The boy looked up.

  “Terry Jenkins, get over here this minute!” His mother’s voice drowned out every other sound.

  Evan went over to the boy who was wearing a red anorak over his pajamas. “Come on, Terry. Your mum’s been looking for you.”

  Terry looked up at Evan and wiped a sooty hand across his face. “I’m in for it now, aren’t I, Constable Evans?” He grinned. “But it was worth it. Did you see the way the water came out of that hose? It was brilliant. And those flames—they must have gone hundreds of feet up into the air! I want to be a fireman some day and put out fires like tha
t.”

  “Terry Jenkins, you’ll be the death of me.” His mother stepped forward and yanked him by the arm. “What do you mean by sneaking out into the night like that? You might have been burned alive!”

  “Aw, Mum.” Terry looked embarrassed. “I had to go and take a look at the fire and I knew you wouldn’t let me. You should have seen it—the roof fell in and the flames went whoosh! It was spectacular!”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Mrs. Jenkins went on. “If only your daddy was here . . .”

  “Yes, well he’s not, is he?” Terry said angrily. “He doesn’t care what I do.”

  Then he broke free and ran ahead of her down the track. Evan watched her go, feeling sympathy for the woman. Terry was just getting to that difficult age and he wasn’t an easy child to begin with. Evan had caught him a few weeks previously trying to extract chocolate bars from the machine at Roberts-the-Pump’s petrol station. He hadn’t seemed to think he was doing anything wrong—and that type made the worst kind of criminal.

  Evan made sure the last of the stragglers came down with him from the mountain. He was on his way to the police station to call in his report when he saw Bronwen running down the village street, her long red cape flying out behind her like wings.

  “Evan, are you all right?” she called. “I’ve just heard there was a fire.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, smiling at her as she came up to him. “Old Rhodri’s cottage went up in flames. Nobody was hurt. The fire brigade’s just finishing up right now.”

  “I don’t know about you,” she said, standing so close that she was looking up into his face. “I can’t leave you for one day without some great drama happening behind my back.”

  “Then you’d better not go away again, had you?” Evan teased. He reached out and stroked her cheek, even though he was aware that this action would undoubtedly be all around the village by morning. “You worry too much. And I’ve told you often enough that a policeman’s job isn’t all beer and skittles, haven’t I?”