Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery Page 8

  Was she bluffing, Evan wondered, not telling him because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings?

  “So you didn’t go out at all?”

  “Evan.” She tossed back her braid over her shoulder. “When do I ever go out on a school night? There’s always too much work.”

  “Of course not. Well, I’d best be getting back to the station. I’m waiting for a message about the film people. They haven’t shown up all day.”

  He went on his way, leaving her standing at the school gate. Had she just lied to him? She hadn’t seemed agitated, but some women were good at telling you lies while they looked right into your eyes. He had known one once. Not Bronwen, he told himself. He could definitely trust Bronwen. If she had been to dinner with Edward last night, she would have told him.

  It was after five and he was about to close up the station and go home when the phone rang.

  “Constable Evans—you asked us to call you when the film people came back. They’re just pulling up outside the Inn now.”

  Evan hurried into his jacket and up the street. Maybe it was nothing to do with him and he should be minding his own business, but they had kept him waiting up at the lake. They did owe him an explanation at least.

  As he came into the Inn, the filmmakers were just picking up their keys at the front desk.

  “Yes, terrible accident,” Evan heard Howard Bauer say.

  “What happened?” Evan hurried over to them. “Is something wrong?”

  “Grantley fell out of the train,” Edward said with a big smile on his face.

  Chapter 9

  Evan stared at Edward Ferrers in disbelief. “He fell out of the train? Is he—all right?”

  “You know Grantley,” Edward said. “Charmed life. He fell onto thick bracken, he rolled, and his fall was stopped by a friendly oak tree. Two more inches to the right and he’d have tumbled all the way down into the gorge a thousand feet below. They’re keeping him in hospital in Dolgellau overnight for observation, but all he seems to have are scrapes and bruises. The camera is a goner, though.”

  Edward didn’t seem at all horrified over the incident, in contrast to Howard, who looked ashen.

  “I think we all need a drink,” he muttered. “You too, Constable. Drinks on me.” He led them through to the bar.

  “Geez, that’s better,” he muttered as he drained the glass of Scotch in one gulp. “I needed that. Look, my hands are still shaking.”

  “What exactly happened?” Evan asked. “How can someone fall out of a train?”

  “You know Grantley,” Edward said again. He still sounded animated and almost amused. “He insisted on leaning out of the carriage to film the whole way up. They are antiques, those carriages. The door handle can’t have worked too well. It came flying open and Grantley made a spectacular exit.”

  “He came flying right out,” Howard said. “I was in the next carriage. I saw the whole thing.”

  “He had a very lucky escape,” Evan said. “There are places on that route where a fall would mean certain death.”

  “Exactly,” Edward said. “But we all know that Grantley has sold his soul to the devil and will live for ever and ever.”

  “You shouldn’t joke about things like that, Edward,” Howard said. “Very bad taste.”

  “Oh, come on, Howard. Just a way to steady the nerves, that’s all. It’s my way when I’ve had a shock. I have to joke about it. Sorry.”

  He picked up his own glass and drained it.

  “Will this put filming on hold?” Evan asked.

  “No, we have to press on tomorrow,” Edward said. “If they let Grantley out of hospital, he said he’d get a taxi back. We can’t keep the diving crew on too much longer—they’re costing a fortune. That plane has to come up in the next day or so.”

  “Why’s it taking so long?” Evan asked.

  “They’re having problems attaching the damned inflatable collar. A plane isn’t exactly an easy shape to work with. We might have to resort to attaching grapples and wynching it up instead—but then we’ll need a floating crane and there’s more chance of the plane breaking apart.”

  “Relax, Edward, its going to be fine,” Howard said. “Things usually have a way of sorting themselves out.”

  “Thanks, Howard, you’re a pillar of strength,” Edward said.

  “No, I’m a fatalist.” Howard held out his glass for a refill.

  It was around ten o’clock the next morning when Grantley stepped out of a taxi in front of the Everest Inn, moving a little stiffly, a large sticking plaster across his temple, but otherwise fine and bursting with energy. “I lay in that awful, hard bed in that dreary hospital and you know what I was thinking all night?”

  He looked around his audience. “I kept thinking, damn—why didn’t we bring a second camera? If Howard had been filming me, just think what a sequence that would have made!” He started to laugh. “Oh well, back to work. Edward, you and Howard go up to your plane. I’ve got phone calls to make, a slate mine to tour … . busy, busy, busy.”

  “You see, I told you,” Edward muttered to Evan. “Unstoppable. Nothing phases him. You have to admire him for it, I suppose.”

  Grantley took off again. Work continued without incident at the site and it seemed to Evan that they were getting close now. The collar was almost in place. With any luck the plane would float to the surface very soon, the filming would finish, and he could go back to his normal life. And the sooner Edward disappeared from Bronwen’s life, the better.

  He hoped that they might take the weekend off, so that he and Bronwen could get away together. But the weather forecast was for a fine, dry Saturday, so Edward decided they ought to press on, and not push their luck.

  “It’s a shame they’re making you work on your Saturday morning, Mr. Evans,” Mrs. Williams said. “Still, I’ve made you your weekend breakfast. Get that inside of you and you won’t do too badly.”

  She put down a plate laden with an egg, two rashers of bacon, a sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, and fried bread in front of Evan. Evan felt his belt tightening just through looking at it, but he didn’t turn it down either. He was walking up and down the track to the lake every day, he rationalized. Although he suspected he’d have to trot up and down Snowdon a few times before he burned off these calories.

  He was feeling full, fortified, and ready to face the emotional electricity of working with Grantley Smith, when the phone rang. He picked it up, hoping against hope that they were canceling work today. But it wasn’t one of the film crew.

  “Constable Evans? This is Robert James—you know, son of the Jameses-Fron-Heulog? Where can I find that Mr. Smith who brought Pauline to see my parents?”

  “I should think he’s at the Inn, but I don’t think … .” Evan began but Robert James interrupted. “No, he’s not. I already called there. They said he’d left early this morning.”

  “Then I expect he already went up to the lake where they’re filming.” Evan reached for his jacket. “But I don’t want you going up there. Why don’t you let me pass on a message if you have one. We don’t want any more trouble, do we?”

  “You give him a message from me then, Mr. Evans,” Robert James spat the words. “You tell that self-satisfied little prat that they rushed my father into hospital last night with a heart attack. They don’t know whether he’s going to make it—all thanks to your Mr. Smith and his little games.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. James,” Evan said. “I do hope he makes a speedy recovery.”

  “They don’t know if my father’s going to make it.” Robert James’s voice cracked. “He’d had heart trouble last year, but he was doing fine until that Smith fellow showed up and upset him like that. That bastard has no right to muck about with other people’s lives. You tell him he’s going to get what’s coming to him, Mr. Evans. I’ll stop him from finishing this stupid film, you see if I don’t.”

  The line went dead. Evan shook his head, then put on his jacket and hurrie
d out of the door.

  There was no sign of the Land Rover in the car park at the Inn, so he headed straight for the lake. As he looked up the trail, he saw a solitary person ahead of him. He realized with surprise that it was an old woman, wearing a long black dress, a black head scarf and shawl; what’s more she was hobbling up the path, doing her knitting as she went. Evan had no idea who she might be or where she might be going. He hurried to catch up with her.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked. Then his jaw gaped in disbelief. The face might have been given some wrinkles with makeup and she might be wearing a gray wig, but none of the above disguised who she really was. “Betsy, what do you think you’re doing?”

  She looked at him defiantly. “You said yourself that they were only interested in interviewing old people for the film. All right. I’m an old person—Granny Jones who knitted scarves for the soldiers during the war.”

  Evan laughed. “Betsy cariad, you couldn’t fool anyone.”

  “I might. I’m a good actress, you know. Anyway, you can’t stop me. It’s a public path up the mountain.”

  “I’ve been told by my chief to keep people away from the site. So I can arrest you for disturbing the peace if you’re not careful.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” She glared up at him, her face looking so comical with its fake wrinkles that he had to laugh again. He grabbed her arm and firmly turned her around. “Go on, Betsy cariad, go home and wash that lot off your face before anyone sees you.”

  She shook herself free. “Don’t you cariad me, Evan Evans. I’m not your darling. If you really cared about me, you’d want me to be a famous star. You’re thwarting my Hollywood career, Evan Evans, that’s what you’re doing.”

  She turned and stomped angrily down the track again. Evan smiled as he watched her go.

  When he reached the lake, he saw several men sitting on rocks smoking, but no sign of Edward, Grantley, or Howard.

  “What happened? Where are they?” he asked the cameraman.

  “You tell me, mate.” The man took an impatient puff on his cigarette. “Last thing yesterday they told us to be here, nine o’clock sharp. We’re here. They aren’t. Still, it’s their money … .”

  Evan stared at the path back to the village. He supposed he ought to go back down again, to see what was keeping the filmmakers. But the big breakfast was still sitting heavy on his stomach and he didn’t relish repeating that climb in a hurry. Then he decided that it was none of his business. He’d been assigned to provide protection. Well, he was here and he was protecting. If they’d wanted him somewhere else, they could have called him. He sat on a rock next to the cameraman.

  “We’ll just have to wait until they show up, then.”

  “Cigarette, mate?” The cameraman offered his packet.

  “Thanks, but I don’t.”

  “Smart of you. Wish I could quit, but it’s so bloody stressful, working with these artistic types.” He grinned at Evan. “You’re lucky with your job. I don’t suppose anything ever happens up here, does it?”

  “Not very often,” Evan admitted. “We get our small doses of excitement.”

  “I bet this lot was an excitement you could do without!”

  Evan thought of the unpleasant scenes he’d been forced to witness. “You can say that again,” he agreed.

  It was around noon when Edward came hurrying up the path, his face red and sweating from the exertion.

  “Isn’t Grantley back yet?” he asked.

  “Nobody’s shown up all morning,” Evan said. “We wondered where you’d all got to.”

  “Howard wasn’t feeling well and said he’d stay in his room,” Edward said. “And Grantley insisted on dragging me up to that Blenny whatsit place again at crack of dawn.”

  “Blenau Ffestiniog?”

  “That’s it. He’s got a new bee in his bonnet.”

  “Oh, what now?” Evan asked.

  Edward took out a large handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “I don’t exactly know. He was being bloody-minded. When he’s in that kind of mood, it’s better to leave him alone. Besides, I didn’t want to waste a whole day tramping around slate mines. If he had his way, he’d turn this picture into a melodramatic farce.”

  Evan noticed that Edward was still sweating.

  “So, are we going to wait for Mr. Smith to show up?” the cameraman asked. “We’re all getting pretty cheesed off waiting around doing nothing. It’s bloody cold up here, you know.”

  “No, we’ll start work again this very minute,” Edward said. “We have to make the most of fine weather. The cloud could come down again tomorrow and stay down for weeks.” He turned to the cameraman. “Just use your judgment about how much film you shoot. If the director and the producer can’t be bothered to show up, they’ll have to take what they get. I’m going to get this damned plane raised if it’s the last thing I do.”

  He stomped over to the divers and instantly the generator and winch sprang to life. Edward worked like a man possessed, rushing from one activity to the next. The longer the day dragged on, the angrier he got.

  “Damn Grantley. He’s never where he should be—always rushing off on some tangent of his own, trying to do something nobody else has thought of doing, and neglecting what he should be doing. Fine. Who needs him?”

  The sky clouded over and by late afternoon the light was too poor to continue.

  “And now we have to walk back because he’s got the bloody Land Rover,” Edward growled. “My bloody Land Rover. The museum lent it to me, specifically. He acts as if it’s his and I’m his bloody chauffeur.”

  Evan said nothing as they walked down the path together. There was nothing really to say. He was only thankful that Betsy hadn’t chosen this moment to spring another of her disguises on them.

  As the Inn came into view, Edward paused and scanned the car park. “Look, he’s not even back yet. The Land Rover’s not there. Don’t tell me he decided to go down to London … .”

  “London—why would he want to go there?” Evan asked.

  “Oh, another of his whims. He phoned the National Gallery about those paintings. He seems to think they’ll make a good story … .” Edward quickened his pace, leaving Evan behind.

  Chapter 10

  Evan had just turned off the TV set after the nightly news and was going up the stairs to bed when the phone rang. He rushed to answer it so that it didn’t wake Mrs. Williams, who was always in bed no later than ten.

  It was Edward Ferrers. “Constable Evans, sorry to disturb you, but frankly I’m worried. We’ve had no word from Grantley yet.”

  “You said you thought he might have gone to London?”

  “Yes, but he would have left a message by now. And I don’t think that even he would be callous enough to run off with our only means of transportation.”

  “Do you happen to know the Land Rover license number, Mr. Ferrers?” Evan grabbed the message pad beside the phone. “I’ll call HQ and ask the patrols to keep an eye out for it. And I’ll give the police at Blenau a call as well—just in case he’s still up there.”

  “What if he’s met with an accident on the way to London?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Evan said.

  “What about filing a missing person report?” Edward demanded.

  “A little too early for that. I’m sure you’ll have heard from him by morning.”

  “I hope so,” Edward said. “God, I hope so.”

  Evan called headquarters to report the missing Land Rover’s number, then went back upstairs. Just what was Grantley Smith up to now? Evan wondered as he climbed into bed, pulling the wool-stuffed Welsh quilt over him. Grantley’s life seemed to be one ongoing drama. Was this latest disappearing act another example of his taste for the dramatic? If he’d gone to London, Evan only hoped he’d stay there!

  The phone rang again at seven o‘clock on Sunday morning. Evan groped for his dressing gown and peered at his watch. Seven o’clock. Bloody hell. Why did emergencies alway
s seem to happen at weekends? He stumbled down the stairs, meeting Mrs. Williams just emerging from her room in her old chenille dressing gown and slippers.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Williams. I’ll get it,” he said.

  “Now who can that be, disturbing your sleep on a Sunday morning? It ought not to be allowed,” she called down the stairs after him.

  It was Edward Ferrers again. “No news yet? I haven’t slept a wink all night. Where can he be, Constable Evans? He can’t just have vanished.” Edward sounded close to panic.

  “Just keep calm.” Evan resorted to his best professional manner. “If an accident had happened, we’d have heard, wouldn’t we? I’ll call headquarters for you and see if the latest patrols have turned up something.”

  “And then I want to file my missing person report. It’s been almost twenty-four hours now.”

  “I’ll come up to the Inn as soon as I get dressed,” Evan said, “but don’t worry too much. He strikes me as the sort of person who goes in for drama—isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, but … .”

  “So he’ll probably come breezing in as if nothing’s wrong today and act surprised that you were all so worried about him.”

  “That’s just the sort of thing he would do. I pray to God you’re right,” Edward said.

  Evan put down the phone. The distant ringing of church bells floated up on the breeze. Sunday morning. Supposed to be a day of rest, not a day of stress. Now it didn’t even look as though he’d be getting his Sunday off. Damn that Grantley Smith, he thought. He dressed hurriedly, then put in a call to headquarters.

  W.P.C. Jones was manning the switchboard. “Oh, Constable Evans, we were just about to call you. We’ve found your Land Rover for you.”

  “You have—where?”

  “At Porthmadog. Down by the harbor.”

  “Porthmadog. What could it have been doing there?” Evan demanded. “Nobody in it, I suppose?”

  “Not that I know of. Constable Roberts from Porthmadog just called it in.”

  “Who’s on duty this morning from the plainclothes division?”