Read Online Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs by Rhys Bowen - Free Book Online
Authors: Rhys Bowen
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voice. I’d hate to hear what he sounds like when he’s not resting it.”
Evan grinned. “Some people pay hundreds of pounds and queue all night to hear him sing, Gladys. They’d think you were lucky to hear him for free.”
“They can have my job anytime,” Gladys said. “I’m thinking of writing to Mrs. Powell-Jones and handing in my notice. The minister and Mrs. Powell-Jones are no trouble at all—at least she can be picky and she always manages to find a spot I haven’t dusted, but they let me get on with my work in peace. These people have no idea of time. They’re just getting up at eleven o’clock in the morning and they want to use the bathroom when I’m trying to clean it and they want lunch at three o’clock in the afternoon. I tell you, Mr. Evans, I’m at sixes and sevens with them.”
“It won’t be for long, Gladys,” Evan said. “And I expect they’re paying you well.”
Gladys smiled secretively. “If it weren’t for the money, I’d have quit on the first day,” she said. “The language, Mr. Evans. They use words I’ve never even heard before—not even on the telly and that’s getting bad enough these days. And fight! They’re always shouting and arguing—I’m just glad I don’t always understand the bad names they’re calling each other.”
Evan was well aware of the fighting. So was every other resident of Llanfair. When the Llewellyns fought, which seemed to be most nights, the whole village heard it. Llanfair wasn’t used to any noise after nine o’clock and the first time the Llewellyns fought, neighbors had called Evan right away.
“It sounds like they’re killing each other up there, Mr. Evans,” Mair Hopkins, Charlie’s wife and the closest neighbor to the Powell-Jones house, had said breathlessly.
Evan hastily got dressed and ran up to the Powell-Jones house. As he approached he saw people in dressing gowns and slippers standing at their doorways. He could hear the noises long before the Powell-Jones house came in view—one of them a female voice just as loud as Ifor’s. Then the sounds of crockery smashing and a slap and a scream.
Evan thundered on the front door. “Open up right away. It’s the police,” he yelled.
After a few minutes the door was opened by Ifor in a Chinese silk dressing gown. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?” he asked. His voice was slurred enough to hint that he’d been working his way through the Jameson again.
“I’ve received calls that domestic violence was taking place here,” Evan said.
“Domestic violence?” Ifor threw back his head and laughed. “You hear that, my dear? Domestic violence is supposed to be taking place here.”
Mrs. Llewellyn appeared behind Ifor. Evan expected her to look battered and bruised, but she looked serene and elegant in a turquoise satin robe, her face covered in cream and her hair in a turban. “We were just having a little disagreement, Officer,” she said. “Nothing serious. We tend to disagree loudly at times. Thank you for your concern.”
“But I heard the sound of blows,” Evan said. “And something smashing.”
Ifor laughed again. “My wife tends to express her anger by throwing things,” he said. “Two of the Powell-Jones plates are regretfully no more, which means we’ll have to buy them another set, I suppose. And when I nimbly dodged out of the way and laughed, she slapped me.”
Mrs. Llewellyn looked slightly abashed. “It was only a slap, Officer. I do it all the time. It’s impossible to hurt someone of Ifor’s size.”
“Felt like a fly landing on me,” Ifor said and put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “I can’t even remember what we were fighting about anymore, can you, my love?”
“I expect I’ll remember it later,” she said coldly. “Thank you for stopping by, Officer.”
“Please try to keep the noise down after nine o’clock,” Evan said. “People around here go to bed early.”
“Don’t they just,” Mrs.
Evan grinned. “Some people pay hundreds of pounds and queue all night to hear him sing, Gladys. They’d think you were lucky to hear him for free.”
“They can have my job anytime,” Gladys said. “I’m thinking of writing to Mrs. Powell-Jones and handing in my notice. The minister and Mrs. Powell-Jones are no trouble at all—at least she can be picky and she always manages to find a spot I haven’t dusted, but they let me get on with my work in peace. These people have no idea of time. They’re just getting up at eleven o’clock in the morning and they want to use the bathroom when I’m trying to clean it and they want lunch at three o’clock in the afternoon. I tell you, Mr. Evans, I’m at sixes and sevens with them.”
“It won’t be for long, Gladys,” Evan said. “And I expect they’re paying you well.”
Gladys smiled secretively. “If it weren’t for the money, I’d have quit on the first day,” she said. “The language, Mr. Evans. They use words I’ve never even heard before—not even on the telly and that’s getting bad enough these days. And fight! They’re always shouting and arguing—I’m just glad I don’t always understand the bad names they’re calling each other.”
Evan was well aware of the fighting. So was every other resident of Llanfair. When the Llewellyns fought, which seemed to be most nights, the whole village heard it. Llanfair wasn’t used to any noise after nine o’clock and the first time the Llewellyns fought, neighbors had called Evan right away.
“It sounds like they’re killing each other up there, Mr. Evans,” Mair Hopkins, Charlie’s wife and the closest neighbor to the Powell-Jones house, had said breathlessly.
Evan hastily got dressed and ran up to the Powell-Jones house. As he approached he saw people in dressing gowns and slippers standing at their doorways. He could hear the noises long before the Powell-Jones house came in view—one of them a female voice just as loud as Ifor’s. Then the sounds of crockery smashing and a slap and a scream.
Evan thundered on the front door. “Open up right away. It’s the police,” he yelled.
After a few minutes the door was opened by Ifor in a Chinese silk dressing gown. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?” he asked. His voice was slurred enough to hint that he’d been working his way through the Jameson again.
“I’ve received calls that domestic violence was taking place here,” Evan said.
“Domestic violence?” Ifor threw back his head and laughed. “You hear that, my dear? Domestic violence is supposed to be taking place here.”
Mrs. Llewellyn appeared behind Ifor. Evan expected her to look battered and bruised, but she looked serene and elegant in a turquoise satin robe, her face covered in cream and her hair in a turban. “We were just having a little disagreement, Officer,” she said. “Nothing serious. We tend to disagree loudly at times. Thank you for your concern.”
“But I heard the sound of blows,” Evan said. “And something smashing.”
Ifor laughed again. “My wife tends to express her anger by throwing things,” he said. “Two of the Powell-Jones plates are regretfully no more, which means we’ll have to buy them another set, I suppose. And when I nimbly dodged out of the way and laughed, she slapped me.”
Mrs. Llewellyn looked slightly abashed. “It was only a slap, Officer. I do it all the time. It’s impossible to hurt someone of Ifor’s size.”
“Felt like a fly landing on me,” Ifor said and put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “I can’t even remember what we were fighting about anymore, can you, my love?”
“I expect I’ll remember it later,” she said coldly. “Thank you for stopping by, Officer.”
“Please try to keep the noise down after nine o’clock,” Evan said. “People around here go to bed early.”
“Don’t they just,” Mrs.
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