Read Online Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs by Rhys Bowen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rhys Bowen
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Llewellyn said with a bitter laugh. “Godforsaken place. Why anyone would want to come back here when they’d had the chance to get out, I can’t understand. When I left Colwyn Bay I swore I’d never go back there again.”
“My wife doesn’t have the Celtic soul, Constable Evans,” Ifor said. “Thank you again for coming so promptly. If she had been killing me, you’d have saved my life.”
He escorted Evan firmly to the front door.
* * *
The evening fights didn’t stop but the villagers gradually got used to them. They happened after Ifor had spent the evening at the Red Dragon, which he did most nights. Evan was also spending more time at the Red Dragon than he ever had before. Mrs. Williams’s house was no longer the haven of peace and security it had been—there were dinners of stewed and pureed food followed by the Reverend Powell-Jones declaiming loudly from his room, or pointing out the evils of the modern world to Evan in the lounge as the latter tried to watch the news on the telly.
“Have you taken residence here, young man?” the other minister, Reverend Parry Davies, asked Evan as he stopped by for his evening pint. “Every time I come in here, you seem to be a fixture.”
Evan sighed. “I wouldn’t mind moving in here if they had a room for me. I can’t take it much longer at Mrs. Williams’s. All evening long he’s reciting in his bedroom—all this woe-is-me stuff.”
“Powell-Jones, reciting? What’s he doing that for?”
“He’s entering the eisteddfod, haven’t you heard?” Evan asked.
“Entering the eisteddfod? The nerve of the man!” Parry Davies roared. “He’s only doing it because he knows that I aspire to be crowned bard. Well, good luck to him. He is a newcomer who hasn’t a chance, especially with his puny little voice.”
“Who’s got a puny little voice?” Ifor boomed as he came in. “Not talking about me again, are you?” His big laugh resounded and made the glasses on the shelves jangle in response.
“I’m dying to hear you sing, Mr. Llewellyn,” Betsy said, pouring his whisky without being asked. “I’m so excited about the eisteddfod. They say you’re going to sing a solo with the choir.”
“You should hear me sing in an opera,” Ifor said. “I can’t begin to give my full voice when I’m with the choir. I’d drown them all out. I’d probably bring the tent down.”
“I’ve never seen a real opera,” Betsy said wistfully. “I hear they’re very romantic.”
“Very,” Ifor said. “It’s always a story of an impossible love and the lovers die in each other’s arms. That’s how I intend to die—in the arms of a beautiful girl. But not until I’m ninety-eight of course.” He had taken Betsy’s hand and was idly playing with her fingers as he spoke. When he finished he put her fingers gently to his lips.
“I’d love to see you singing in an opera,” Betsy said. Her cheeks were pink and she sounded flustered. “I bet you have all the girls in the audience sobbing when you die.”
Ifor smiled. “If you’re very good, I’ll take you to an opera very soon. I’ve got the schedule for the Cardiff festival. We could drive down one day.”
“You’d take me to an opera in Cardiff? I’d love it, Mr. Llewellyn.”
“Call me Ifor,” he said, still playing with her fingers. “I’ve got a feeling that you and I are going to be good friends.”
* * *
Evan didn’t sleep well that night. For all her flirting and exposed midriffs, Betsy was a naive child. How could she fall so easily for Ifor’s line? Didn’t she know his reputation? Evan knew it was none of his business but he couldn’t just stand by and let her make a fool of herself. And he couldn’t stand the thought of Ifor pawing at her.
Next morning he intercepted her on her way into work.
“Betsy, you and I have to talk.”
“Oh yes, what about?” Betsy was looking up at him expectantly.
“About Ifor Llewellyn. I don’t want
“My wife doesn’t have the Celtic soul, Constable Evans,” Ifor said. “Thank you again for coming so promptly. If she had been killing me, you’d have saved my life.”
He escorted Evan firmly to the front door.
* * *
The evening fights didn’t stop but the villagers gradually got used to them. They happened after Ifor had spent the evening at the Red Dragon, which he did most nights. Evan was also spending more time at the Red Dragon than he ever had before. Mrs. Williams’s house was no longer the haven of peace and security it had been—there were dinners of stewed and pureed food followed by the Reverend Powell-Jones declaiming loudly from his room, or pointing out the evils of the modern world to Evan in the lounge as the latter tried to watch the news on the telly.
“Have you taken residence here, young man?” the other minister, Reverend Parry Davies, asked Evan as he stopped by for his evening pint. “Every time I come in here, you seem to be a fixture.”
Evan sighed. “I wouldn’t mind moving in here if they had a room for me. I can’t take it much longer at Mrs. Williams’s. All evening long he’s reciting in his bedroom—all this woe-is-me stuff.”
“Powell-Jones, reciting? What’s he doing that for?”
“He’s entering the eisteddfod, haven’t you heard?” Evan asked.
“Entering the eisteddfod? The nerve of the man!” Parry Davies roared. “He’s only doing it because he knows that I aspire to be crowned bard. Well, good luck to him. He is a newcomer who hasn’t a chance, especially with his puny little voice.”
“Who’s got a puny little voice?” Ifor boomed as he came in. “Not talking about me again, are you?” His big laugh resounded and made the glasses on the shelves jangle in response.
“I’m dying to hear you sing, Mr. Llewellyn,” Betsy said, pouring his whisky without being asked. “I’m so excited about the eisteddfod. They say you’re going to sing a solo with the choir.”
“You should hear me sing in an opera,” Ifor said. “I can’t begin to give my full voice when I’m with the choir. I’d drown them all out. I’d probably bring the tent down.”
“I’ve never seen a real opera,” Betsy said wistfully. “I hear they’re very romantic.”
“Very,” Ifor said. “It’s always a story of an impossible love and the lovers die in each other’s arms. That’s how I intend to die—in the arms of a beautiful girl. But not until I’m ninety-eight of course.” He had taken Betsy’s hand and was idly playing with her fingers as he spoke. When he finished he put her fingers gently to his lips.
“I’d love to see you singing in an opera,” Betsy said. Her cheeks were pink and she sounded flustered. “I bet you have all the girls in the audience sobbing when you die.”
Ifor smiled. “If you’re very good, I’ll take you to an opera very soon. I’ve got the schedule for the Cardiff festival. We could drive down one day.”
“You’d take me to an opera in Cardiff? I’d love it, Mr. Llewellyn.”
“Call me Ifor,” he said, still playing with her fingers. “I’ve got a feeling that you and I are going to be good friends.”
* * *
Evan didn’t sleep well that night. For all her flirting and exposed midriffs, Betsy was a naive child. How could she fall so easily for Ifor’s line? Didn’t she know his reputation? Evan knew it was none of his business but he couldn’t just stand by and let her make a fool of herself. And he couldn’t stand the thought of Ifor pawing at her.
Next morning he intercepted her on her way into work.
“Betsy, you and I have to talk.”
“Oh yes, what about?” Betsy was looking up at him expectantly.
“About Ifor Llewellyn. I don’t want
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