Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,10

isn’t it? Spiteful thing to do, if you ask me.”

Evan didn’t point out that Farmer Owens himself had an ax to grind—the Englishman had almost killed his dog. But he just didn’t think that the kindly farmer would go around setting buildings on fire.

His next visit should be to the butcher, although Evan wasn’t looking forward to it. Evans-the-Meat was noted for his quick temper and his belligerence. Extra tact would be needed if Evan was going to get anything out of him.

“Bore da, Evans-the-Law,” the butcher greeted him as he sliced a lamb’s liver with a murderous-looking knife. “I take it this isn’t just a social visit.”

“No, it’s not, Gareth. Look you, I know you’ve got strong feelings about foreigners so—”

“So you think I sprinted up the mountain and set fire to their cottage last night? Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“I wasn’t suggesting you did, Gareth. You were in the pub when I got there, so you could hardly have been up on the mountain starting fires, could you now? But it’s possible that you might know the kind of people who were involved . . .”

The butcher’s face flushed red with anger. “And if I did, do you think I’d turn them in to you?”

“Not for a minute,” Evan said. “But I wish you would, if you do know anything. One day these people may go too far. The next cottage they burn might have a baby sleeping inside. Think about that, eh?”

Evans-the-Meat went back to his liver slicing. “Well, thanks for the lecture, Evans-the-Law. If I come across any arsonists, I’ll let you know, then, shall I?”

Evan walked toward the door, then turned back. “We’ve got an arson expert coming. If I were you, I’d keep my opinions to myself for a while.”

“I can’t pretend I’m sorry that their place burned down. Good riddance is what I say, Constable Evans,” the butcher called after him.

All in all, it was a pretty unsuccessful interview. But then it’s not up to me, Evan decided. I’m supposed to get along with the locals. I’ll leave the interrogation to the CID.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost two. Mrs. Williams would have his lunch ready and be upset that it was spoiling. He went back to the station to check his messages, then hurried down the street to his landlady’s house. It was one of two semidetached houses, opposite the row of terraced cottages, and Mrs. Williams therefore felt herself very superior. It even boasted a small front garden, complete with rosebush and, at this time of year, chrysanthemums.

“Is that you, Mr. Evans?” The high voice greeted him as it always did as he let himself in.

“Yes, it’s me, Mrs. Williams. Sorry I’m late. I got held up.”

“Oh well. It can’t be helped. A policeman’s life isn’t easy, is it?” She bustled over to the stove as she spoke, opened the oven and produced an earthenware casserole with the same flourish as a conjurer bringing a rabbit out of a hat. “Luckily I made your favorite”—she hesitated for a second while Evan tried to guess which dish was supposed to be his favorite today—“lamb cawl.”

She took the lid of a bubbling pot of the traditional welsh lamb stew. Carrots, turnips, and big succulent chunks of lamb lay in a deep brown gravy that smelled of herbs. She reached into the oven again and produced an enormous baked potato.

“Get that inside you and you won’t do too badly,” she said, putting it on his plate.

Evan sat down, his mouth watering in anticipation.

“You make a beautiful lamb cawl, Mrs. Williams,” he said.

“I’m a fair enough cook, I’ll grant you that, Mr. Evans,” she agreed modestly. “Plain food, though. Nothing fancy. That’s why I’m thinking of taking this course.”

“Course?”

“Yes, there was a letter come in the post today from that new French restaurant. It seems this Madame Yvette is going to be giving cooking lessons. Charlie Hopkins’s wife wants me to take the course with her, so I said I would.”

“You’re going to take French cooking?” Evan looked up in astonishment.

Mrs. Williams blushed pink. “I’d like to know how to make some fancy stuff. Our Sharon did that cooking course—remember I told you? And now she’s a lovely little cook. She’ll make some man a wonderful wife someday.” She looked at Evan wistfully. Unfortunately Evan had met her granddaughter—a large girl inclined to giggle.

“I’m sure she will, Mrs. Williams,” he said on hastily returning to his plate of