in Evan’s face. “She’s on holiday in Bournemouth. Look, see the picture? That’s the pier. They say you went down south, too. Did you go on the pier when you were down there, Mr. Evans?”
“Your snooping is going to get you in trouble one day,” Evan said. “That’s personal stuff you’re reading there.”
“I don’t do no harm,” Evans-the-Post protested. “I don’t read letters from the income tax or the pensions, do I?”
“Only because you can’t open them,” Evan said with a grin. Evans-the-Post grinned too and loped off down the street.
Evan moved on. Even Evans-the-Post, with his limited brainpower, knew of his secret mission. No wonder Madame Yvette had heard about it and fled.
He was deep in thought as he continued up the street. Maybe Madame Yvette had even heard somehow that he’d gone to France. Nothing seemed to escape the Llanfair spies. Suddenly he looked up and found himself confronted with a large green bus. It was parked outside Chapel Beulah and painted on its side were the words
CELESTIAL OMNIBUS. CHAPEL BEULAH. LLANFAIR.
And in smaller letters underneath, We pray in Welsh, we sing in Welsh, we preach in Welsh!
It completely dwarfed the plain gray van parked across the street outside Chapel Bethel.
Evan started to laugh. What next? Would Rev. Parry Davies have to indulge in a helicopter? A fleet of limousines? He looked forward to having a good chuckle with Bronwen about it. He felt a sudden thrill of anticipation about seeing her again. He had only been away three days, but he had missed her. That was a sign that he must be serious about her, wasn’t it?
But as he put his hand on the playground gate and looked across at the schoolhouse with the smoke curling from its chimney, he felt suddenly hesitant. She’d obviously be busy preparing for the school day and probably wouldn’t have time to talk to him. And it was absurd to be missing her when he’d only been gone such a short time. He’d come back when school was over this afternoon.
He turned and began to walk away, half hoping that he’d hear his name called and see her standing there. But he reached the police station door without being stopped.
Inside, the green light was blinking on his answering machine and a pile of letters lay on the mat. He picked up the letters and noted the top one. It was on good stationary paper, headed Grantley, Straughan and Grantley, Solicitors in Buxton, Derbyshire. He couldn’t make a connection until he began to read. The letter was written on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith, owners of cottage Ty Bryn. Evan nodded to himself. The English couple—so that was their name. He’d bet it wasn’t really hyphenated, but just plain Smith. Obnoxious prigs! Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith were not satisfied with the original police report . . . possible negligence . . . understood he was the officer on duty . . . wanted his firsthand account of the handling of the fire . . .
Evan put it down in disgust. They’d collect on the insurance but it sounded as if they were preparing to sue somebody as well. He’d pass it on to HQ and let them handle it. He put on the electric kettle for tea, then sat at his desk and punched Replay on the answering machine.
“Constable Evans?” The voice was soft and Welsh. “This is Mrs. Parry Davies at Chapel Bethel. There is a large bus blocking the entire street. It’s creating quite a traffic hazard. Please have it moved immediately.”
Evan grinned.
The next message made his pulse quicken. “Constable Evans, this is P.C. Glynis Davies from headquarters. I just thought you’d like to know that Forensics have found the murder weapon and they’re attempting to get a good set of prints from it. Oh, and there’s no answer from the French police yet to any of our inquiries so we’re not much the wiser—bye.”
Evan smiled to himself as an image of Glynis’s stylish, elfin face swam into his mind. Would finding out about the prints on the murder weapon give him a good excuse to go down to HQ and maybe see her again? Wait a second, he reminded himself severely. A few minutes ago you were pining for Bronwen. What’s wrong with you, boyo?
“Evans!” Sergeant Potter’s voice barked from the speaker, instantly banishing any thoughts of Bronwen or Glynis from his mind. “I want to see you in my office right away. I think we may have