Evans Above by Rhys Bowen

enough,” Evan said. “It’s just this food thing, and her granddaughter.”
    â€œHer granddaughter?”
    â€œSharon,” Evan said. “She seems to think we’d be a good match.”
    â€œEveryone in this place is determined to get you married off,” Bronwen said, giving a nervous laugh.
    â€œDon’t worry, I intend to take my own good time about that,” Evan answered.
    â€œSo I’ve noticed,” Bronwen said under her breath. Then out loud she said, “Well, I best be getting along now and leave you to finish up your work and get home for your tea. I’ll be seeing you then, Evan Evans.”
    â€œRight-o, Bronwen. Take care now,” Evan said.
    Â 
    He let himself into the little room in the end cottage that served as the police station. It was next to Roberts-the-Pump, the gas station and repair shop which also served as the local fire station, RAC facility, and snack shop. A light was flashing on his answering machine. He punched the button. “This is Mrs. Powell-Jones,” an impatient, stridently upper-class voice said. “Constable Evans, I’ve been trying to contact you all day on a matter of great urgency. Please come up to the house as soon as you return.”
    Evan sighed. He doubted if it was a real emergency. Mrs. Powell-Jones, wife of the reverend who preached his sermons in both languages, was one of those autocratic, well-born
women who think that the term public servant is to be taken literally. She never hesitated to call Evan if her cat was missing at two in the morning or if she saw something she thought looked suspicious—and Mrs. Powell-Jones found a lot of things suspicious, like a young couple parked with the engine idling at midnight. But he knew he had to go. Mrs. Powell-Jones had friends in high places, like the major. He didn’t want to risk facing an angry commissioner of police in the morning.
    The Powell-Jones’ house was the last house in the village, set back in spacious grounds, conveniently close to chapel Beulah. It had been inherited from Mrs. Powell-Jones’ family, who had formerly owned the slate quarry. With its Victorian gables and turret in one corner, it contrasted strongly with the simple cottages below it. Personally Evan preferred the cottages.
    Mrs. Powell-Jones herself opened the front door. She looked agitated; her normally neat waves of hair were in disarray as if she had been running her hands through them.
    â€œThank God you’ve come at last, constable,” she said. “I was terrified you wouldn’t get here in time.” Her voice had a hint of Welsh lilt to it, but was overlaid with expensive English schooling.
    â€œIn time for what, Mrs. Powell-Jones?” Evan asked. “Got a problem, have you?”
    â€œA problem?” she shrieked. “A crime has been committed here, constable.”
    â€œIf there was a crime then you should have called down to headquarters,” Evan said. “Didn’t you hear the instructions on my answering machine? When I’m not in the office they page me or pick up my emergency calls. They’d have had someone up here in a jiffy.”
    â€œIt’s not the sort of crime I care to entrust to strangers,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said, glancing around in case someone was
listening. “Come out to the garden now, quickly, before it starts raining and the evidence is washed away.”
    Mystified, Evan followed her out to her back garden. The predicted rain was already beginning, a fine mist which clung like diamonds to Mrs. Powell-Jones’ gray-streaked hair. It was a large garden surrounding the house, protected from the fierce winds by a high hedge. First came a lawn, surrounded by neatly kept rose beds, then another hedge, and beyond that a vegetable garden, where the property stretched up to meet the grounds of the Everest Inn. The inn itself loomed like a giant surreal shadow in the mist, making Evan