Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery (18 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery
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I couldn’t stop thinking about what Ginger had said. I took a look at those sheds. They weren’t too solidly built. Some of the blokes who helped build them were less skilled with the hammer than I was. There were a lot of crooked nails. It wouldn’t be impossible to ease off a board or two and get inside.
I started spying on the guards, too. There were two of them. They did an early shift and a late shift. When the mine was shut for the night, there was no guard at all. But they really didn’t pay too much attention when they were on duty. They seemed to enjoy a chat when miners on their break stopped to talk. One of them was very keen on comics. He was always sitting under a lamp, reading. I suppose he thought it was quite safe because anyone would have had to walk past him to get into the cavern
.
That was true enough. He sat between the cavern and the staircase to the surface. The area where we were still working was down another level of steps. Nobody would have any reason to cross the cavern with the sheds in it and if anyone came up the staircase, he’d see them.
Which got me thinking—if someone could hide out in the old workings beyond the cavern before the guard came on duty, then that someone could get at the back of the nearest shed quite easily, as long as he was quiet about it. Of course, if that someone was me,
I’d be missed at my job
.
There were few enough miners on duty now that someone would notice I wasn’t there
.
And anyway
,
it all came back to the same thing
—
the painting would be missed
.
And I
—
the only one there with any interest in art
—
I’d be the most likely suspect. I wasn’t going to jail, not even for Ginger
.
During the night a front came in from the ocean, bringing freezing rain that peppered Evan’s window with such violence that he woke. He lay there, listening to the moaning of the wind in the chimney, and the rain hammering on the roof. Unable to sleep, he let his thoughts drift to the murder of Grantley Smith.
What were the facts, he asked himself. Undisputed facts were that Grantley and Edward drove together to Blenau Ffestiniog, where they quarreled in public. Grantley went down a mine and was killed. The more he thought about it, the more everything pointed to Edward—the strongest motive, the opportunity, his subsequent nervousness. Evan wondered how Bronwen would take it if Edward were found to be guilty. Grantley’s death had obviously upset her. Evan didn’t want to be the one who caused her more grief.
You know what you’ve got to do, don’t you, boyo, he said to himself. You have to get to the truth as soon as possible.
He stared at the pattern of bare branches dancing wildly in the streetlight and tried to put his thoughts in order. There had to be a pattern somewhere. Either it was a simple crime of passion, or it wasn’t. Either Grantley was killed because someone lost control—either Edward or Robert James—or this was a carefully planned attempt to lure Grantley down a mine alone and then get rid of him.
Another fact that should be considered: Grantley fell out of a train two days before he died. People didn’t fall out of trains every day, did they? It would be an amazing coincidence if a near-fatal accident and Grantley’s death two days later were in no way connected, and Evan didn’t believe in coincidences. And
the train was going to Blenau Ffestiniog again. And Edward Ferrers was in the same compartment.
Wait a minute, he said, shaking his head as he took this thought further. If Edward had pushed Grantley out of the train, why wouldn’t Grantley have made a fuss about it, confronted him with it? And would Grantley have been so relaxed about riding in a vehicle with him again?
Evan supposed it might be possible that Edward could have reached across and opened the train door while Grantley was leaning out filming, but wouldn’t Grantley at least have suspected? There was obviously not going to be any filming going on as long as this weather lasted. It might be worth going down to Porthmadog and having a closer look at the train in which they traveled. It might also be worth taking a look at the spot where Grantley fell from the train.
The next time I saw her, it was just before Christmas 1940. After a long period of waiting, the war had started in earnest, although not much had changed in Wales. We heard that London had been bombed. We had celebrated the Battle of Britain and cried over Dunkirk. But it all seemed very far away, apart from the empty seats in chapel where my friends would have been sitting
.
Everyone at home was excited because some of the boys in uniform would be home on leave. My mum was trying to make Christmas puddings without half the ingredients and getting in such a tizzy about it
.
“How do they expect me to do anything with no butter and no eggs?” she demanded
.
“It won’t taste of anything.”
“Put in a good drop of rum and nobody will care,” my father muttered
,
looking up from his evening paper
.
“And where are you going to find me a good drop of rum, that’s what I’d like to know? You’re always complaining there’s a shortage of beer
.
And I hear the navy has all the rum.”
That got me thinking about Ginger’s friend who drove the lorries. If only I could drive a lorry right now, maybe I’d have been
able to come home with butter and rum in my pocket and be the family hero. But I was still too young to get a driver’s license, even if I knew anyone with a car who could teach me. I still had a year to go before I would be called up. Maybe there was something else I could do that wasn’t tapping away at bloody slate all day. Ginger was the one with the ideas. I’d have to ask her.
I didn’t see much of her these days, and I was looking forward to her having a whole week at home for Christmas.
The Sunday before Christmas there she was, standing on my doorstep, looking like a peacock in the middle of a henhouse. She was wearing a bright blue coat and a red knitted beret and gloves, and the way she stood there, against the backdrop of the gray cottages and gray slate, she was like the one splash of brightness in a gray world. When she came rushing into the room and threw her arms around my neck, all sensible thoughts went out of my head. All I could think was how lovely she was, and how proud I felt that she was kissing me.
“I’ve had the most wonderful idea and I’ve been dying to tell you about it,” she whispered, her arms still wrapped around my neck. She paused and looked at me, her eyes sparkling. “Tref. I want you to paint me a picture.”
I was flattered
.
She’d never shown that much interest in my art before
.
“You do
?
You want me to paint you one for Christmas
,
is it?”
She laughed again
.
“No, silly
.
A lot more than Christmas.”
“What are you talking about?”
She glanced around
,
to see if any of my family was in hearing range. My mother was singing hymns to herself in the kitchen while she cleaned the brussels sprouts. My dad was outside with the hens he had started keeping for eggs. So far, it hadn’t been a huge success
.
We had had a total of three eggs between them. My dad reckoned the rats got the rest
.
My mum reckoned the hens were just plain useless and they cost a fortune in feed
.
“The painting we’re going to take,” she whispered
.
“You were so worried about getting caught. I’ve found the perfect answer
.
Listen
—
how does this sound? You sneak it out of the hut. Then you take it out of its frame and hide it under your shirt. Then you bring it home and make a copy. Then we put the copy back in the frame, the picture back in the shed, and no one will know we’ve got the genuine one.”
I started to laugh
.
“What? What’s so funny about that?”
“You are
.
Do you think the experts couldn’t tell the difference between one of my paintings and an old master?”
“You’re good, Tref. I’ve watched you
.
You can copy anything
.
I bet you could do it.”
“Some of the modern painters, maybe
.
But not the old masters.”
“You never know what you can do until you try. And this is the perfect time to put our plan into action. I’m home for a week. Everyone will be feeling festive. They’ll be drinking more than usual.” She sat down on the sofa and patted a place beside her for me to sit. “Tell you what. I’ll be waiting for you at the mine tomorrow. Show me the guard, so I’ll recognize him when I see him again. Then next morning you get to work very early and I’ll delay him, so that you have time to get the back of the shed opened up. If you still have time, sneak a painting out and hide it.”
I was trembling all over
.
My mother had stopped singing hymns
.
It seemed to me as if the whole world must have overheard what we were planning
.
I glanced at the door
.
“I can’t
,
Ginger
.
I can’t go through with it
.
Just think of the trouble if I’m caught
.
It will be all right for you
.
They won’t catch you
.
But I’d go to prison
.
Think of my family
—
I can’t do that to them
.”
She tossed her head so that her blond curls danced
.
“Only stupid people get caught.” She grabbed my arm and squeezed it until it hurt
.
“You’ve got to learn to think on your feet
,
Trefor Thomas
.
If you’re caught
,
tell them that you’re looking for the cufflink you must have lost when you were building the sheds.”
“And what if they find me with the picture in my hands? How will I explain that then?”
She laughed again
.
“Easy. Say that you did it for a dare
—
to
prove how easy it would be to pinch one
.
You were going to turn it in to the mine manager.”
“
You think of everything
,
don’t you?”
“I told you
.
I’m willing to do what it takes
.
You just have to be willing to do anything for me
,
like you promised.”
The amazing thing was how easy it was! On Christmas Eve, I left the house while the rest of the family were still finishing breakfast
.
“What’s your hurry
,
Trefor
bach?
Hold on
,
I’ve still got a slice of toast to go,” my father called as he saw me putting on my cap and scarf.
“I just want to get there early today,” said.
“Nice to see you keen as mustard for once,” my mother commented
.
“Won’t do you any good,” my father said
.
“They won’t let you out of there any earlier this evening
.
It won’t make Christmas come any quicker
,
you know.” He laughed as if he’d made a joke
.
“I just feel like walking on my own this morning
,
Tad,” I said
.
I could feel my face glowing with embarrassment.
“He wants to meet that no-good girl
,
that’s what he wants to do.” My mother smoothed down her apron
,
which was her way of showing disapproval. Everyone in Blenau knew of Ginger’s reputation for being too free and easy with her affections.
“Let the boy have a bit of fun,” my father said
. “
He’ll be seventeen soon enough
.
Lord knows how long he’s got.”
They exchanged a glance
.
I took my cue and ran out
.

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