Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us by Rhys Bowen Read Free Book Online

it?”
    “You don’t excavate archaeological sites with a bulldozer, Barry-the-Bucket, man,” Rev. Parry Davies exclaimed in horror.
    Evan smiled as he fell into step beside the colonel.
    “Maybe they could use an extra hand when they start excavating,” Colonel Arthunot muttered to Evan, his good spirits revived. “I’ve always wanted to be in on a real dig. And if we actually find some artifacts…”
    The sun had finally set behind the mountains, plunging the valley into deep gloom, as they dropped down the final steep section of path and came into the village. The higher slopes still glowed with evening light, tingeing the fleeces of the grazing sheep with pink. Evan looked around him with contentment.
    “Going to be a beautiful day tomorrow,” he said.
    “It was lovely up here earlier,” Colonel Arbuthnot commented. “So clear that you could see the ocean, and with my binoculars—good German ones, not this Japanese rubbish—I could see…” He paused, remembering just what he had seen. “You know, it was the most extraordinary thing,” he went on, his loud voice booming as they walked down the street toward the Red Dragon, “but I thought I saw someone I recognized from somewhere else.”
    “Did you, colonel?” Evan asked politely.
    The noisy crowd swept back into the pub, calling out their discovery to those who had stayed behind. Hands slapped the colonel on the back again and a double Scotch was shoved into his hand.
    “This is the man who’s going to put Llanfair on the map,” Evans-the-Meat exclaimed proudly. “I’ve been thinking about it all the way down and I’ve decided we should call ourselves Llanfairbeddgelert, who-was-not-a-dog-but-a-saint-and-was-buried-high-on-the-pass-above-the-larch-trees-with-a-view-of-Snowdon. How does that sound then?”
    “That’s what we’re going to call ourselves?” Harry-the-Pub chuckled. “My hand would get tired before I wrote all that.”
    “And the address wouldn’t fit on a postcard,” Betsy added.
    “It would make us like that other Llanfair, the famous one,” Roberts-the-Pump said. “What does that Llanfair have that we don’t, except for the longest name in the world?”
    “So we’ll make ours one syllable longer,” Evans-the-Milk suggested.
    “Then we’d be famous!” Betsy exclaimed excitedly. “All the tourists would come here!”
    “Hold on a second—who said anything about tourists?” Evans-the-Meat roared. “We just want the respect that is due to us, not hordes of bloody foreigners flocking here to take pictures.”
    “What’s wrong with more tourists?” Evans-the-Milk demanded. “I for one would welcome more business.”
    “And I for one—” Evans-the-Meat began, raising his right fist in a threatening manner, until Evan stepped between him and Evans-the-Milk.
    “Easy now, man,” he said. “Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. It’s a free country, isn’t it?”
    “Not if I had my way,” Evans-the-Meat remarked. “I’d get rid of all the bloody foreigners.”
    “Not the colonel, surely,” said Barry-the-Bucket, “after he was the one who found your historic site for you?”
    The reverend Parry Davies joined Evan between the two feuding men. “I suggest we have a village meeting to discuss calmly what this new discovery means to Llanfair and how we’re going to proceed from here. Nothing should be said or done in haste. It’s the grave of a saint we’re talking about, not a tourist attraction. It should be treated with the utmost respect.”
    “You’re right, reverend,” Harry-the-Pub said. “So drink up, gentlemen, and let’s leave the discussion until another time, right?”
    Evan stepped aside and joined the colonel at the bar. He found his beer still standing there, only half-finished, its froth gone. He drained it. “We’re a hot-headed lot, we Welsh, when our passions are roused.” He grinned at the colonel. “The English have always found us hard to subdue.”
    “I felt the same