the mountains was almost spilling over its banks, passing under the stone bridge with a thunderous roar and sending up droplets of spray to dance in the sunlight. Everything always looked its best after rain. All fresh and new. Just the sort of evening for a brisk hike. Instead, he had to finish painting the living room. Evan sighed. He had found a bright and cheerful rug for the living room, but it wasn’t enough to lift the gloomy, damp feeling, which even a roaring fire couldn’t drive away. The brown wallpaper on the walls hadn’t helped, so in a fit of enthusiasm that first night, he had started to tear it down. It had peeled off in satisfying strips and now he was left with bare walls. So he had started to paint the whole thing sparkling white. Only after he’d done a couple of walls did he realize that the whole cottage hadn’t been painted in half a century. Everything looked dirty and dingy in comparison. The ceiling needed painting too, and after the living room the front hall, the kitchen, the stairs … he had let himself in for a major project. For the first time he appreciated Sergeant Watkins’s constant complaints of weekends being filled with do-it-yourself projects.
He felt daunted by the whole prospect as he pulled into the police station yard. He was about to dismount when there was a shriek and someone sprinted across the street, arms waving.
“Constable Evans!”
It was young Terry Jenkins, the local tearaway who had been mixed up in one of Evan’s former cases. His face was lit up with excitement. “Is that your bike? Did you just get it?” He stroked the chrome handlebars lovingly as if the bike were a living thing. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Will it do a ton?”
Evan laughed. “Nothing like a ton, Terry. It’s not meant to go fast. It’s just so that I can get around my beat more easily.”
“I bet it can go pretty fast if you really try. And with those tires, you could do motor cross—you know how they come flying over the hill—whee—airborne!”
“It’s a police bike, Terry,” Evan said, grateful he wasn’t going to have to show off his nonexistent motor cross talents. “I won’t be doing any stunts.”
“Pity.” Terry’s face fell. “Still, you’ll have to go fast if you’re chasing a crook, won’t you? Like that guy in the red sports car that time.”
“I don’t think anything like that is going to happen around here for a while.” Evan put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, help me wheel the bike under cover in case it rains.”
After a disappointed Terry had gone home, Evan let himself into number 28. It still felt cold and inhospitable and he thought longingly of the smell of cooking that had greeted him when he opened Mrs. Williams’s front door. Now if there was going to be any cooking smell, he’d have to produce it. And after last night’s effort he wasn’t so sure the result would be edible. He had tried making a steak-and-kidney pie. He had followed the recipe faithfully, but the steak and kidney had ended up as unidentifiable shriveled morsels and the pastry crust needed a chisel to puncture it. Maybe he was being too ambitious, he decided. Maybe he should stick to egg and chips until he knew his way around a kitchen.
He took out a couple of eggs and started to peel a mound of potatoes. It took a while to cut them up, so he started heating a block of lard in a saucepan. Then he realized he should have lit the fire in the living room first if he wanted it to be habitable by mealtime. He went through and coaxed newspapers and kindling to life. They started smoking merrily, instantly filling the room with the smell of burning. He’d let them get going well before he put on coal. As he returned to the kitchen, he saw where the smell of burning was coming from. Smoke was billowing from the saucepan and as he approached, it sent up a great sheet of flame with a
He had renewed admiration for Mrs. Williams, who could turn out a whole meal without apparent effort. It seemed pointless to start over with new fat and he had gone off the idea of chips anyhow. Scrambled eggs then. They were edible, if a little rubbery, but he was still ravenous. None of the cans in the pantry looked appetizing. There was nothing for it but to admit defeat and go over to the pub for bangers or a meat pie. Besides, he needed to get away from the smell.
Having checked that the fire now glowing anemically in the fireplace wasn’t about to burn the house down, he put on his raincoat and crossed the street to the Red Dragon. Inside, it was as warm and welcoming as ever, the big fire glowing in the grate and the air heavy with smoke and conversation. Evan pushed his way to the bar. Instead of Betsy’s welcoming smile, Harry-the-Pub’s bald head poked up over the counter.
“What do you want then?” he demanded.
“And good evening to you too, Harry
“It is too much trouble,” Harry said. “Guinness you can have. Food’s not on tonight.”
“Why, what happened? Where’s Betsy?”
“You tell me,” Harry snapped as he drew Evan’s pint of Guinness. “She was due to work at five, wasn’t she? Where the devil is she?”
“It’s not like her to be late,” Evan said. “Have you phoned her place?”
“Yes, and there’s no answer. Her dad says she went off with some woman this morning.”
“Some woman?”
“I know who that would be.” Evans-the-Meat put down his empty glass and indicated that he’d like it refilled. “That foreigner who was in here the other day.”
“English person, you mean?” Harry asked.
“No, American, Betsy said she was. Over here studying.”
Evan’s ears pricked up. “American girl, studying over here? Her name wasn’t Rebecca, was it?”
“How would I know?” Evans-the-Meat demanded. “And I don’t think I’d call her a girl either. Mutton dressed up as lamb, if you ask me.”
“So what was Betsy doing with her?” Harry asked, smoothly refilling the pint and putting it down in front of the butcher.
