have good feelings about this Sacred Grove place. Not that he knew anything about it, but he was inclined to think that all these so-called spiritual healers and psychic types were a lot of bosh. Of course, naive people like Betsy were easily impressed. She was so thrilled to be among—he paused as he remembered her actual word —“priestesses,” she had said. Hadn’t the American girl written about a date with Druids? Then he remembered that Druids used to worship in sacred groves.
He went inside and called headquarters.
“Constable Davies, it’s Evans here, from Llanfair.”
“Oh, hello, Evan. No, nothing at all yet. Thanks for putting up the flyers in the youth hostels for me. I feel so bad that her parents are coming and I’ve got nothing positive to tell them.”
“Listen, Glynis, I’ve had a thought,” he said. “What do you know about that new healing center near Porthmadog?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about it. Ever so posh, isn’t it? Five-star rates to have your aura read?” She chuckled.
“It’s called the Sacred Grove,” Evan said. “And someone from our village who has just been there spoke of priestesses.”
“Priestesses?”
“Yes. So I wondered if it might be a place where we’d find Druids.”
“How very interesting. Look, you don’t think you could go and check it out for me, do you? Sergeant Watkins has started on his course this weekend, so I’ve got all his work dumped on me. Stolen property at the flea market again. I’m supposed to stake it out.”
“I’d be happy to go down there for you. I’ve been told to get out and practice on my new bike.”
“You want an excuse to play with your new toy.” Glynis laughed, then checked herself as if this might have overstepped a boundary. “But seriously, I’d be really grateful if you went and had a look. Have you got one of the flyers left?”
“I put one up on the board outside the station here,” he said.
“Brilliant! You could show it around and see if anyone there has seen her.”
“All right. I’ll do that.”
“Thanks. I owe you a pint.”
Evan put down the phone. It was hard not to like Glynis. At least he had an excuse to check out this Sacred Grove for himself and keep an eye on Betsy, too.
The sky was the clear blue that only comes after rain. There was a softness in the breeze, too, with wafts of blossom, hinting that summer really might not be too far-off. The wind in Evan’s face felt good as he negotiated the Nantgwynant Pass. Down below him Llyn Gwynant sparkled in the morning sunlight. There were primroses growing beside the road and the fields were full of frisky lambs, jumping and dancing as if their limbs contained no bones.
Evan forced his eyes back to the road as the first of the hairpin bends approached. He knew too well how easy it was for a vehicle to misjudge the turns here. He had seen it happen. The bike, which had behaved itself perfectly on the ride up to Llanfair from Caernarfon, now felt as if it might run away with him on the steep descent. Trying to regulate his speed and remembering to lean into each of the bends, Evan found that he was sweating with concentration by the time he rode over the stone bridge and into Beddgelert. The attractive village was all decked out for the first spring tourists—tubs and wheelbarrows planted with spring flowers gave the place a festive air. A coach was parked outside the Goat Inn and tourists were already heading off to find Gelert’s Grave or morning coffee.
Then the village was left behind. The road narrowed through the dark Aberglaslyn Pass. The roar of water from the river on his left echoed from the high rock walls that blocked out the sunlight and gave the place a chill, eerie feel. Even in a car he had found the place creepy. Now he was even more glad than ever to emerge on to the flat, green fields before Porthmadog. He skirted the town, then crossed the estuary by the narrow causeway they called the Cob, accompanied on his right by the little steam engine that went up the mountain to the old slate quarries at Blenau Ffestiniog.
On the other side the road wound through dappled oak woodland, then started to rise again. After a mile or so he came to impressive gateposts, each topped with a stone lion, its paw resting on a shielded crest. A discreet sign beside the gateway, carved from local granite, read, THE SACRED GROVE, CENTER FOR HEALING ARTS AND CELTIC SPIRITUALITY. As he passed through the gates and out of the sunlight, the wind in his face became colder. Over the crest of a little hill, and suddenly the most improbable of sights—an Italian-style bell tower, decorated with blue-and-white mosaic tiles rising from the green woodland. And beyond it the sparkle of the ocean. He rounded a corner and found the road ahead of him barred by a security gate. He looked around then spotted an intercom box on the left of the gate. He pressed it.
“Yes?” A male voice barked. “Can I help you?”
“It’s Constable Evans, North Wales Police, here on official business.”
“Hold on a minute.”
A long pause. Then the gate slowly opened. As soon as Evan had ridden through, it swung shut again with a loud clang. He could make out the roofs of buildings nestled among the trees. He came to a glass-fronted booth and a man in guard’s uniform slid open a window. “Leave your bike here, will you? They don’t allow motor vehicles any further. Disturbs their concentration.” He looked Evan up and down. “North Wales Police, is it? Who did you come to see then?”
“I’ve come to ask questions about a missing person,” Evan said. “Maybe I should start with the owners.”
“I’ll ring through and have you escorted down.”
“That’s all right. I expect I can find my own way,” Evan said.
The man gave him an unfriendly stare as he picked up the phone. “Someone will be up in a minute,” he said. “Wait here, please.”
