Evans to Betsy

Table of ContentsTitle Page

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Glossary of Welsh Words

Also by Rhys Bowen

Copyright Page

We Are at One with the Dark Earth.

We Are at One with the Mother

With the Oak Tree and the Yew

With the Deep Pools and the Wells

With the Rushing Streams and the Crags

With the Meadows and the Woods

With the Sky and the Sun

With the Stag and the Eagle

With the Dolphin and the Whale

With the Creeping Things That Live in Darkness.

The life force of the universe flows through all of us.

Awen, life force, essence, spirit,

Awen flows through us.

We are one with the universe.

—Rhiannon, The Way of the Druid

Chapter 1

“Llanfair.” The driver read out the battered sign beside the road. “I thought this might be a good place to start.” He changed down a gear and the Jag slowed with a discontented growl. A village appeared ahead—a mere cluster of cottages, nestled under the steep, green walls of the mountain pass.

The woman in the passenger seat leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. It was hard to tell her exact age—the long straight hair and lack of makeup, coupled with the jeans and T-shirt, made her look, at first glance, like a teenager, but a closer inspection put her in her thirties. She studied the gray stone cottages, the sheep on the high hillsides, the mountain stream dancing over rocks as it passed under the old stone bridge. “It’s worth a try,” she said. “Certainly remote enough. No supermarket, no video store, and no satellite dishes on the roofs. And it’s got the proverbial pub where jolly locals meet.”

The Jag slowed to a crawl as they approached the square black-and-white-timbered building. A swinging pub sign outside announced it to be the Red Dragon. “I don’t see too many jolly locals around right now,” he said. “The place looks deserted. Where is everybody?”

“Perhaps it’s the Welsh version of Brigadoon. They only come out once every hundred years.” She laughed. “Oh, wait a second. Here’s somebody.” A young girl with wild blond curls had come out of the pub. She began hopefully wiping off the outdoor tables, although the sky was heavy with the promise of rain. A loud yell from across the street made her look up. There was a row of shops directly opposite the pub. G. Evans, Cyggyd (with the word “Butcher” underneath in very small letters), R. Evans, Dairy Products, and then, preventing an Evans monopoly, T. Harris, General Store (and Sub Post Office).

A large, florid man in a blood-spattered apron had come out of the butcher’s shop, and was now shouting and waving a cleaver. The two occupants of the car looked at each other uncertainly as the cleaver-waving and shouting continued.

“Jolly locals?” He gave a nervous chuckle.

The young girl appeared to be unfazed by the tirade. She tossed her mane of blond hair and yelled something back and the butcher burst out laughing. He waved the cleaver good-naturedly and went back into his shop. The young girl glanced at the Jag, then gave the last table a half-hearted wipe before going back into the pub.

“What the hell was that all about?” The woman in the car asked. “Was that Welsh they were speaking?”

“I don’t suppose it was Russian, honey. We are in the middle of Wales.”

“But I didn’t realize people actually spoke Welsh! I thought it was one of those ancient languages you study at Berkeley. You might have warned me. I could have taken a crash language course. It’s going to make things more difficult.”

He put out his hand and patted her knee. “It will be fine. They all speak English too, you know. Now why don’t you hop out and test the waters, huh?”

“You want me to get hacked to death by a cleaver? Do you suppose they’re all violent up here in the mountains? I’d imagine there’s a lot of inbreeding.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” He grinned as he gave her a gentle nudge. “And this was your idea, remember.”

“Our idea. We planned it together.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I have missed you, Emmy.”

“Me too. I didn’t think it would take so long. I’m damned jealous, you know.”

“You don’t have to be.”

An elderly man in a cloth cap and tweed jacket came down the street at a fast pace and disappeared into the pub. A couple of women walked past, deep in conversation, with shopping baskets on their arms. They wore the British uniform for uncertain weather—plastic macks and head scarves over gray permed hair. They paused to give the car an interested glance before settling at the bus stop.

“I should get out of here,” the man said. “I shouldn’t be noticed. There’s a big hotel higher up the pass—you can’t miss it. It looks like a damned great Swiss chalet—ugly as hell. I’ll wait for you up there, okay?”

“All right. Give me about an hour.” She opened the door and was met by a fresh, stiff breeze. “Gee, it’s freezing up here. I’ll need to buy thermal underwear if we decide that this place will do.”

“Start at the pub,” he suggested. “At least we know somebody’s there.”

She nodded. “Good idea. I could use a drink.” Her thin, serious face broke into a smile. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” he said. “This is a crazy idea, Emmy. It damned well better work.”

Chapter 2

The big car moved up the street. Emmy pushed her long dark hair out of her face as she opened the heavy oak door and went into the Red Dragon pub.

She stepped into a warm and inviting room. A long, polished oak bar ran almost the whole length of one wall, and the matching beam above it was decorated with horse brasses. A fire was burning in a huge fireplace at the far end. The girl with the wild blond hair was standing behind the bar, talking to the old man and a couple of young men in mud-spattered work overalls. The low murmur of conversation in Welsh ceased the moment the stranger was noticed.

“Can I help you, miss?” the girl asked in lilting English.

Emmy joined the men at the bar. “Sure. What beer do folks drink around here?”

“That would be Robinson’s,” the girl answered. “Although some like their Guinness or a Brains, even though it comes from South Wales. I don’t know why we stock it, personally.”

“Weak as water,” the old man muttered.

“Okay. I’ll take a half-pint of Robinson’s then.”

The barmaid glanced at the men. She was looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, but ladies usually drink in the lounge, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you go through and I’ll take your order.”

“Okay.” Emmy managed a smile. This wasn’t an occasion for making waves. “Would you mind directing me to the lounge?”

“It’s through that doorway.”

Emmy went through the open archway and found herself in a much colder room dotted with several polished wood tables and leather-upholstered chairs. There was a fireplace in this room too, but the fire wasn’t alight. Along one wall there was a long oak bar. Emmy was amused to realize it was the back of the same bar where the men were standing. The girl with the hair had turned to face her.

“Found it all right, did you then?”

“Is this some sort of law in Wales?” Emmy asked. “The women in one bar and the men in the other, I mean.”

“Oh, no,” the barmaid said. “Not the law exactly. It’s just the way it’s always been, isn’t it? And the men don’t feel they can chat properly when there are ladies present. They might use bad language or want to tell a joke.”

Emmy smiled at the quaintness. “So the ladies sit alone in here and discuss knitting patterns?”

“To tell you the truth, the ladies don’t come to the pub very often on their own. And if they’re with their man, why then they all sit together in the lounge.” She turned back to the elderly man leaning on the bar. “Isn’t that right, Charlie? I was saying that women don’t come to the pub much on their own.”

“They don’t come much at all,” Charlie replied, “seeing as we’re usually here around the time when they have to be home, cooking our dinners. Besides, most women don’t like the taste of beer. My Mair says she’d rather drink medicine.”

The barmaid had finished drawing the half-pint and put it in front of Emmy. “That will be one pound, miss, if you don’t mind.”

Emmy got out the coin and put it on the counter. “Thanks. Well, cheers then. How do you say ‘cheers’ in Welsh?”

“Iyched da,” Charlie and the other men said in chorus.

“Yacky dah?” Emmy tried it, stumbling over the pronunciation, and making them all laugh.

“We shouldn’t leave her all alone in that cold old lounge,” one of the young men suggested. “It wouldn’t do any harm to have her come and drink with us.”

Emmy noted the muscles bulging through the threadbare T-shirt and the unruly dark hair. Not bad, she decided. This assignment may have hidden perks.

“Harry wouldn’t like it,” the barmaid said firmly. “Besides, she wouldn’t want to hear the kind of language you use sometimes, Barry-the-Bucket—it would make her blush, the kind of things you say.”

“Me? When do I ever say something that makes you blush, Betsy fach?”

“Well, I’m used to it, aren’t I? I have to put up with you all the time.”

She turned back to Emmy with an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind him, miss.”

“What did you call him?” Emmy asked, fascinated.

“Barry-the-Bucket, on account of he drives the bulldozer with that big scooper thing in the front.”

“Barry-the-Bucket. I like that.”

The men were now all leaning on the bar, watching Emmy with interest as she took a long swig of her beer. She was tempted to drain the glass in one go, as she had learned to do in college, but it was important that she create the right image. She took one swig, put the glass down, and smiled at them. “It’s good,” she said. “Nice and full-bodied.”

“You like beer, then, do you?” Barry asked her. “Do they drink beer in America? It is America you come from, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. Pennsylvania. And we drink quite a bit of beer, although you’d probably find it too weak and cold.”

“That very pale stuff, fizzy like lemonade. I had some once. Bud—wasn’t it?”

Barry turned to his mate, who nodded agreement.

“Here on holiday, are you, miss?” Charlie asked.

Emmy noted with amusement that apparently it was okay if the men talked to her through the bar—rather like a convent with a grille, she decided. “Actually, I’m here to do research,” she said. “I’m a grad student at the University of Pennsylvania, doing a Ph.D. in psychology, and my thesis is on psychic ability.”

“Fancy!” The barmaid gave the men an impressed glance.

Emmy had worked on the speech long enough and now the words flowed out easily. He’d be pleased with how it was going so far. “I’m over here because Celts were famous for their psychic abilities. If there are any pure-blooded Celts left, it would have to be in an area like this. So I’m here to look for anyone with psychic power.”

“Like reading the tea leaves, that kind of thing, you mean?” The barmaid leaned forward, eagerly.

“Yeah, that kind of thing. Seeing the future, having prophetic dreams, sensing danger—the ancient Druids supposedly possessed all of those abilities.”

“Pity my old nain passed away a couple of years ago,” the barmaid said.

“Nine what?” Emmy was puzzled. She knew that nine was a significant number in Celtic mythology, but …

“Nain—oh sorry, I mean my grandmother. Nain’s how we say it in Welsh. I get mixed up sometimes.”

“So your grandma was psychic?”

“Oh, indeed she was, wasn’t she, Charlie?” Betsy turned to the older man. “She even saw the Derin Corff a couple of times, or was it the Cannwyll Corff?”

“What are they?” Emmy got out her notebook and started scribbling.

“Well, the Derin Corff is the bird of death and the Cannwyll Corff is the candle of death. They’re the same really—you see them when somebody’s about to die.”

“Fascinating,” Emmy said. “And your grandma saw them?”

“Oh, she did. I remember she came home late one night and she said to us, ‘Huw Lloyd won’t last the night. There was the Derin Corff perched on his shed roof.’”

“That was probably only the Lloyd’s old rooster,” Barry-the-Bucket commented, chuckling.

“You be quiet, Barry,” Betsy said and slapped his hand. “Whatever it was, she was right. Huw was gone by morning. And so was the thing she saw on the rooftop.” She shuddered. “It still gives me goose bumps to think of it. And she was a dab hand at reading the tea leaves too, was my nain.”

“Did she ever tell you that you’d go out with a good-looking bloke from the village this Saturday night?” Barry asked, leaning across the counter until his face was close to hers.

“Yes, but Constable Evans hasn’t asked me yet,” Betsy replied smoothly. “Even though I’ve given him enough hints.”

The older man chuckled. “She’s the match of you, boyo.”

“And she’s wasting her time mooning over Evan Evans,” Barry replied with a sniff.

“I don’t see why.” Betsy’s gaze was challenging.

“You know very well why. You let Bronwen Price get a hold on him, didn’t you? You’ll not shake him loose from her now.”

“We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” Betsy smoothed down her tight sweater. “I’m going to get my chance someday, and then I’ll show him what he’s been missing—even if I do have to push Bronwen-Bloody-Price off a mountain first!”

The men laughed and so did Betsy. Then she seemed to remember Emmy standing alone at the other bar and turned back to her. “Sorry, miss. Don’t mind them. Always teasing me, they are, because I’ve got my heart set on our local policeman.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Emmy said. “So tell me about your grandma seeing the future, Betsy. That is your name, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, miss. Betsy Edwards.”

“Hi, Betsy, I’m Emmy.” She held out her hand and Betsy took it awkwardly. “So go on about your grandma.”

“Well, she was well known in the village for having the sight, wasn’t she, Charlie?”

“She was,” Charlie agreed. “If she dreamed something was going to happen, then it did.”

“Wonderful.” Emmy beamed at them. “You haven’t inherited her talent by any chance?”

“Me?” Betsy blushed. “Oh no, I don’t think so. Although …”

“Yes?”

“I do sometimes know the phone’s about to ring just before it does. Stuff like that.”

“There you are. You probably have the psychic ability but you’ve never tried to use your powers yet.”

“Her ‘powers.’” Barry-the-Bucket nudged his mate.

“You be quiet, Barry,” Betsy said. “We’re having a serious conversation here. So you think I might have inherited my granny’s gift of the sight, do you?”

“It often goes in families,” Emmy said. “Through the female line. You’re not a seventh child, by any chance, are you?”

“No, I’m an only child. And my mother was an only child too.”

“Perfect,” Emmy said. “That’s the strongest connection of all. Only daughter to only daughter. Couldn’t be better.”

“You really think?” Betsy stammered. “My, but that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? Imagine if I could really see the future!”

“You could let your dad know what horse was going to win in the two-thirty at Doncaster.” Barry dug his silent mate in the side again.

“If you have powers like that, you have to use them for good,” Betsy said solemnly. “Not for winning horse races.”

Emmy was flicking the pages of her notebook. “Look, let me take your name and phone number, okay? I’d like to get together with you and do some testing, if you’re willing.”

“Testing?” Betsy looked at Charlie uneasily.

“We have to test psychic ability in a controlled environment … .”

“I wouldn’t want to go to any hospital,” Betsy said.

“Oh, nothing like that.” Emmy smiled. “I’m going to be working at a place called the Sacred Grove. Do you know it?”

“I can’t say that I do,” Betsy said. “Is it in Wales?”

“That big place on the coast near Porthmadog, isn’t it?” Charlie interrupted.

“Used to be a private estate, built by that crazy English lord. Tiggy, or something, isn’t that the name?” Barry asked.

“It’s Bland-Tyghe,” Charlie said, “and it’s pronounced ‘tie,’ you ignorant burke.”

Barry grinned. “They’re all round the bend, aren’t they? Didn’t the old man used to walk through the village in his pajamas, spouting poetry?”

“Didn’t I read that his daughter has turned it into some kind of hospital or sanitarium?” Charlie said.

“Loony bin, more likely,” Barry commented. “You want to watch out, Betsy. If they take you in there, they might never let you out again.”

“I’m not going to any loony bin,” Betsy said anxiously.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” Emmy interrupted hastily. “It’s a New Age center.”

“New age center?” Charlie asked. “Like an old folks home, you mean?”

“New Age,” Emmy repeated. Really, these people were just perfect. Totally clueless. “They’re into all kinds of cool stuff—alternative healing, psychic research. That kind of thing. I haven’t been there yet, but I’ve been in contact with them and they sound like they’ve got great facilities and staff.” She smiled hopefully at Betsy. “I’ve only just arrived in the area. I need to get settled in and then maybe you and I can go take a look down there. See if it’s the kind of thing you’d like to do, okay?”

“Okay,” Betsy said. “I don’t mind going to take a look.”

“I’d better get going,” Emmy said. “I’ve got a lot to do. I need to scout out all the other villages for people with psychic ability, and I need to find myself a place to stay. The hotel’s too expensive. You don’t know of any good b-and-bs that don’t charge an arm and a leg, do you?”

“We don’t go in for tourism too much up here,” Charlie said. “There’s the holiday cottages up on what used to be Morgan’s farm, but they’re not cheap, I hear.”

“I’d rather just find a room somewhere, and someone to cook me breakfast,” Emmy said. “I imagine I’ll be working pretty hard.”

“I know a room that’s going to be empty,” Betsy said suddenly. She gave the men an excited glance. “Well, there is, isn’t there? If Evan Evans moves into that cottage, Mrs. Williams will have a room free.”

“Has he really decided to move out?” Charlie asked. “I know he was thinking about it, but he might change his mind at the last moment, seeing as how Mrs. Williams looked after him so well.”

“If he says he’s going to do it, he will,” Betsy said firmly. “Anyway, we’ll ask him next time he comes in.”

“Fantastic,” Emmy said. “I’ve got your phone number, so I’ll call back and see. That would be so convenient if I could get a room in Llanfair.” She pronounced it Lan-fair.

The other occupants of the bar smiled.

“What?” Emmy demanded.

“It’s called Chlan-veyer,” Betsy said. “That’s how we say it. But don’t worry about it,” she added. “No foreigners can get it right.”

“Chlan-veyer,” Emmy repeated. “I’ll get it right next time. You’ll have to clue me in, Betsy.”

“Okay, miss.”

“Call me Emmy.” She gave another warm smile. “I’ll be in touch, Betsy.”

She had just come through the archway into the main bar when the door opened and the butcher came in, now without his blood-spattered apron. He looked around the room and his gaze fastened on Emmy. As he let out a torrent in Welsh, Emmy moved hastily out of the way. She had forgotten about this cleaver-wielding maniac, who might make living in this village hazardous.

Betsy answered him back in Welsh and he relaxed as he came up to the bar.

“Sorry, miss,” Betsy said, “but Evans-the-Meat is a little out of sorts this morning. A little matter of a bet we had over the football match last night. He was betting on Manchester United but Liverpool won, like I said it would.”

“A football match?” Emmy couldn’t help smiling.

“Mr. Evans thought the ref was unfair. He gave their best player a red card when it wasn’t a foul,” Betsy said. “But now he’s going to pay up like the gentleman he is.”

Evans-the-Meat gave a sheepish smile. “It breaks my heart to see a quality team like Manchester United beaten by a load of louts like Liverpool, that’s all. Oh, well, nothing we can do about it now, is there? So you’d better make it a pint of Robinsons then, Betsy fach.”

Emmy slipped out of the pub as Betsy poured the beer. She hurried up the village street, past the rows of identical gray cottages, each with a brightly painted front door, shining brass letter box, and white scrubbed front step. Some had boxes of spring flowers growing outside—splashes of yellow daffodils and blue hyacinths against the gray stone. All very nice and bright and quaint, she thought. Cut off from the real world. Wouldn’t he laugh when she told him they hadn’t even heard of New Age!

She passed a schoolyard with a school building beyond it. Through an open window she heard the sound of young voices chanting. It sounded suspiciously like times tables, although it was in Welsh, of course. Beyond the school were the last buildings in the village—two chapels. They stood across the street, mirror images of each other in solid gray stone. Each of them had a notice board outside, announcing them to be Capel Bethel and Capel Beulah. Each notice board had a biblical text on it. One said, “Whoever asketh, receiveth,” while the other stated, “Not everyone who says Lord, Lord will enter into the kingdom.”

Emmy smiled to herself as she walked past. They really were clueless up here in the boonies. Presumably they hadn’t even realized that the two biblical passages contradicted each other.

The hotel he told her about dominated the crown of the pass. It was, as he described it, a hideous giant chalet, complete with gingerbread trim and geraniums in boxes—completely out of place on a bleak Welsh mountainside. The discreet stone sign had the words “Everest Inn” carved in gold letters. The car park beyond was dotted with expensive cars so that the Jag didn’t look out of place. She walked up to the car and got in.

He looked up expectantly. “Well?”

She pushed back her hair and a big smile spread across her face. “We hit pay dirt in one. She’ll be just perfect.”

Chapter 3

Excerpt from the book The Way of the Druid, by Rhiannon

Who Are the Druids?

To many outsiders the word Druid conjures up a white-robed, bearded gentleman offering a sacrifice on Midsummer Night at Stone Henge. However, this picture does not represent the truth. Stone Henge was built long before the first Celts set foot in Britain and there have always existed Druid priestesses as well as priests. And while Druids did offer sacrifices, they were not blood hungry.

Who then were the Druids? In the golden age of Celtic spirituality, they were a priestly ruling class, advising warlords, predicting the future. They were the keepers of the ritual but far more than priests. They were involved in politics as well as sacrificial ritual, prophesy, and control of the supernatural world. They were the teachers, the keepers of the oral tradition. They were the philosophers, shamans, physicians, and judges. They were feared and venerated.

Julius Caesar wrote of them, “They have the right to pass judgment and to decide rewards and punishments.”

We know from ancient writings that Druids underwent a twenty-year course of study before they became fully fledged priests.

There were three subcasts to the order of Druids:

Bards who were the poets, singers, musicians, genealogists, and historians;

Ovates, who were the diviners and read the omens;

Druids, who were the priests and judges.

Caesar also wrote: “they know much about the stars and celestial motions and about the essential nature of things, and the powers and authority of the immortal gods, and these things they teach to their pupils.”

In many ways they were similar to the Hindu Brahmins and the Chaldean astronomers of Babylon. They were then, as they are now, the bridges between the two worlds—seen and unseen.

“Please don’t cry, Mrs. Williams.” Constable Evan Evans reached out awkwardly and patted his landlady’s large shoulder. This gesture only made the generously built woman sob into her handkerchief even more loudly.

“I feel like I’m losing a son,” she said. “The son I never had, you were.”

“It’s not like I’m going far. Just across the street, isn’t it? And you’ll be able to see me every day. I might even drop in for a cup of tea and a chat.”

“But it won’t be the same.”

“Come on now.” He put a tentative arm around as much of her shoulders as he could reach. “It’s time I moved on, isn’t it? I can’t go on being spoiled by you all my life. I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet.”

Mrs. Williams made a supreme effort to collect herself. A big shuddering sigh went through her body. “I suppose so,” she said. “I knew it would have to come someday.”

“Believe me, I’m not completely thrilled about it either,” Evan said. He bent to pick up a cardboard box of possessions from the floor of his room. “Cooking for myself after eating your good food for over a year—that’s going to take some getting used to. I’ll probably be as thin as a rake within a month.”

“You could come back here for your dinner anytime you wanted. You know that,” Mrs. Williams said.

“I know.” He smiled at her fondly. “But that’s not the point, is it? Bronwen won’t make any commitment until I’ve had a taste of living on my own.” He hoisted the box onto one shoulder and started down the stairs. “She’s perfectly right, of course. I went from my mother’s cooking to yours. I’ve never really lived alone before. How can I hope to be a husband and father someday if I don’t know how to look after myself?’

“So you’ve made up your mind? You’re thinking of marrying Bronwen Price and settling down then, is it?” Mrs. Williams’s tears were forgotten. She hurried down the stairs behind him. “We all knew you were courting her, of course, but …”

“I’m thinking about it,” he said. “I’ve turned thirty, haven’t I? About time I settled down.”

“You could do worse, I suppose,” Mrs. Williams said grudgingly.

“Worse? I don’t think I could do much better. She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”

“I won’t deny that. A nice-enough girl. Sensible too. But a little too serious, if you ask me. A man needs some fun in his life. He needs to go dancing from time to time. Let his hair down a little after a hard day’s work.”

“Are you saying I should be dating Betsy then?” He knew perfectly well what she was hinting. She had dropped the same hint, none too subtly, at regular intervals since he moved in.

“Betsy Edwards? Betsy-the-Bar? Escob annwyl! Indeed, I am not suggesting a thing like that. Betsy’s too flighty to make any man a decent wife. What you need is someone who is a good homemaker and knows how to have fun too.”

She reached around Evan to open the front door for him. A swirl of cold wind flapped the pages of a book on top of the pile. “Now, I know you haven’t liked to ask out our Sharon while you were living with me. I can understand that. A young man likes some privacy in his romantic dealings. He can’t go courting when the girl’s grandmother is supervising. But now you’ll be living on your own, why don’t you take her out—with my blessing? Then you’ll see—a lovely little cook, Sharon’s turning out to be, and a lovely little dancer too.”

Evan was glad his back was turned to his landlady so that she missed the involuntary wince. Sharon, Mrs. Williams’s granddaughter, giggled like a schoolgirl at everything he said, and she was too enthusiastic, all over him, constantly pawing at him. It was like fending off a Saint Bernard puppy.

“I’m sure she’ll make some man very happy, Mrs. Williams,” he said, “but you know me. I’m a quiet sort of bloke. I don’t go in much for dancing and that kind of thing. Bronwen suits me quite nicely, thank you.”

He stepped out into the blustery day, holding onto the objects on top of the pile that the wind threatened to snatch away. It was supposed to be spring, he thought gloomily, and yet there was another dusting of snow on top of Mount Snowdon last night. He glanced up at the mountain as he crossed the street, but the peak was hidden under a heavy blanket of dark cloud. On the other side of the street was a long row of terraced gray stone cottages, typical of any mining village. Evan put down the box outside the door of number 28. The only thing that distinguished it from numbers 26 and 30 was that it had a red front door. Such splashes of outlandish color were frowned upon in rural Wales. The last inhabitant, a widow called Mrs. Howells, had always been considered flighty on account of the red front door. She hadn’t shown any other signs of exhibitionism during her fifteen years of tenure, but the local women were still apt to speak of her as “Mrs. Howells Number Twenty-eight, you know, the flighty one with the red door.”

Now she had gone to live with her daughter in Cardiff, of all places—another sign that her judgment was slightly off. Evan had heard through the grapevine that the cottage would be vacant and he had jumped to take it. Not that there would have been too many others waiting to fight over it. The population of Llanfair, like that of most other Welsh villages, was aging and shrinking. No work since the slate mines closed and no prospects for young people apart from waiting tables and making beds at nearby hotels.

He fitted his key into the lock, turned, and pushed the door open. He picked up the box and stepped inside, conscious of the damp-cold feel of an empty house. It was so different from the warm friendliness of Mrs. Williams’s front hall that he looked back longingly across the street. He wondered how long it would be before he could turn this place into a home. So far he had a couple of saucepans and some mismatched china, courtesy of Bronwen, a vinyl-topped table, two chairs from the discount hardware emporium in Bangor, and a single bed. Hardly a promising start.

Evan carried the box through to the back room, which would serve as his living/dining room, and put it on the floor. The brown, pockmarked linoleum made the room feel even colder and gloomier. A rug would be one of his first purchases. Maybe he’d go down to Bangor or Llandudno this afternoon and do a rapid tour of the thrift shops. With his police constable’s salary he couldn’t afford to buy the kind of furniture he’d like all at once. He reminded himself this was just a temporary measure. With any luck the permits would come through for him to rebuild the old shepherd’s cottage in the national park above the village. This was his dream and he had been waiting patiently for several months with no word from the national parks people. When he finished building his own cottage, then he could start furnishing it the way he wanted—he corrected himself—the way Bronwen would want it. She had already expressed her willingness to live there, although she hadn’t mentioned anything about marriage. Neither had he, for that matter. It was still a hole in the ice around which they skated cautiously.

He wished that Bronwen were here to help him. But his department was on a cost-cutting drive and had started scheduling him to work every other weekend. This meant he was doing this on a Tuesday, when Bronwen was teaching at the village school. Evan took out a lamp, looked around the room for somewhere to put it, then stood it, for want of anywhere better, on the mantelpiece. He was just heading back to Mrs. Williams’s when the front door opened and Bronwen burst in.

“Haven’t got very far yet, have you?” She stood in the doorway, looking around disapprovingly. She was wearing a navy fisherman’s sweater that made her eyes look almost the same color, and her cheeks were pink from walking in the wind. Strands of ash blond hair had escaped from her long braid and blown across her face.

“What are you doing here?” Evan asked, his face lighting up. “You haven’t abandoned your pupils to come and see me, have you?”

Bronwen grinned. “It’s lunchtime and I’ve got two volunteer mothers on lunch duty, so I thought I’d pop over and see how you were doing.” She pushed back her wisps of hair as she surveyed the room. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t remembered it as quite so dreary.”

“That’s because last time you saw it it was full of Mrs. Howells’s furniture. And this floor was hidden under a rug,” Evan said. “I think a rug better be one of my first purchases, don’t you? As well as pots and pans, chairs and tables, a wardrobe, chests of drawers—oh, and food.”

“They’ve given you a raise then, have they?”

“I thought I’d go down to Bangor this afternoon and have a look at the charity shops. It’s the only way I’ll get this place furnished.”

Bronwen nodded. “And you don’t want to spend a lot on stuff that might not fit in the cottage someday.”

“If the permission ever comes through.” Evan sighed. “There’s some old codger on the board who thinks that all national park property should be allowed to return to wilderness.”

Bronwen came across and wrapped her arms around his neck. “It will come through. Just be patient. And in the meantime you’ll be gaining valuable experience at survival techniques.”

“You make it sound as if I’m about to cross Antarctica on foot.” Evan chuckled. “Of course, with my cooking, I may die of starvation pretty rapidly.”

“Get away with you.” Bronwen released him and gave him a playful slap. “You know very well that you’ll be eating at my place half the time, and Mrs. Williams will be popping round every day with a little something she’s baked, just to make sure …”

“She already invited me to dinner any night I felt like it,” Evan said. “But I’m going to be strong and resist temptation. And no take-aways and frozen meals either. I’ve got that cookbook you gave me for Christmas and I’m going to learn to cook. You’ll see.”

“I’m very proud of you,” she said. “I shall expect to be invited to dinner in the—”

She was interrupted by the beep of Evan’s pager. He took it from his belt and grimaced. “Oh, no, that’s all I need. HQ on the phone for me.”

“That’s not fair,” Bronwen said angrily. “First they take away half your weekends and give you two useless weekdays off instead, and then they phone you on your days off too.”

“I am a policeman, Bron,” he said. “It goes with the job. If there’s some sort of emergency, days off don’t count.”

“But I hardly ever see you these days,” she said. “I’m busy marking papers all week and you’re working all weekend. I had to do that lovely hike over Glyder Fach by myself.”

“We could always solve that,” Evan said, slipping an arm around her. “I could give up trying to make this place habitable and come and live with you instead.”

“Oh, yes, that would go down very well with the locals, wouldn’t it!” Bronwen laughed. “Imagine what fodder that would give the two ministers for their Sunday sermons. Besides,” she reached up and stroked his cheek, “we’re doing this for a purpose, aren’t we?” She gave him a hasty peck on the cheek. “Got to go,” she said. “If I don’t get back, those kids will be running wild.”

Evan followed her out and watched her run up the street before he made his way down the hill to his little sub-police station.

“Oh, Constable Evans. Glad we found you,” Megan, the dispatcher, came on the phone. “Sorry to be disturbing you on your day off, but the chief inspector would like a word with you and he’s off to Birmingham for a conference in the morning. It’s all about this reorganization he’s planning. He’s come up with a solution to making you more—upwardly mobile, shall we say.”

“Is he there to speak to me now?”

“He’d like you to come down so that he can speak to you in person. Is that all right? I know it’s your day off, but …”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Evan said.

He put the phone down and went out to his old clunker of a car. It started on the third attempt. Community policemen were not equipped with police cars. Mobile units were sent as backup from Caernarfon when needed, so the car was his own—had been his own for many years now. “Upwardly mobile”—what could that mean? And she had sounded so enigmatic when she said it, too. Did she know something he didn’t—a promotion maybe? His transfer at last to the plainclothes division? He put his foot down and the engine growled in protest as he drove out of the car park.

“Ah, Evans. Good man.” It was Chief Inspector Meredith’s standard method of greeting, unless one had done something wrong, in which case it was just “Ah, Evans,” with the “good man” part omitted. So he knew he wasn’t in trouble.

“Glad you got here so quickly.” This was also part of the standard welcome. “Pull up a pew.”

The chief inspector was in his customary rolled-up shirtsleeves and Evan noted that the room was pleasantly warm. No cost-cutting attempts with the central heating going on here.

“So how are things up at Llanfair?” The chief inspector pronounced it awkwardly, not able to get his tongue around the double l, like all non-Welsh speakers. He was from North Wales, but from the coastal city of Llandudno, which had always considered itself gentrified and where Welsh-speaking was a rarity.

“Oh, about the same as usual, sir.” Evan perched himself on the hard wooden visitor’s chair and wished the chief inspector would cut the small talk and get to the point. The anticipation was killing him.

“No bodies for a while? You must be getting bored.” He laughed—a polite little ha ha. Evan smiled and wisely kept silent. He knew that his apparent knack for solving murder cases had not always gone down well with the top brass. In fact, he sometimes wondered if his track record was what had prevented him from being selected for detective training.

“I expect it’s pretty quiet up there in Llanfair at this time of year, isn’t it? No tourists around yet to get lost or stranded or lose their keys.”

“That’s right, sir.”

The chief inspector leaned forward in his chair. “Look here, Evans. You probably know that we’ve been given a directive from Colywn Bay to cut departmental costs considerably. One of the suggestions, of course, was to do away with the smaller outstations and consolidate our personnel at headquarters.”

“I thought that had been tried before, sir, before I got here. I thought they discovered that having an officer on the spot was a great crime deterrent.” (As if anyone with any sense hasn’t already figured that out, he thought.)

“True, but then the population out in the villages is shrinking all the time, isn’t it? In a few years they will only exist for the tourists—a sort of Walt Disney re-creation of Wales as it used to be. Bed-and-breakfasts, craft shops, ye olde blacksmiths—that kind of thing.”

“Not for a while yet,” Evan said. “We must have at least a couple of hundred people in Llanfair and we’re one of the smaller villages.” He looked directly at the chief inspector. A sinking feeling was growing in his stomach. He had rushed here, filled with expectancy, dreaming of possibilities. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “You’re not thinking of closing the Llanfair station, are you?”

“Not for the moment. However, I can’t afford to keep officers where they are not fully utilized. I know you have periods when you’re busy up there. I know there have actually been some major incidents since you joined our force and your presence has been most—” Evan thought he would say, “instrumental,” but instead he said, “—useful in solving them quickly. Then, on the other hand,” he picked up a logbook, “there are days when you seem to do little more than answer phone calls and make cups of tea.”

“It’s not quite as bad as that, sir,” Evan said. “I catch up on my paperwork when there’s nothing to do. And I imagine there are days down here when you’re not exactly run off your feet either.”

The chief inspector managed a smile. Evan couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “So what are you planning to do with me?” he blurted out.

“Expand your territory,” Chief Inspector Meredith said. “At the moment you are confined to an area you can cover on foot. I know you’re a fine climber and you’ve been able to get up to accidents on the mountains, but the response time is naturally slow. We’re going to make your job easier by issuing you a motorbike.”

“A motorbike?” Evan couldn’t have been more surprised, or disappointed. “I’ve never actually ridden a motorbike, sir.”

“No problem. There will be training, of course. And that way we can justify keeping the Llanfair substation open. You’ll be able to patrol the territory from Llanberis on one side to Beddgelert on the other and the most frequently used mountain paths as well. Everyone carries cell phones these days. If we get a call from a climber or hiker in distress, you’ll be able to whiz straight up to them.” He beamed as if he was giving Evan a wonderful present.

“So—uh—when do I get this—motorbike?” Evan asked. He tried not to let his feelings show in his voice. He had never actually wanted a motorbike, even when his teenage friends were pleading with their parents to get one. They had always looked cold and uncomfortable. He saw no point in getting the rain in his face when he could be safely inside a car. Now he pictured himself riding up mountains in rainstorms in search of stranded tourists. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

“It’s already over at the motor shop, being checked out,” the chief inspector said. “There are five of you constables who are being turned into mobile units, so we have to find time to schedule each of you for training. Go and look at the master schedule in dispatch and see when you can fit in a training session. We want it done as soon as possible, so you can be out and about before the tourists show up en masse.”

Evan got to his feet. “Will that be all, sir?”

The chief inspector stretched, leaning back in his chair, extending his arms, and cracking his knuckles. “Yes, that’s about it. Off you go then. And no doing wheelies when we’re not looking!” He chuckled again.

Evan started for the door then turned back. “About my request, sir. My transfer to plainclothes. Any idea what chance I’ve got?”

“None at the moment with all the cost cutting going on, I’m afraid,” Chief Inspector Meredith said. “Plainclothes is having to pare down to the bare bones, just as we are. And I’m in no hurry to lose a good man, either.”

Evan came out into the hallway and made for the front door. He didn’t even feel like stopping at the cafeteria for a chat and a cup of tea. Megan, the cheerful carthorse of a dispatcher, poked her head through the window as he passed. “Seen the chief, have you? Did you like my little joke? Upwardly mobile, get it?”

“Very funny,” Evan said, and pushed the swing door open.

Chapter 4

It had started to rain, the fine Welsh misty rain that locals sometimes described as a “soft day.” You didn’t notice it as much, Evan thought, but it soaked you just as thoroughly as the heavy stuff. He didn’t even bother to turn up his collar to keep it out. It matched his mood. Megan’s laughter rang through his head.

He swung away from his car and instead walked through the car park to the maintenance sheds beyond where the new motorbike would be waiting. Might as well get it over with and take a look at it. He couldn’t understand why he had such a negative feeling about motorbikes. He had never owned one. None of the friends of his youth had ever owned one either. So why was he so sure he’d hate riding one? It wasn’t the cold and rain in his face that was worrying him. Anyone bred in the Welsh mountains was used to cold and rain in their faces. He’d had plenty of experience of it in his life waiting for school buses or playing rugby. And he never even minded the weather when he was hiking or climbing. It had to be something more than that … . Evan racked his brains. He had never been a speed freak, but then he’d never been too worried by speed either. An image came into his head of a motorbike leaning over at an impossible angle as it rounded a sharp curve. When had he ever seen …

Then all at once it came back to him. He was on holiday with his parents on the Isle of Mann and they had gone to watch the motorcycle grand prix race held there every year. Evan couldn’t have been more than five or six at the time. He remembered climbing up on the fence to see over. The bikes had flashed past, engines screaming, going so fast that they were a blur of bright color. He’d thought it was the most exciting thing he’d ever seen. He couldn’t wait to get home to his new two-wheeler and pretend that it was a motorbike. Then it had happened—one of the bikes took the bend too fast. It was leaning at an impossible angle, the rider’s head only inches from the tarmac. It had been raining and the surface was slick. Suddenly the motorbike was over and sliding into the other bikes. There was a horrible crunch of metal and then a great ball of flame shot up. Evan didn’t think that anyone had actually been killed, but the image was still sharp and clear in his mind. He heard his mother saying, “Promise me you’ll never ride one of those dreadful things. Promise me.” And he had promised.

She had made him make similar promises about anything that frightened her, and extracted similar promises from his father too. But it hadn’t done any good. His father had promised, over and over, that he would be careful and yet he had fallen in a hail of bullets one night, trying to intercept a drug transaction.

Evan hoped his mother had forgotten about the grand prix incident, but he didn’t think she would have. He’d have to remember not to mention the motorbike in their weekly phone conversations.

His new machine, with four others, was standing in the garage, next to a dismantled squad car. It didn’t look nearly as big or impressive as Evan had feared. It was a lightweight contraption with big, knobbly tires. He let out a sigh of relief.

A head poked out from under the squad car and Dai, the mechanic, emerged. “Hello, Constable. It’s Evans, isn’t it? Come for your bike then?”

“I just came to take a look at it today. I’m supposed to sign up for training before I’m allowed to ride it.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to it,” Dai said, grinning. “Any ten-year-old could ride this bike. It couldn’t go fast if it tried. Made for off road, really, like all the farmers have around here for rounding up their sheep. See the big tires. You’ll be able to take it up to the top of Snowdon if you’ve a mind to. Ever ridden one before?” Evan shook his head. “Go on then. Hop on and get a feel for it. I’ll run you through the basic controls. After that there’s nothing to it. You could take it out for a spin today if you wanted.”

Evan climbed onto the bike. It was small and compact, a pony not a race horse. “You switch on here,” Dai said, “and your throttle is there on your handlebar. Go on, try it.”

As the machine sputtered into life, Evan was conscious of two figures standing in the garage doorway.

“Would you take a look at that, Glynis?” Sergeant Watkins said, grinning to his partner. “It’s King of the Road. Don’t tell me that Hell’s Angels have invaded the motor pool.”

“Give it a break, Sarge.” Evan smiled, hastily switching off the engine and climbing off the bike. “Did you hear I’ve been assigned one of these things?”

“I heard something about it, yes,” Sergeant Watkins said. “Not a bad idea, really. You’ll be able to respond more quickly when some stupid Englishwoman drops her purse down a mountain, won’t you, boyo?”

“I think it looks like fun.” Glynis Davies, the young detective constable, gave him one of her dazzling smiles.

Not as much fun as doing your job, Evan thought. The job I applied for but you got. He tried to push the thought from his mind. He knew it wasn’t her fault that she’d received the promotion before him. She was smart and able; also a woman at a time when they’d been directed to hire more female detectives. But it still rankled.

“Are you allowed to carry passengers?” she asked.

“I’ve no idea what I’m allowed to do yet. I only heard about it a few minutes ago.”

“If you are, I’m first in line for a ride,” she said. She glanced across at Sergeant Watkins. “Have you heard the other news yet?” Evan thought he noticed Watkins give her a warning look, but she didn’t stop. “Our chief is taking early retirement.”

“The D.C.I.?”

“That’s right. And guess who is going to take his place?”

“Not D.I. Hughes?” Evan sounded incredulous. “You’re not serious. That man couldn’t detect a fried egg sitting on top of his toast.”

“He knows the right people,” Watkins said, “and he was the only choice, really, unless they brought someone across from Colwyn Bay.”

Evan nodded. Why should he worry? It wasn’t as if the change of power at the top of the plainclothes ladder affected him.

“So they’ll be doing without a D.I. then, will they?” he asked.

Watkins’s face turned bright red. It was the first time Evan had ever seen him blush.

“Sergeant Watkins is being sent for training,” Glynis said proudly. “He’s in line to be promoted to inspector.”

“That’s wonderful, Sarge,” Evan said, giving his hand a hearty shake. “Congratulations.”

“Let’s wait until it actually happens, shall we?” Watkins muttered. “With all these cost-cutting measures, they’ll probably decide they can’t afford to promote me.” He turned to Dai, the mechanic. “That’s why we’re down here. Cost-cutting measures again. They’re resurrecting old cars that should have been sent to the scrap heap years ago and we’ve been assigned this beauty. I take it it’s not going anywhere for a while, Dai?”

“You can say that again, Sergeant,” Dai said. “A proper mess, if you ask me. It’s going to cost them a fortune in new parts to get it back on the road. And you should see the rust in the chassis. You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t fall to pieces while you’re driving.”

“Thanks a lot. Very encouraging,” Watkins said. “Looks like we might have to ask Evans for a ride on the back of his motorbike after all.”

“You’re out of luck. I’m not taking it anywhere yet. I’ve got to sign up for training sessions first.”

“Training sessions?” Watkins chuckled. “What are they going to do—start you out with training wheels? Our Tiffany could ride that thing. You should have seen her at the go-cart track at Rhyl the other day. Proper little speed queen she is. Am I glad she can’t get her driving license until she’s eighteen!” He put a hand on Evan’s shoulder. “We might as well get a cup of tea in the cafeteria then. Coming, boyo?”

“All right, why not?” Evan left the workshop with them and crossed the wet parking lot.

“Isn’t it supposed to be your day off today?” Glynis asked him. “I was planning to come up to see you, but then I looked at the duty roster and saw you were off.”

“I was supposed to be, but the chief inspector called me down here to tell me the wonderful news in person.”

“Wonderful news?” Glynis asked innocently.

“About my motorbike.”

“I gather you’re not too thrilled,” Watkins commented.

“I thought it might have been better news,” Evan said.

Watkins nodded. “It will come.”

“So what did you want to see me about, Glynis?” Evan asked, steering the conversation to safer areas.

“You know about youth hostels and things, don’t you?” she said. “I thought you could help me. I’ve got to put up flyers in all the local youth hostels. We’re trying to locate a missing girl.”

“Staying at a local youth hostel?”

Glynis shook her head. “No idea. She’s an American college student, doing some kind of course at Oxford University. The course finished before Christmas. She called her parents and said she’d like to stay on over here and do some traveling before she went home. She promised she’d be home by Easter, in time for her spring term at university over there. Her parents haven’t heard anything since February and she didn’t show up for Easter. They’re worried sick, naturally, and they’ve come over to look for her.”

“What makes them think she’s been around here?”

“Her last postcard said she was going to Wales. That’s all they’ve got to go on.”

“I see.” Evan frowned. “Tough order. She could be anywhere. I presume there are other police looking into this too?”

Glynis nodded. “The police in Oxford, obviously, and the Met as well. She stayed at a friend’s flat in London over the Christmas holidays.”

“I’ll be happy to put up flyers for you at the youth hostels,” Evan said. “She was an outdoorsy type of girl, was she? Might have come here to hike or climb?”

“No, she wasn’t. That’s the strange thing,” Glynis said. “Very quiet, studious, socially conscious, played the violin. But a good sense of humor. The last postcard she wrote to her parents said, ‘Gone to Wales. Got a date with a Druid.’”

“And that’s all you’ve got to go on?”

Glynis nodded. “Not much, is it?”

“And if she’s been wandering around since Christmas, she could be long gone by now. We’d be lucky to find anyone at a youth hostel who remembered her. These kids wander around for a month at the most then disappear again.”

“That’s exactly what Rebecca’s done—disappeared,” Glynis said. “She never showed up at her friend’s flat to collect the rest of her stuff.”

“Doesn’t sound too good, does it?” Evan said. “The flyers have a picture of her on them, do they?”

“Yes, but not a very good one. I’m hoping for a better one when we meet the parents. They’re due up here in a few days, working their way from the North of Wales to the South, leaving no stone unturned.”

“Poor people,” Evan said. “I’ve always thought that must be the very worst thing—not knowing. People can take bad news as long as they know the truth.”

Glynis nodded. “You’re right. I’ll bring Mr. and Mrs. Riesen up to meet you when they get here. You always know the right things to say.”

“All right.” Evan smiled. She was a nice girl. If she wasn’t dating the chief constable’s nephew and he didn’t have Bronwen in his life, he might well … he stopped short as they got to the police station door. “I’ve just remembered,” he said. “I don’t think I’d better stop for tea with you. I’m moving house today. I’ve got a ton of things still to do and I wanted to go round the charity shops before they shut. I’ve got to furnish the place somehow.”

“So you finally did it?” Watkins grinned. “You cut the cord and moved away from your landlady. Well, good for you, boyo. Now you’ll find out what life is really like. It will be beans on toast and washing your own shirts like the rest of us.”

“I’ll have you know that I plan to become a gourmet chef,” Evan said. He tried not to smile when Watkins nudged Glynis. “No, seriously. I’ve got a fancy cookbook that Bronwen gave me and I’m going to teach myself to cook properly.”

“We’ll expect a dinner invitation, won’t we, Glynis?” Watkins said.

“Absolutely.” Glynis Davies’s large brown eyes held his.

It was with some regret that he watched them go through to the cafeteria. In spite of everything he had to admit that he still found her fascinating.

Chapter 5

A few days later Evan headed out of Caernarfon on the new bike. He had passed the course, ridden around cones without knocking them down, and knew how to start and stop. He was ready to become a motorcycle cop. He grinned to himself at the term, imagining himself involved in the kind of high-speed chases that always seemed to happen in places like Los Angeles. The only high-speed chase around Llanfair would be with a sheep that had wandered onto the road.

He left the last of the urban sprawl behind him and let out the throttle as the bike began to climb the pass. The engine gave a satisfying roar. The first of the zigzag bends approached. He was supposed to lean into it, but it seemed such an improbable thing to do. He felt gravity pulling at him, leaned, and smiled to himself as the bike hugged the curve. Very satisfying. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He couldn’t wait to try it off road, but after several days of steady rain, he’d better let the hillsides dry out a little first.

Llanfair appeared ahead of him, nestled between green slopes. It was late afternoon and the village was bathed in sharp, slanting sunlight, making the gray stone of the cottages glow pink. The stream that flowed from 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 whoosh. Evan grabbed a saucepan lid and managed to drop it over the pan.

“Pfew, that was close,” he muttered, pushing back his hair from his face with a sooty hand. “Smoke alarm,” he wrote on the growing list on the fridge.

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 bach.” Evan looked at the men standing around the bar for some explanation of what was wrong. “I’d like the usual Guinness and something to eat if it’s not too much trouble.”

“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.

“I’m not really sure. I only came in at the end of it. A lot of nonsense about Betsy having special powers and second sight, from what she said.”

“Always was daft in the head, that girl,” Harry commented. “She’d believe anything you told her.”

“Still, I hope she hasn’t come to any harm.” Evan looked around uneasily. “Where was this American supposed to be studying? At Bangor?”

Evans-the-Meat shrugged. “Ask Barry-the-Bucket. He was there. He might know.”

Heads turned to where Barry was chatting with his friends in the corner by the fire. “Hey, Barry, boyo,” Evans-the-Meat called. “You were there, weren’t you? When that American woman came into the pub and talked to Betsy.”

Barry left his corner and came across to the bar. “I was,” he said. “Real brainy type with all kinds of degrees. Not a bad looker either—bit on the scrawny side but she’d be okay with some fattening up. I bet she’s the kind that eats nothing but nuts and rice.”

“So where do you think Betsy might have gone with her?”

“That place she was going to be studying. You know, that estate down on the coast built by the crazy lord Tiggy. What do they call it now? That’s right. The Sacred Grove. That’s what she called it. From what she said the lot that own it now are even crazier than that old lord—she was going to find out if Betsy had the second sight.”

“Like reading tea leaves, you mean?” Harry asked.

“I’d imagine so. Seeing into the future, anyway. This woman told Betsy that Celts used to have the ability and she thought Betsy might still have it, seeing that her old nain used to see the Derin Corff.”

Harry let out a chuckle. “Well, if that isn’t one of the daftest things I’ve ever heard. And Betsy believed her, did she? She would. But she’s got no more knowledge of the future than the chickens in my back garden, and they’re the daftest creatures on God’s earth. If she could see into the future, she’d have helped me pick the right horse in the Grand National, wouldn’t she? And I wouldn’t have lost my ten quid.”

And she’d have foreseen that old Colonel Arbuthnot was going to be murdered that night he left the pub, Evan thought. If ever there was a moment for second sight, that would have had to be it. Betsy was so anxious to be noticed that she’d say and do anything.

“I can tell you haven’t got the second sight of the Celt, Harry,” Barry-the-Bucket said, banging his glass down on the counter, “or you’d have seen that I was dying of thirst, waiting for a refill.”

Harry opened his mouth to answer this when the door opened and Betsy stepped in, her blond curls windswept but her eyes sparkling with triumph.

“Sorry I’m late, Harry,” she said, pushing through the crowd of men to reach the bar, “but I want you to know that you’re talking to someone who may be a real live psychic.”

“So your psychic ability didn’t tell you that you were late then? You didn’t pick up the negative vibrations in the air from me being ticked off at you?”

Betsy gave him a dazzling smile as she opened the swing section of the bar and came through, taking off her coat as she walked. “I thought you’d understand, just this once. This is a special day in my life, Harry. You won’t believe the things that I’ve seen today. It’s like another world down there.”

“You were abducted by aliens, were you?” Barry leaned on the bar, grinning at her.

“You have no idea, Barry-the-Bucket,” Betsy said. “If you saw what I’ve seen today, your eyes would pop right out of your head. It’s like another world.”

“Well, go on then, tell me what I’m thinking if you’re a real psychic,” Barry teased.

“If your aura is anything to go by, it’s the sort of thoughts a gentleman shouldn’t have, as usual,” Betsy said.

“My aura? What aura?”

“Emmy says we all have an aura around us,” Betsy said. “And we psychics can learn to see it. Everyone is surrounded by lovely colored light. Some people have gold auras, some have pink, some have mauve—and you, Barry-the-Bucket, have a dirty brown aura.”

“I never heard such a load of rubbish,” Harry said. “Where on earth have you been that they’ve filled your head with ideas like that?”

“It’s not rubbish. You wouldn’t understand, not being psychic like me,” Betsy said. “The Sacred Grove is full of people who can see auras and heal with crystals, and who worship the trees—all kinds of wonderful stuff. It’s the most amazing place. It’s like this beautiful village you’d see on television, not like somewhere in Wales at all. Pools and fountains and spas, and the guests each have their own little houses. Like another world.”

“You’ve said that about ten times already. So stop talking and start pulling. These gentlemen are dying of thirst and poor Constable Evans is going to go hungry because you weren’t here to put pies in the oven.”

Betsy turned her blue Barbie-doll eyes on him in horror. “You haven’t had any dinner? You poor thing. I knew it was a bad idea moving in on your own without a woman to look after you.”

“Betsy, I’m perfectly capable …” Evan began, conscious of all the eyes on him. “It’s just that I haven’t had time to get my kitchen properly stocked yet.”

“He can’t do a thing without his soufflé dishes!” Evans-the-Meat nudged Charlie Hopkins, who had just come in. “We all expect to be invited to dinner when you’ve become a gourmet cook, you know.”

“I don’t know why everyone thinks my living on my own is doomed to failure,” Evan said. “I can handle myself in most situations, you know.”

“Betsy is dying for you to handle her in a few situations, aren’t you, Betsy fach?” Charlie Hopkins asked, his body shaking with a silent laugh.

“I’d know how to handle him, that’s for sure,” Betsy responded. “And I’d start off by feeding him right.” She gave Evan her most encouraging smile. “Hold on a second and I’ll pop a meat pie in the microwave. Will that do, do you think?”

“Lovely. Thanks.”

“I give him a week,” Charlie Hopkins said to Evans-the-Milk, who had just come up to the bar. “Then he’ll be back with Mrs. Williams again.”

“Oh, but he can’t do that!” Betsy exclaimed.

“Why not?”

“Because she’s already let his room.”

There was an instant hush. It wasn’t often that something happened in Llanfair without the news being spread within seconds.

“Let his room?” Evans-the-Milk said. “There are no tourists at this time of year, surely.”

“It’s not a tourist,” Betsy said. “It’s my friend Emmy. You know, the American lady from the university who I told you about. She needed a cheap place to stay because she’ll be here for a while doing her research. She wants to find out how many Celtic people still have ESP. That’s extrasensory perspication, in case you didn’t know, Barry-the-Bucket.” She added triumphantly, “And I’m her first subject and what do you know? She gave me one test and I scored right off the chart.”

“Off the wall, if you ask me,” Harry muttered.

“So I’ve got to go back for further testing. I met the owner of the place today and he’s going to test me himself.”

“Bland-Tiggy or what he’s called? I thought the old lord died long ago and it was his daughter who owns it now.”

“It’s pronounce Bland-Tie, not Tiggy. You lot are so ignorant,” Betsy said crushingly. “And Lady Annabel Bland-Tyghe does still own the place, but she’s married to an American man called Randy and he’s a very famous psychic over there and he’s going to make this place just as famous. I met him today. Ooh, he was lovely, just. Like a film star—long blond hair right over his shoulders … .”

“A bloke?” Barry asked. “With long blond hair?”

“That’s right.”

“Sounds like a proper pansy to me.” Barry looked around at the other men for agreement.

“Ooh, he’s not at all. He’s ever so sexy-looking—just like those men you see on the covers of romance novels—you know, rippling muscles and open shirtfront. Too bad he’s married and to an old woman like her too. He’s going to be testing me tomorrow.”

“Hang about,” Harry said. “What’s all this about tomorrow? It’s Saturday tomorrow. I’ll need you here all day.”

“Oh, but Harry …” Betsy turned her big eyes on him, pleading.

“I can’t have you going running off just when you feel like it. You’ve got a job to do here, young lady, and Saturday isn’t your day off.”

“Not just this once, seeing as how it’s so important?”

“No, not just this once. Tell your psychic friends they can wait for Monday and your day off. And if they were really bloody psychic, they’d already know that Monday is your day off! And before you start pouting, go and collect the empties. I’m running out of glasses back here.”

“Old spoilsport,” Betsy muttered as she pushed past the men at the bar.

She was just passing the front door with a tray full of glasses when it opened and a woman came in. Betsy looked up and gave a shriek of delight. “Emmy! You’re here. How lovely to see you! Everybody!” She raised her voice. “This is Emmy I’ve been telling you about. The one who has just moved in with Mrs. Williams.”

The woman smiled shyly, pushing a curtain of dark hair back from her face. “Boy, what a dinner I’ve just had!” she said. “Can that woman cook, or can she cook? I owe you big-time, Betsy, for finding me that place to live. Those lamb chops tonight—boy, am I glad I stopped being a vegetarian. I am in hog heaven!”

Evan swallowed hard as disturbing visions of Mrs. Williams’s lamb chops danced before his eyes—nicely brown on the outside and just pink enough in the middle, probably accompanied by fluffy mashed potatoes and cauliflower in a parsley sauce. He remembered that Betsy hadn’t served him the warmed-over meat pie yet.

“Come on in, Emmy, and meet everyone,” Betsy said, clearing a path for her through the crowd with her tray.

“I wasn’t sure whether to come or not, seeing that women aren’t really welcome in the pub.”

“Not really welcome—who’s been telling you that?” Harry demanded. “Of course they’re welcome. We’ve a lovely lounge with comfortable chairs and tables all ready and waiting. Show her the way through then, Betsy.”

“Oh, don’t make her go in there on her own,” Betsy said. “It’s terrible cold and unfriendly in there tonight and she’s the only one. It’s up to us to make her feel welcome in the village.”

“Rules are rules,” Harry said in Welsh, “and we’re not breaking them for any foreigners.”

“You really are being an old grumpy tonight,” Betsy said, also in Welsh.

“On account of my being run off my feet because the hired help didn’t turn up on time,” Harry said.

“Come on through to the ladies’ lounge then, Emmy,” Betsy said in English. “Harry here is a stickler for his rules, I’m afraid.”

“That’s okay. I find it delightfully quaint,” Emmy said. “It’s nice to know that there still are parts of the world where tradition is important.” She approached the bar from the lounge side and leaned on it looking through at the sea of male faces watching her. “So has Betsy told you the news? Aren’t you excited about having a genuine psychic in your midst?”

“Genuine psychic, my foot,” Harry said, putting a pint in front of Emmy none too gently. “If she’s a genuine psychic, then I’m the duke of Edinburgh.”

“No, I’m sure we’re onto something here,” Emmy said. “Of course, she hasn’t learned how to harness her psychic ability yet but it’s there all right. I can’t wait for the director to see her tomorrow. He’s a famous psychic in the States. Anyone who is anyone consults him, y’know. He used to have his own TV show.”

“No wonder he looks so lovely,” Betsy said as she ducked through into the bar area and popped up close to Emmy. “I said he looked like a film star, didn’t I?”

“He’s one of the best-known psychics in the world,” Emmy went on. “I’m so happy that he’s agreed to help me with my research. He’s really excited about finding local people with untapped powers. I know it’s going to blow his mind when he meets Betsy tomorrow and feels all of that untapped energy bursting out of her.”

“I won’t be able to meet him tomorrow,” Betsy said, with a catch in her voice.

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out, Betsy?”

“No, but Harry here won’t let me have the day off. He’s making it hard for me.”

“She has a job and that comes first,” Harry said. “She’s bloody lucky to find a job around here. Most young people have to move away, don’t they?”

The American woman touched Betsy’s arm and leaned close to her. “Look, Betsy. If this is going to be a problem, maybe I’ve got a way out. I happen to know that they’re hiring extra help at the Sacred Grove, ready for the summer season. If you like, I could speak to the owners about finding you a job there. Then you’d be on the spot so that we could do further testing and help you to bring out your hidden talents.”

Betsy’s eyes were shining. “Me, miss? You think they’d hire me down there?”

“Sure they would. The place is already booking solid for the summer and they need the same kind of staff as a five-star hotel. You’ve already worked in the hospitality industry so you’ve got a head start. Let me ask the owners in the morning and see what they say.”

“You hear that, Evan?” Betsy looked round at him. “Did you hear what Emmy was saying? She thinks she can get me a job at the place where they’re testing me. Imagine that—me among all the healers and priestesses and everything. You just watch how psychic I get when I’m surrounded by all those good vibrations.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of leaving Harry and going to work down there with foreigners, are you?” Evans-the-Meat had also overheard the conversation.

“Why shouldn’t I? Grumpy old man,” Betsy said. “Do you think I haven’t been dying to find something better than this? I’ve got dreams and ambitions, you know. If they’ll have me, I’ll be out of here in the morning and Harry can like it or lump it!”

Chapter 6

Excerpt from The Way of the Druid, by Rhiannon

The History of Druidism

The Druid religion extends back into the mists of time. It is not known whether the Celts brought Druidism with them when they migrated from their homeland around the Black Sea to populate and dominate much of Europe, or whether Druidism evolved only among the western Celts—those in Britain and northern France. It is in those areas that we have found the physical evidence of Druids—the carved statues of the gods, the stones with charms inscribed on them, the priestly torques, the ritual objects placed in wells and lakes.

It is in Wales and Ireland that we feel their presence most strongly.

In any case we know that Druidism was flourishing in the British Isles when the Roman armies invaded with Julius Caesar in 55 B.C.E.

It is also shortsighted to speak of Druidism as being a thing of the past, recently resurrected. In Ireland and Wales, among the true Celts, Druidism has never died out. It has been subdued, Christianized, but it still lurks at the base of every Celtic psyche.

Druidism has suffered from what today would be described as bad press. The only historical accounts of Druid worship still extant come from Roman sources. The conqueror justifying the act of conquest. Julius Caesar, Pliny the Younger, and other notable Romans describe the Druids as savage barbarians, prone to unspeakable sacrifices and torture of prisoners, holding mysterious and terrible ceremonies in oak groves. These same Romans failed to mention that captured Britons, many of them Druids, or ahherents of the Druid religion, were shipped off to Rome to provide spectacle in the arenas by fighting gladiators or lions.

Tacitus writes: “The graves devoted to Monas barbarous superstitions he demolished. For it was their religion to drench their altars in the blood of prisoners and to consult their gods by means of human entrails.”

What few facts we can glean from these Roman distortions tell us that the Druids were indeed formidable foes. When the Romans reached the Isle of Mon (which the English call Anglesey), they were confronted by a horde of blue-painted Celts, both men and women, brandishing weapons and howling so fiercely that the mighty Roman army was unnerved and the soldiers could not be persuaded to cross the strait to do battle. Eventually, when reinforcements arrived and the Celts were hopelessly outnumbered, the Romans advanced and there was a fierce battle before the Celtic army was wiped out.

Wales became a Roman province. Christianity arrived in the fourth century. Druidism was suppressed but never completely wiped out. The Christian missionaries cleverly incorporated the most important Druid feasts into the church year, so that the winter solstice, with its garlands of holly and ivy, its burning of a great log, and its feast to brighten the shortest day, has become Christmas.

Beltane, with its lighting of the new fire, its sprigs of flowers, and celebration of spring awakening, has been incorporated into Easter. And Samhuinn, that most mystical of days, on October 31st, when the door between this world and the otherworld is open so that spirits may pass freely between, has now become the children’s festival of Halloween.

Evan opened his eyes and blinked in a blinding white light. For a second or two his heart raced, and he sat up, wondering what was happening to him. Then he realized it was only the sun, streaming in through his as-yet-uncurtained bedroom window. It was the first sunny day since he had moved and he hadn’t realized that the window faced due east, allowing the morning sun to come streaming in. That strength of sunlight must also mean that it was quite late. He groped for his watch on the packing case that was presently standing in for a bedside table. Eight-fifteen. He rarely slept as late as that. Mrs. Williams had made sure that he never overslept and the tempting smell of bacon cooking had been enough to wake him. Then he remembered that it was Saturday. On weekends Mrs. Williams would serve him a full Welsh breakfast—bacon, sausage, fried bread—the works! Evan swung his feet onto the cold linoleum and sighed.

At least it was a sunny Saturday for a change. Maybe Bronwen would like to go for a hike, or they could drive down to the Llyn Peninsula and do some bird-watching. Spring was the best season for the seabirds. Then he remembered something else. This was his weekend to work. He took a lukewarm bath, not having learned yet how to coax the water heater into producing hot water for more than a couple of minutes, shaved, and made himself toast and tea. At least the stove had a grill element that worked. As he carried the toast through to the vinyl table, he heard a sound—the pop-popping noise of a revving motorbike. Evan jumped up and rushed outside. Surely he’d remembered to lock the lean-to where he was keeping the motorbike? And surely nobody could start it without the key? He imagined what D.C.I. Meredith would say if he had to call in and report the bike stolen after one day. He rushed outside in time to see a lanky figure wobbling down the hill on the bike, a large bag on his back. As Evan watched in horror, the bike picked up speed and the man gave a yell and jumped off, just before the bike ran into the gatepost of the Red Dragon and fell over, its engine still roaring.

Evan rushed to pick the man up. It was Evans-the-Post, his large mailbag still over his shoulder. “You blithering idiot!” Evan yelled. “What did you think you were doing?”

Evans-the-Post staggered to his feet and started brushing himself off. “Is the bike wrecked?” he asked. “I bloody well hope so.”

“You hope my bike is wrecked? Are you out of your mind, man?”

“I told them I wouldn’t be able to handle it, didn’t I?” Evans-the-Post went on, his large, mournful eyes staring at the prone motorbike. “I kept telling them. ‘I’m not good with mechanical things,’ I kept on saying, but they wouldn’t listen. ‘Directive from the postmaster general,’—that’s what they told me. ‘Rural postmen have to be motorized.’”

Evan was beginning to get the gist of what the postman was saying. “Wait a minute—are you saying that this is your bike?”

“Not mine. No, indeed. Belongs to the post office, doesn’t it? And they’re welcome to it. Telling me I’m not productive enough just delivering the letters to this village. Been doing it for twelve years now, haven’t I? Never missed a day sick and they’re not satisfied. And they think I should be taking the mail out to all the farms too—and right over to Capel Curig. The nerve of it.”

Evan went ahead of him, picked up the bike, and switched off the engine. “You’re lucky,” he said. “It doesn’t seem much the worse for wear. You’d have been in big trouble if you’d wrecked their bike, wouldn’t you?”

“Do you think they’d have fired me?” The basset-hound eyes fixed on Evan. “They wouldn’t fire me, would they?”

“They could,” Evan said. “You’re just going to have to get used to that thing, you know. I’ve been given one too, and I’m not too thrilled about it either.”

“Ah, but it will help you catch crooks, won’t it?” He grinned like a ten-year-old. “Tell you what—I’ll learn to ride mine better and we’ll have a race someday.”

“You’d better start off going up hill.” Evan helped him onto the saddle and adjusted his mailbag for him. “That way you won’t go so fast.”

“Or gore, plisman,” Evans-the-Post said. “All right. If you say so. I think I’ll go up to the youth hostel first. They always get a lot of letters with interesting foreign stamps on them. There’s one from America today. It’s from this girl’s boyfriend. He says he’s coming out to join her. Won’t she be surprised, eh?”

“Dilwyn—how many times have I told you you’re not supposed to read the mail?” Evan said.

“There’s no harm to it. Not when it’s postcards.” Evans-the-Post sounded hurt. “Postcards are meant for everyone to read, or they’d be in an envelope, like letters.”

Evan turned for home, then checked himself. “I’ve just had an idea,” he said, touching the postman’s shoulder. “How would you like to help the police? If you have to deliver any mail to a girl called Rebecca Riesen, will you come and tell me about it?”

“Is she a crook on the run?” Evans-the-Post’s long, lugubrious face lit up.

“No, she’s a missing American student. I’ve been around all the youth hostels to see if she’s stayed there. So far no luck.”

“Rebecca Riesen. Right you are,” Evans-the-Post said importantly. “Off I go then.” And he set off up the hill, the bike still wobbling dangerously under its heavy load.

Evan went back to cold tea and cold toast, then went to open up the police station. His bike was where he left it the night before and he chuckled when he thought of his encounter with Evans-the-Post. If only all postmen read every piece of mail like Dilwyn Evans, maybe they’d have tracked down the missing girl by now, and solved a few crimes too!

As he came out of the lean-to, a white Ford Fiesta drove past, slowed, and honked at Evan. Betsy wound down the window and put her head out. “Guess what, Evan—I’ve got the job! Emmy called them this morning and they said they could use me right away, so Emmy’s driving me down there. Imagine me, working with famous people and swimming pools!”

“Have you told Harry?” Evan asked her. “It’s not really right to walk out on him and leave him stuck, is it?”

Betsy’s face fell. “I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been such a grumpy old devil,” she said. “He’s never done a thing to praise or encourage me, all this time. And I’m the one who brings in the customers for him. Let him see how full the bar is when there’s no pretty girl to gape at, that’s what I say.”

“I still don’t like it, Betsy. And I don’t think it’s like you, either.”

“I’ve got to take my chances in life, haven’t I? You were the one who told me to follow my dreams, remember? Well, now I’ve got a real opportunity. If my powers are as strong as Emmy thinks they are, maybe I’ll turn into a proper psychic someday, like Randy, and people will watch me on TV.” She leaned out of the window as the car sped up again. “Wish me luck, Evan.”

Evan watched her white hand fluttering in a wave as the car disappeared down the pass. Poor Betsy, always dreaming of big things. He did wish her luck. He hoped this turned out to be the break she wanted, but he didn’t 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, naïve 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.” Better keep things on a strictly professional level. “Any developments on your missing girl yet?”

“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.

Chapter 7

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.”

Evan waited. He noticed there were several monitors in the booth and that the man was checking surveillance cameras. A lot of security for a place that is supposed to be a center of healing and tranquility, he thought. He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching on the gravel. A slim young man wearing a large dark sweatshirt and scruffy cords came into view. He was slightly built, and walked with the awkward, gangly gait of someone who hasn’t quite grown into his body yet. As he came closer, Evan noticed that the sweatshirt had the Sacred Grove logo on it—an old oak tree with roots entwined into a Celtic knot around it.

“Hello,” he said. “C-can I help you?” He peered at Evan shyly through round wire-rimmed glasses.

Evan was surprised to find that the voice wasn’t local Welsh but betrayed a recent stint at an English public school.

“North Wales Police. I’d like to speak to the owners, please,” Evan said.

“I think you’ve come to the wrong place. We haven’t reported any ‘incidents,’ as you would say, and I don’t think we have any c-criminals on the premises either.” Evan sensed an uneasiness behind the banter. He suspected that the boy was shy by nature, but had picked up the upper-class innate arrogance when dealing with authority.

“It’s about a missing person.”

“Nobody’s missing from here.” The young man grinned. “Everyone was p-present and accounted for at breakfast, I can assure you.”

Evan sensed that the boy might have been sent to hedge. “This person might have stayed here a couple of months ago. Now if you’d just take me to the owner.”

“All right. This way then. I think Annabel’s in her study.”

“And you are?” Evan asked.

“I’m Michael. General dogsbody.”

He set off at a brisk pace. Evan found to his astonishment that he was walking down a narrow cobbled street lined with pink-and-white stucco cottages, tiled porticos, old archways, and battlements. It was as if he had been teleported to a mixture of the Italian Riviera, medieval Germany, and Disneyland.

“Bloody ’ell,” he exclaimed as the cobbled street came out above an area of reflecting pools and lawns. Rows of Greek columns lined the path. The lawns were bordered with statues. The pools were adorned with spurting mythical beasts.

“Yes, it does rather knock your socks off the first time you see it, doesn’t it?” Michael said. “The old man who built it was quite crackers, of course. But in a lovable kind of way. He created this fantasy around him. Was still working on it when he dropped dead.”

“His daughter owns it now, does she?” Evan asked. “That would be Lady Annabel?”

“She and her husband,” Michael said flatly. “Co-owners.”

Evan picked up his tone. “Her husband?”

“Her third husband. The American wonder boy. Randy Wunderlich.”

“Wunderlich?” Evan gave him an amused glance. He wondered if the boy was having him on.

Michael returned the grin. “His name really is Wunderlich. Isn’t that convenient? I bet it started out as plain old Smith. Randy Wunderlich, world-famous psychic and almost young enough to be her son. She married him last year.”

He cut up a flight of steps, past a medieval church, and under another archway. Evan found himself outside a very different building, this one with the simple elegance of the Georgian period, and genuine too. This was obviously the original stately home around which the fantasy land had been built. Michael led him in through a set of gracious double doors. “This is our main building. Offices, admin. The guests, when there are any, stay in the cottages.”

Evan shot him a glance. “I thought the place was heavily booked.”

“Not yet,” Michael said. “Cold, gloomy weather doesn’t encourage meditation and dancing in the dew. We’re hoping it will pick up in the summer.”

They were in a tiled entrance hall with a grand chandelier over a curved dark wood staircase. “Wait here, please,” Michael said. “I’ll go and see if Annabel is receiving visitors. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Evan said, “but it’s Constable Evans.”

“Right-oh. B-back in a jiffy.” The boy disappeared down a hallway, then returned almost immediately. “She’ll see you now.”

It was like being summoned to a royal presence. Lady Annabel was seated at a large desk. She had been reading but took off her glasses hastily as Evan was ushered in. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said to Michael. “Now please go and see if those idiots have got the loo in number eighteen unclogged.”

“You give me all the fun jobs.” Michael pushed his hair back from his forehead as he left.

“Now, Constable. Exactly how can I help you?” The voice was deep and very upper-crust. Lady Annabel must have been quite a beauty in her time but youthful curves had now given way to fat. Her rich auburn hair was impeccably styled around a large face with an extra chin or two. Her chubby hands were decorated with a lot of rings and she had a floating, flowered silk scarf at her neck. Spoiled rich girl gone to seed was written all over her.

“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am.” Did you say “Your Ladyship” these days? It sounded very feudal. “We’ve had a report of a missing girl, so we’re going around all the likely places in the area. She’s an American college student and it’s just possible that she came here earlier this spring.”

Lady Annabel’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “A college student? I think it’s hardly likely that she stayed here. We are what’s known as exclusive, which means expensive. Most of our guests are either famous or old or both. There wouldn’t be much here for a young person.”

“Maybe I could take a look at your guest book,” Evan said. “Just to make sure.”

“Of course. Come through to registration.” She led him to the other side of the building, where there was a hotel-style foyer, complete with front desk. “Show this gentleman the list of guests for the year, would you, Eirlys?” she said to the young girl sitting at the computer. “You don’t need to go back to last year, do you?”

Evan shook his head. The girl handed him a Rolodex file. “What name was it? They’re in alphabetical order.”

“Riesen. Rebecca Riesen,” he said. “And she probably would have come here in February or later.”

“We weren’t exactly overflowing with guests in February,” the girl said and got a frown from Annabel. She helped Evan flip through the cards. “There’s no Riesen here. Sorry.”

“I can’t imagine that she would have checked in under another name,” Evan said. “Of course, if she had come here with somebody—a bloke—maybe they’d have checked in under his name.”

“I don’t recall any young couples … .” Annabel began.

“But you don’t know his name?” the girl asked Evan. She gave him a shy but encouraging smile.

“Do you always work at the front desk?” Evan asked. She nodded. “So you’d be the one who checked guests in?”

“Usually.”

Evan got out the flyer. “This is the girl we’re looking for.”

She studied it. “I didn’t check her in. I’d have remembered.”

“Sorry to have troubled you,” Evan said. “I thought it was probably a long shot. We don’t even know what part of Wales she went to. It’s just that she said something about Druids in the last postcard she wrote to her parents.”

“Druids?” Annabel’s voice sounded sharp.

“I noticed this place mentions Celtic spirituality so I thought that maybe …” He looked hopefully at Eirlys.

“We have a resident priestess,” Annabel said before Eirlys could answer. “She leads meditation sessions and guided imagery for our guests.”

“And what about Druid ceremonies? Any of those?”

“At certain times of year she leads celebrations, yes.”

“And are outsiders allowed into any of these—celebrations?”

“On certain occasions. She’s hoping for a large gathering on Midsummer Night, and May Day is one too, I think. And she holds ceremonies outside of our community as well.”

“May I please speak to her then?”

“Of course. I’ll take you down to her myself.”

“It’s all right. I don’t want to hold you up from what you were doing. Just give me directions. I’m sure I can find the way.”

“I was planning to go down that way. I’m trying to locate my husband. He won’t carry a beeper because he claims it disturbs the psychic vibrations he gets, but that’s little use to the rest of us, who possess no psychic ability whatsoever.”

She swept out through the revolving door, leaving Evan to follow in her wake. This time they took a paved back route, past a very modern-looking glass-fronted building. “The spa,” Annabel said. “We run a full-service spa here. A massage therapist on duty twenty-four hours a day and experts in any kind of hands-on healing. Our aim is to soothe the body as well as the spirit.”

It must be costing them a bomb to run this place, Evan thought. All these experts to pay and buildings to maintain. “So do a lot of people take advantage of getting their bodies and spirits soothed here?” he asked.

Again a brief frown of annoyance. “We only opened last year. It takes a while to build up a reputation and of course we are only catering to the most exclusive kind of guest. But things are beginning to pick up. Now that it’s stopped bloody raining, that is.” They were descending a graceful flight of curved steps with a carved stone railing beside them—another part of the old estate, he guessed. A clear view of a sparkling estuary opened up in front of them. On the other side were sloping green hills. Down below them, at the bottom of the steps, was another cluster of outlandish buildings, built around a little beach of yellow sand. A large swimming pool was built out over part of the beach.

“It’s certainly a lovely spot,” he said.

She nodded appreciatively. “I’m very fond of it. I’d do anything to keep it.”

“It certainly keeps you fit, going up and down all these steps.” As he said it, he realized this was rather a tactless remark, given Lady Annabel’s generous curves, but she smiled and didn’t seem to take offence.

“Actually I don’t come down here too much. This is the area of spiritual healing and meditation. Spiritual healers are very touchy about being disturbed.”

Evan blinked as he noticed a strange object among the buildings, dazzlingly bright with reflected sunlight.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“That is our pyramid. A center of great healing energy.”

Now Evan could see that it was, indeed, a pyramid, about the size of a small room, and made completely from beaten copper, decorated with Celtic knots.

“Copper is a wonderful conductor,” Annabel said.

“Do you hold some kind of ceremony in it?” Evan asked. It was rather small, even for a chapel.

“Oh, no. You don’t need a ceremony in a pyramid. You just are in a pyramid.”

As Evan still looked confused, she went on. “You sit and let the energy of the crystals do its healing.”

Evan forced himself not to smile. He was tempted to ask how many rich nutters were willing to pay big money to sit in a copper pyramid, but he thought better of it. Obviously Lady Annabel believed in this kind of stuff. Who knew—maybe it worked.

“Our meditation center is in here,” she said and opened the door to a wonderful round room, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the sea. Some of the windows were open and from outside came the cry of seagulls and the gentle hiss and slap of waves. The floor was polished wood but there were Persian rugs and large silk pillows strewn around.

“Very nice,” Evan said.

“This is our contemplation room. We use it for group meditation. We also have smaller, more intimate rooms for past-life regression, guided imagery, psychic readings. I’ll see if Rhiannon is available.”

“Did somebody want me?” The voice was low and melodious. Evan stared at the woman who had emerged from the shadowy hallway. He couldn’t have been more surprised. He was expecting flowing robes and large amulets. Instead, Rhiannon was wearing jeans and a black polo-neck sweater. It was hard to judge her exact age, but she had sensible, cropped gray hair and a face that had a weathered look of a life in the open air. Her figure, however, was as trim as a teenager’s and stood in sharp contrast to Lady Annabel’s flowing excess.

“Oh, Rhiannon, there you are. Splendid. I’ve brought someone to see you.”

Rhiannon’s eyes held Evan’s. The power of her stare quite unnerved him. “Have you come to join us?” she asked. “You’ve felt us calling you?”

“Er—no, I’m on police business, actually,” Evan mumbled, and felt himself blushing.

“The constable is looking for a missing girl,” Annabel said. “American college student. It seems she might have been interested in Druids.”

“Really?” Rhiannon looked amused. “A lot of Americans are drawn to us, it seems—which is understandable as so many Americans have Celtic ancestors—and so many of them seem to be searching for a spiritual purpose to their lives,” she added.

Evan took out the flyer. “Lady Annabel thinks that the girl has never stayed here, but I understand that you hold ceremonies outside of this place. Is it possible that you’ve seen this girl at any of them?”

Rhiannon studied the flyer very carefully. Then she handed it back. “No, I can safely say that this girl has not been to any of our ceremonies.”

“I’m sorry to have troubled you,” Evan said.

“Oh, no,” Rhiannon said. “You were summoned here.”

“I was?” He looked confused.

“You belong with us, you know. You are one of us, even if you try to deny it.”

Evan gave an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, I don’t think so. I was brought up strictly chapel.”

“I can tell a true Celt when I see one,” Rhiannon said. “The Celtic religion is in your veins, boy. Your ancestors were worshipping here before Christianity was even thought of. You should at least come to one of our ceremonies. May Day is not far-off. Do come. You’d be amazed at what you will feel.”

“Thanks, but … I don’t think this is my cup of tea,” Evan muttered. The woman’s intensity was unnerving.

“It’s not supposed to be a cup of tea,” she said. “If you want a cup of tea, you go to your chapel. If you want the energy of the universe, you come here.”

Evan shuffled his feet, wondering how he could make his escape without appearing too rude. “I—really ought to …”

“Just one minute.” Rhiannon held up her hand. “What do you know about Druids?”

“I’ve seen the eisteddfod,” Evan said. “They wear robes.”

Rhiannon sniffed. “Stage Druids,” she said. “Invented in the seventeenth century. Nothing to do with us or our religion. Promise me one thing.” She darted into the darkness of the hall again and reappeared holding a slim book in her hand. “This will explain who we are and what we do. I wrote it myself. Promise me that you will read it and bring it back to me.”

As she handed him the book, he felt a current of connection between them. He couldn’t tell if it was just the static in that thick carpet or if there was really an electric charge when the book touched his hand.

“All right. I’ll read it.” Anything to get away.

“I’ll be seeing you again soon,” Rhiannon said. “Very soon.”

Evan could feel her eyes watching him as he left the building.

Chapter 8

“She’s an intense woman, isn’t she?” he asked Annabel.

“A little too intense for her own good sometimes,” Annabel said. “Now I just have to find my husband and—oh, here he is now.”

A man was running up the steps from the beach. He was tanned, barefoot, wearing white pants and a flowing white shirt unbuttoned to his waist. His long blond hair blew out behind him like a halo.

“Hi, honey. What’s the problem?” he asked, pausing to give her a peck on the cheek. “I was off jogging but I got a feeling that something was wrong.” He looked inquiringly at Evan.

“The constable is looking for a missing girl,” Annabel said.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” the man said smiling. He held out his hand. “Randy Wunderlich. I’ve located plenty of missing people in my career. What can you tell me about her?”

“The constable thinks she might have stayed here,” Annabel cut in before Evan could answer. “But I think we’ve established that she hasn’t.”

Randy put his fingers to his temples. “Wait a minute. As you were talking, I got something … something to do with water? Ocean? Across the ocean?” he asked.

“She’s from America,” Evan said.

“Ah. Okay. That’s a start. What do we have to go on? Do you have anything belonging to the girl? Something I could touch when I go into a trance?”

Evan thought that it was rather like giving a bloodhound an old sock to smell and a ridiculous picture of Randy, sniffing out a trail, sprang into his mind. “I’ve got this poster,” he said, holding it up. “The photo’s not very good, and I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. She was studying over here, at Oxford, and wrote to her parents saying she was heading for Wales. She hasn’t been heard from in over two months now.”

Randy barely glanced at the poster but put his fingers to his temples again. “I’m not picking up anything at the moment.”

“I’ve already told the constable that she hasn’t been here,” Annabel said. “And you’re probably not picking up anything because she’s gone back to America. ‘Ocean,’ you said. The girl is across the ocean.”

“Yeah. That could be it,” Randy said. “Sorry not to be more positive, Officer. I’ll keep on trying. If anything comes to me, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He looked at Annabel. “Did you want me, honey?”

“Yes, I did. We’re supposed to be meeting with Ben in—” she consulted her watch “—fifteen minutes. And you can’t see him dressed like that.”

“Just because he’s a stuffed shirt doesn’t mean that I have to be,” Randy said. “He’s an accountant. He’s supposed to look like that. I’m a psychic and a well-known personality. He has to take me or leave me.” He put an arm around her waist. “Come on. Race you up to the main house.”

As he pushed her forward, Evan heard her mutter, “Sometimes I wish you’d grow up, Randy.”

“But you married me for my youthful good looks,” he chuckled, “as well as for getting your head straightened out.”

Evan trailed behind them as they went up the steps. As they passed the spa building, Evan heard a shriek.

“Evan Evans—what are you doing here?”

Betsy and another girl were just emerging from the building with buckets and mops. They were both dressed in short green uniform dresses with the oak tree logo of the Sacred Grove on the breast pockets.

“Hello, Betsy,” Evan said.

Randy turned back. “Hey—you two know each other? That’s so cool.”

“He’s the constable in our village,” Betsy said, her face bright red with embarrassment.

“Great. Terrific. So you’ve heard that you might have a budding psychic living in your midst, have you, Constable?”

“Yes, I’ve heard all about it,” Evan said.

“The grad student who discovered her is very excited by her preliminary results. She’s asked me to test her on a more sophisticated level.” He smiled at Betsy. “So you’re all set for our session together this afternoon then, Betsy?” He gave Betsy a fake punch on the arm that was somehow very intimate.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Betsy mumbled. “I’ll be there, sir. And thank you for finding me a job here. It’s wonderful.”

“Glad you could join us,” Randy said. “The more positive vibrations there are around this place, the better. We’re going to make this place the psychic capital of the world, you see.”

“Come on, Randy. Ben will be waiting,” Annabel dragged at his arm.

Randy waved easily. “See you at four then. Don’t be late.”

“Thank you for coming, Constable.” Annabel turned to Evan. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t help you. And please excuse me if I don’t show you out. We have an important meeting with our accountant. The main gate is through that archway to your right. I’ll call Blaine to let him know you’re leaving.”

Then she and Randy hurried up the path. Betsy stood glaring at Evan, her hands on her hips.

“And just what are you doing here, I’d like to know?”

“Missing person report,” Evan said, waving the flyer at her. “I thought this might be a good place to check out.”

“Oh, yes, I believe that,” she said. “You came here to spy on me, didn’t you? Keeping an eye on me again.”

“No, Betsy, I swear …”

“When will you learn that I can take care of myself?” Betsy demanded. “I’m a big girl, you know. If you were my boyfriend, I could understand that you wanted to run my life for me. But you’re not, are you?”

“Betsy, I came here on official police business. But I’m glad to see you’ve come up in the world. You’ve traded a tray of glasses at Harry’s for a bucket and mop.”

Betsy tossed her curls defiantly. “That’s all you know about it. I’ve got the cushiest job here you could ever want. I have to help out in the dining room for lunch and dinner and apart from that all I have to do is to check on the spa—you know, making sure there are fresh towels. That kind of thing. I just decided to help Bethan with the cleaning because I’d got nothing else to do. So you can tell Harry that I’m very, very content in my new job. They pay me very well and they don’t work me to death.”

“I’m glad you’ve landed on your feet,” Evan said.

“I have to get back to cleaning the steam rooms,” the other girl said to Betsy in Welsh. “See you later, Betsy.”

“I’m coming, Bethan.” Betsy smiled sheepishly at Evan. “Sorry if I yelled at you just then. I thought you’d come to convince me to come home again. I’m really happy here. Honestly I am. I can’t imagine working at a lovelier place and they say all kinds of celebrities come here. I might meet someone famous!” Her eyes were shining. “Got to go then. See you around, Evan.”

She ran back into the spa building. Evan continued on up the path and through the archway to the main exit. Something wasn’t right here, he decided. The place seemed almost deserted and yet they’d hired Betsy to do very little work. If they had no customers, who paid all the staff it took to run this place?

Blaine was still unsmiling as he nodded to Evan and pressed the release button on the electronic gate.

Betsy found Bethan had gone into the steam room and was already wiping down the walls.

“Nice-looking bloke,” she said as Betsy put down her pail and took out a sponge. “Friend of yours, is he?”

“That’s right.”

“Dating, are you?”

“If I had my way, we would be,” Betsy said, giving the wall a savage scrub. “He seems to prefer the local schoolmarm, but I can’t think why. She never tries to make the best of herself, you know—no fashionable clothes, and no makeup, and her hair in a plait. Dull as ditchwater, if you ask me. What can he possibly see in her?”

“It’s always the way, isn’t it?” Bethan said. “The good-looking blokes always seem to go for the plain women. I have the same trouble myself.”

Betsy looked at Bethan’s large, cowlike face with its mournful brown eyes and said nothing.

“You know it’s a funny thing,” Bethan went on, wiping the last of the wall with a grand flourish, “but I think I’ve seen that girl before. You know—the one on the poster he was carrying.”

“You have—where?”

“She looks a lot like a girl who worked here earlier this year. She was only here for about a week, so I can’t say I got to know her, but it does look a lot like her.”

Chapter 9

Excerpt from The Way of the Druid, by Rhiannon

What Druids Believe

The ancient Celts perceived the presence of supernatural power in every part of the world. The sky, the sun, the dark places underground, every mountain, river, spring, marsh, tree, were endowed with divinity.

They believed in the concept of AWEN—the liquid life force, essence, inspiration that flows through all living things.

They also worshipped the triple Goddess of the waxing, full, and waning moon and the Horned God of forest and animal powers. We, the heirs to the Druid religion, still hold these beliefs today. We see the Goddess as the fertile Earth Mother and the Horned God as the life-giving sun father.

We Druids feel more than a kinship with nature. We are part of nature. Nature is part of us.

We are a link between past and present.

We believe in the equality of all things and a balance between male and female.

We believe all life is sacred and worthy of protection.

If we have a creed, it is “Do what thou wilt but harm none.”

It was ten o’clock on a perfect spring Sunday morning as Evan wheeled the motorbike from his shed. Worshipers were filing up the village street, the older women in their hats and black lace-up shoes, the men in their stiff Sunday collars and dark suits, on their way to one of the two chapels. As they got close, they veered either to the left into Capel Bethel, or right into Capel Beulah, sometimes looking back across the street to give a disapproving stare to those going to the “wrong” chapel. They had also given a few disapproving stares to Evan, who was obviously going off on his bike when he should have been singing hymns.

The first hymns started, the lovely notes of the old hymn “Hyfrydol” echoing out from Capel Bethel, while Capel Beulah competed with “Cwm Rhondda.” Evan stood for a moment and glanced up at the mountainsides. The first spring flowers were dotting the grass with splashes of yellow and white. Another great day to be climbing and instead he would be spending it down at the Sacred Grove. Betsy had reported her conversation to him the evening before and he had duly reported it to HQ. Now he was to meet Glynis Davies in Caernarfon and drive her to talk to the people he had interviewed yesterday. He couldn’t help seeing this as an insult. Now that there was a real mystery, he wasn’t trusted enough to gather evidence without a member of the CID present. He reminded himself that this was just normal procedure. Glynis was not trying to pull rank, just do her job.

The hymns finished and from Capel Bethel came Reverend Parry Davies’s powerful voice. “A great evil has come among us, my dear brethren. We Christians have fought for twenty centuries to stamp out the devil and pagan worship. Now it has sprung up again in our midst. It might call itself a center for healing and spirituality, but do you know what it really is? A place of devil worship—that’s what it is! So-called Druids calling up evil spirits! Do we want this kind of corrupting evil in our midst, my dear brethren? What are we going to do about it?”

Evan smiled as he mounted his bike. So one of the ministers had heard the gossip about the Sacred Grove. He wondered what would happen when the other, more extreme minister also heard. And the other minister’s wife—how would Lady Annabel fare against the power of a Mrs. Powell-Jones? He’d love to see that confrontation someday.

He started the engine and rode carefully down the pass.

“It looks rather fishy, doesn’t it?” D. C. Glynis Davies sat beside Evan, who was driving the squad car. “I mean, why deny the girl had ever been there unless they had something to hide?”

“Exactly,” Evan said. “Of course, the other girl, the one who spoke to Betsy, might be wrong. Betsy says she’s not the brightest specimen in the world. And the photo on the flyer isn’t exactly clear.”

“I must say, I’m curious to see the place now,” Glynis said.

“You won’t believe your eyes.” Evan chuckled. “It will make you realize that some people have more money than sense. It’s a complete—well, I’d better let you see for yourself. You might like it.”

“You don’t, then?”

“I hate anything phony,” Evan said. “Italian villages in Italy are all well and good. We’ve got some lovely Welsh buildings in Wales. Oh, it’s pretty enough, but it doesn’t feel real. And all this mumbo jumbo—pyramids and healing crystals and Druids. It’s not right.”

Glynis laughed. “There speaks the son of a true Welsh chapel. Crystals and healing ceremonies are all the thing these days.”

“For people who are looking for something.”

She nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Have you never done any such soul-searching?”

Evan shook his head. “I’ve always had pretty much what I wanted, right here,” he said. “Although there was a time, after my father died …” He paused, then shook his head more firmly. “Even then you’d not have found me sitting in any bloody pyramid.”

They had reached the main gate and Evan pressed the buzzer.

“North Wales police again to see the owners,” Evan said.

“They’re busy today. I don’t know if they can see you,” Blaine’s voice crackled through the intercom.

“Then they’d better unbusy themselves.” Glynis leaned across to address the intercom. “Detective Constable Davies speaking. We’ve come on a very serious matter.”

The gate swung open then shut again immediately. “The gate must be to keep their clients from escaping before they’ve paid the bill,” Glynis quipped, then saw Evan’s serious face. “What? Do you think there’s something wrong with this place?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “There’s something that doesn’t add up. I can’t put my finger on it yet.”

“Interesting. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Evan parked where he had left the motorcycle the day before. They declined Blaine’s instructions to wait and set off down the cobbled main street.

“I see what you mean,” Glynis said, laughing in amazement. “It’s very Disneyland, isn’t it? Quaint and pretty but strangely surreal.”

They were just passing under the arch when Michael came running down the steps toward them. “Hey, just a minute. Oh, it’s you, Constable.”

“And this is Detective Glynis Davies.” Evan indicated the young woman in the dark gray suit.

Michael looked momentarily startled. “Detective? Is there some sort of problem, C-constable?”

“There might be,” Evan said. “Now, if you’d take us to Lady Annabel or Mr. Wunderlich straightaway.”

“Lady Annabel is down at the spa, getting a massage,” Michael said. “It’s this way.”

They went in through the glass doors of the spa building to a tiled atrium. A fountain was splashing against one wall, while soft piped music filled the background. The walls were tiled in an undersea motif with strands of wafting seaweed and schools of fish. It was so authentic that it felt like walking through an aquarium.

“If you wait here, I’ll go and see if she’s finished yet.” He gave a half-apologetic grin. “She hates being disturbed when she’s having a massage.”

Evan and Glynis glanced at each other as Michael disappeared into the rear of the building.

“What the hell for?” they heard a sharp voice demand. “Oh, very well. Tell them I’ll be right out.”

Michael returned, his face pink with embarrassment. “She’ll be right out. Take a seat.”

A few moments later Annabel emerged, dressed in a large, fluffy white robe. Her hair was piled up on top of her head but her face was still perfectly made-up. “Thank you, Sergio. You’re a gem,” she called. “I feel like a new woman.”

“Constable.” She gave him a beaming smile. “What brings you back again so soon? Have you been converted to Rhiannon and her band?”

“Lady Annabel. This is Detective Constable Davies,” Evan said. “She’s the one who is looking into the missing American girl.”

“But I thought we established yesterday that she hasn’t ever stayed here.” A frown of annoyance cracked the perfect makeup.

“Oh, yes, we know she was never a guest,” Glynis said. “But you weren’t entirely truthful with Constable Evans, were you?”

“In what way?”

“One of your staff recognized the girl. We understand that she used to work for you.”

“A staff member?” Annabel sounded genuinely surprised. “I had no idea we hired college students. I thought the staff were all locals. I really don’t have that much interaction—it is Mrs. Roberts, my housekeeper, who does the hiring and firing. Wait while I get dressed and I’ll take you to see her. Michael, go and locate Mrs. Roberts for me, would you? This whole thing is most disagreeable.”

Evan and Glynis waited again. “If the wonder boy is so psychic, then why didn’t he know that she was working for him?” Evan muttered to Glynis, who grinned.

“I have to meet this wonder boy,” she said. “If he’s half as gorgeous as Betsy tells us, then …”

“I don’t think your boyfriend would like it. Neither would Lady Annabel.”

“I’m getting rather bored with that particular boyfriend, as it happens,” Glynis said. Now, why exactly had she told him that? Evan wondered. At that moment Annabel reappeared, now dressed in a purple velour tracksuit.

“Right. Let’s go and find Mrs. Roberts. I am most sorry that you had to come back here again, but you did only ask about guests, didn’t you? I had no idea that staff might be concerned … .”

While she was talking, she started off at a great pace up the steps and into the main house. For someone who carried excess weight, she was certainly light on her feet and full of energy, Evan noticed. Maybe there was something to this hocus-pocus after all.

Mrs. Roberts was found in a small, austere office behind the kitchens. She had the typical Welshwoman’s face, one that has become the stereotype of the witch—long, thin, with pointed chin and high forehead. She got to her feet as they came in and she appraised Evan and Glynis critically.

“Mrs. Roberts is my wonderful housekeeper,” Annabel said. “She’s been with my family since the year dot. She can tell you anything you want to know. There’s not much that escapes her eagle eye around here, is there, Mrs. R?”

Mrs. Roberts’s face didn’t even crack into a smile. She nodded. “What is it you’re wanting?” she asked, looking directly at Evan.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Annabel said. “I have guests arriving in half an hour. I don’t want to greet them looking sweaty and unkempt like this.” She went, leaving Mrs. Roberts still staring at Evan.

“Mrs. Roberts, I’m Detective Constable Glynis Davies.” Glynis stepped forward to let her know that she was the one conducting the investigation. “We’re here checking on a missing girl. An American college student. Her name is Rebecca Riesen and we understand from another member of your staff that she worked here earlier this spring.”

“Rebecca?” The elderly woman frowned. “Yes, I do remember an American girl. She begged to be hired and then walked out within the week, but then I hear Americans are flighty—like the mistress’s present husband. Wants one thing for his dinner and then changes his mind or leaves half of it. Flighty.” She glanced around then asked, lowering her voice, “Do you have Welsh?”

“Constable Evans does,” Glynis said. “I’m afraid mine is rusty.”

“Pity.”

“So what can you tell us about Rebecca?” Evan asked.

“Nothing much. She showed up in February, I think it was. She wanted a job and we were short a girl at the time. So many comings and goings these days. When Lady Annabel was growing up, we ran the place very nicely with a staff of four and a gardener. Now you never know who is who around here—masseurs and priestesses and God knows what. Change is never for the good, is it? And Lady Annabel never was one for making good decisions. Ever since she left her first husband, she’s taken up with a succession of rotters.” She smoothed down her dark skirt. “But getting back to this girl. She arrived. I put her to helping out in the kitchen and the laundry. General odd jobs, you know. Then it hadn’t been a week but one of the staff came and told me she’d upped and left. It seems the staff weren’t too unhappy to see her go—something of a God botherer, if you know what I mean. She didn’t like the un-Christian things that were going on here and felt she had to do some converting.”

“And you don’t know where she went?”

“No idea. She just told one of the staff she was leaving, she’d had enough, and then she was gone. Didn’t even stay long enough to collect her first week’s paycheck. But then Americans are supposed to be rich, aren’t they?”

“Is Mr. Wunderlich rich?” Evan asked.

“Famous TV star over there, so I’ve heard. But it’s not right for me to go talking about my employers, is it? I think I’ve told you all I can.”

“Diolch yn fawr, Mrs. Roberts,” Evan said, breaking into Welsh. “Now I wonder if we could just have a word with the staff she worked with. I understand the girl Bethan was the one who recognized her picture.”

“Bethan, yes. She might have been put to help Bethan. I’ll have her sent up here.”

“And the kitchens, you said. Could we go through there and ask some questions? She might have dropped a hint to someone where she was going when she left here.”

“I suppose so,” Mrs. Roberts walked ahead of them into the dark hallway and then into the kitchens. The main kitchen was decidedly part of an old manor house, but nothing inside it was old—stainless-steel countertops, the biggest and best stoves and refrigerators lined the walls. No expense had been spared here. Evan stood watching while Glynis questioned the chefs and kitchen helpers. Most of them were from Spain or Italy, spoke only broken English, and couldn’t even remember the girl.

When they got back to Mrs. Roberts’s office, Bethan arrived, breathless.

“I was down at Meditation,” she said. “I ran all the way up.”

Glynis nodded to Evan. “Bethan,” he said “you said you remembered the American girl whose picture I showed you. Rebecca Riesen.” He spoke in Welsh.

Bethan nodded.

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Very quiet, shy,” Bethan answered, hanging her head as if she were answering a teacher in school. “Didn’t say much. But nice enough. We folded linens together one day. That’s when we had a little chat. She said she came from California and I said it must be wonderful and she said yes it was. That was about it.”

“Did she say anything about Druids?” Evan asked. “Anything about being interested in Druids?”

“Druids? I’m sure she didn’t. She was very religious. She told me it upset her what was going on here. ‘A lot of pagans,’ she said.”

“So did she try and convert anybody?”

“Convert? How do you mean?” Bethan frowned as she looked up at Evan.

“Preaching at people?”

“I’m sure she didn’t. Like I said, she was very quiet and shy. She only started talking to me because we were in the linen closet together. Otherwise, she pretty much kept to herself.”

“So you don’t know why she left? Do you think it was because the people here were pagans?”

“It could have been. I didn’t realize she was gone until they told me. ‘Where’s the American girl?’ I asked. ‘Up and hopped it,’ someone said. ‘Just left a note.’”

“Well, at least we’ve established something positive,” Glynis commented as they drove out of the compound. “We have the dates when she was here. Now, the next thing to check would be buses and trains out of Porthmadog. Damn, I didn’t think to ask whether she had a car. Hardly likely to, being a college student, would you think?”

Evan shrugged. “You could check with the rental companies, but cars cost money. Did you say the family was rich?”

“Very ordinary. It was hard for them to come up with the cash to come over here looking for her. She wasn’t any spoiled little heiress, if that’s what you’re getting at.” The car swung onto the main road and joined the line to cross the estuary. “By the way, thanks for agreeing to meet her parents when they arrive. You’re the sort of person who knows what to say on occasions like this. I’m terribly awkward, I’m afraid. It’s something I’ve got to learn.”

“It’s never easy,” Evan said. “I’ve had to bring bad news quite a few times now and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“That’s what Sergeant Watkins says.” Glynis glanced up at him. “Look, do you want to go for a pint somewhere? I said I owed you one, didn’t I?”

“I’ll take you up on that sometime,” Evan said, “but I have to get straight home tonight. I’m cooking dinner for my girlfriend.”

“Oh.” A definite pause. Then she said lightly, “A gourmet chef as well as all your other talents?”

“Not even close. I’ve just moved into my own place and most of my attempts have been disasters. Tonight I’m attempting spaghetti and I don’t think that even I can mess that up too much. Spaghetti with a bolognese sauce and a tossed salad. Do you think that’s all right?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Glynis said. “She’s a lucky lady.”

Chapter 10

Later that evening Evan was standing in his kitchen, surrounded by saucers and bowls of chopped onion and garlic, minced beef, and tomatoes. Survival Cooking for One was propped on the shelf beside him. A large pot of water was bubbling on the stove and he was just heating some oil in a frying pan when the front doorbell rang.

“Damn,” he muttered. It couldn’t be Bronwen, surely? He’d begged her not to be early and made it very clear that he didn’t want her to help him. He wiped his oniony hands on a tea towel and went to the door.

“Hello, Evan.” Betsy was standing there, looking young and fresh and rather lovely. Usually she went in for ultrahip, sexy clothes that left little to the imagination. Today she was wearing jeans and a hand-knitted sweater a couple of sizes too big for her.

“Oh, Betsy. Is something the matter?”

“No. Nothing. I just thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing. I’ve just been over at Mrs. Williams’s and had a bite to eat with Emmy. Mrs. Williams is a lovely cook, isn’t she? She makes the lightest pastry, even better than my old nain used to. So we got to talking about you and Mrs. W hoped you were doing all right, so I said I’d pop in and see on my way home.”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you,” Evan said. “To tell you the truth, I’m in the middle of cooking—in fact, I have oil heating on the stove.” He ran back into the kitchen and rescued the smoking pan in time.

“Oh, look at you!” Betsy said in admiration. “What are you cooking? Looks very fancy.”

“I’ve got Bronwen coming to dinner in half an hour,” he said. “I’m making a sauce for the spaghetti.”

“You can buy that out of a jar,” Betsy said.

“Yes, but it’s not the same. I have to show Bronwen that I can do this.”

“Do you want some help?” Betsy was already pushing up her sleeves. “I’m quite handy in the kitchen myself, having cooked for that ungrateful Harry Lloyd at the Dragon all this time. Want that lettuce washing, do you?” Before Evan could answer, she had it pulled apart and was running it under the tap. “He’s regretting it already, I’m sure,” she went on. “I peeked in there tonight and you know there’s only a couple of blokes in there. Charlie Hopkins and Evans-the-Meat. Dead as a doornail in there. I knew it.”

She shook out the lettuce so that spray went everywhere.

“Hey, watch it,” Evan said, laughing. Betsy gave him a mischievous smile and flipped the lettuce spray into his face. It was a deliberately flirtatious move and Evan stopped himself as he was about to grab her wrist. Any physical contact with Betsy and who knew where it might lead!

“Stop distracting me, will you? I’ve got to get this sauce simmering. Now let’s see. First the onions and the garlic.” They fell into the pan with a sizzle.

“So did you find out any more about that missing girl?” Betsy asked. “Bethan said you’d been back to the Sacred Grove today.”

“Only that the girl was there for less than a week then left again. It’s not much to go on.”

“So she could be back in America by now.”

“It’s very probable.”

“Too bad I’m not further along with my psychic training. I could just close my eyes for you and pick up her vibrations.”

“Your guru, Randy, tried to do that and didn’t come up with anything. How did your session go with him today?”

“It didn’t. He wasn’t there. I went to his office but he didn’t show up. I expect he got called away for something more important than me. I know they had new guests arriving today. He’ll fit in my sessions when he can.” She leaned against the edge of the draining board, watching him. “Emmy says that my powers may be remarkable. She says that I may be able to see other people’s lives and even make things happen. She says the most powerful psychics can just picture something in their head and it happens, just like that. Isn’t it exciting?”

“I’d take it all with a grain of salt if I were you,” Evan said as he dropped the spaghetti into a huge pot of boiling water. “These people believe in all that stuff, but I’d want some proof, myself. I’ve never yet met anyone who was truly psychic.”

“My old nain used to see the Derin Corff, didn’t she?” Betsy demanded.

Evan smiled. “I shall be only too delighted if you turn out to be a famous psychic. You’ve always wanted to be famous, haven’t you?”

Betsy beamed. “Imagine me on a TV show someday with Randy.”

“Sorry to remind you, love, but he’s already married.”

“Oh, he’s too old for me. He’s way over thirty. I like younger blokes myself.” She hoisted herself up onto one end of the counter and sat there, swinging her legs. “Tell me, Evan,” she said carefully, “if Bronwen wasn’t around any longer … if there was no Bronwen Price in the world, do you think you might be interested in me then?”

“Betsy!” He laughed uneasily. “I really like you. Honestly I do. But I don’t think I’m the right bloke for you. You need someone who’s more lively and fun. You know I don’t like dancing and the type of thing you like.”

“I’d also like to settle down with a steady bloke of my own someday,” Betsy said. “Oh, well, I’m not going to give up without a fight. Do you think I could use my psychic powers to make Bronwen disappear?”

“Hey—that smells wonderful,” came Bronwen’s voice as she opened the front door. “You see, I told you that you could …” She stopped short as she came into the kitchen and saw Betsy sitting on the kitchen counter beside Evan. “Oh,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been cheating.”

“I’m here on an errand from Mrs. Williams,” Betsy said, sliding gracefully from the counter. “You don’t have to worry.”

Bronwen laughed. “I meant cheating by having someone who knows how to cook help you. You haven’t been helping him, have you, Betsy?”

“Only washed some lettuce or you’d have eaten it full of caterpillars,” Betsy said. “Well, I’ll be on my way then. Enjoy your dinner. I think you’re doing just fine, Evan.”

Evan was conscious of Bronwen looking at him as Betsy closed the front door behind her. “You didn’t ask her to come and help you, did you?” she said accusingly.

“Of course not. Mrs. Williams wanted to make sure I was all right. Betsy had been having dinner with the famous Emmy, so she stopped by on her way home.”

“If you ask me, Betsy’s all too influenced by the famous Emmy. She’s been following her around like a sheep.”

“And by the famous Randy,” Evan said.

“Oh, who’s he?”

“The star psychic at the Sacred Grove. You should see him, Bron. Hair over his shoulders like Samson. Very tanned and muscled and Hollywood.”

She gave him a wicked smile. “Ooh, sounds interesting. Maybe I’ll go and check him out for myself.”

Evan grabbed her round the waist and pulled her close to him. “None of that, or I won’t share my secret spaghetti sauce with you.”

Bronwen laughed and kissed him.

“And none of that when I’m trying to concentrate,” he added. “Make yourself useful and open the bottle of red wine I’ve put on the table.”

“First sensible suggestion you’ve made all evening.” She waltzed out of the kitchen. Evan came through to join her. “I haven’t got as far as candles and tablecloths and things.”

“This will do just fine. You’ve done a lot in a week.”

“Especially since I’ve been up and down to that bloody Sacred Grove all weekend. Missing college student from America,” he added. “Turns out she was there briefly then left a couple of months ago, so we’re none the wiser.”

Bronwen poured out two glasses of red wine.

“You sit down and I’ll serve,” Evan said. He went through into the kitchen, stopped in horror, and yelled, “Bloody hell!”

Bronwen came running through. “What? What is it?”

Evan pointed silently at the huge glutinous mound that was currently creeping out of the pot and down the side of the stove. “Spaghetti isn’t supposed to behave like that, is it?”

Bronwen started laughing. “It’s like something out of a horror movie—The Blob That Swallowed Wales. Evan—how much spaghetti did you put in?”

“Well, I started with one packet but that didn’t look like very much, so I added another one.”

Bronwen wrapped her arms around his neck. “My dear sweet twit, each packet is enough for eight people. You’ve just cooked enough to feed half of Llanfair.”

“Well, I’m not inviting them to share,” Evan said, annoyed and embarrassed at her laughter. “I planned a special dinner with my girlfriend and that’s what we’re going to have. Now go and sit down and don’t watch while I serve up.”

Still smiling, Bronwen went back into the living room.

It was very early the next morning when Evan’s phone roused him from sleep. He staggered downstairs and picked up the receiver.

“Evan—are you all right?” He was surprised to hear Bronwen’s voice.

“Me? Yes, I’m fine, as far as I know. I’ve only just woken up. What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Early. I’m sorry I woke you, only I’m not fine, and I just thought maybe there was something in the food … .”

“You mean you’re sick?”

“As a dog,” she said. “I’ve hardly left the loo all night.”

“I’ll be right over,” he said. He scrambled into his clothes and ran up the high street. It was a misty morning and the milk float loomed like a ghostly specter as it crept up the street, making the morning milk round. The schoolhouse was barely visible through the fog. Evan ran across the school playground and let himself in with the key Bronwen had given him.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Bronwen said as he came into her bedroom. “It might be catching.”

“You look terrible. I’m phoning for the doctor.”

She nodded. “I feel terrible. But you’re fine and we both ate the same things last night, so it can’t be food poisoning.”

“I like that,” Evan said, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. “I cook her one meal and immediately she accuses me of poisoning her.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”

“It’s okay, love. You’ve probably just got a touch of flu. Would you like to try a cup of tea and some toast?”

She nodded. “I’m not sure if it will stay down, but I’ll give it a try. And could you make a phone call for me? I have to let the Office of Education know that they’ll need to send up a substitute for me today.”

“You’re lucky this is my day off,” Evan said. “See, I knew there had to be some advantages to working every other weekend.”

“Lucky me.” Bronwen managed a smile. “If the first meal didn’t finish me off, he’s got a chance to try again.”

Betsy sensed as soon as she entered the Sacred Grove that morning that something was wrong. Emmy had dropped her off at the entrance. “I’ve got some new prospects to interview,” she said. “Fascinated as I am by your particular case, I’m supposed to be compiling a body of evidence about extrasensory perception among Celts. Just one Celt isn’t likely to satisfy my professor at home. Let me know how your session with Randy goes today, won’t you? I’ll try to stop by later.”

Betsy passed nobody apart from Blaine at the security post until she had almost reached the spa, where her first duty was to check towel supplies. She stopped when she heard someone yelling.

“You! Girl! What’s your name—Betty?”

Lady Annabel, her hair for once not looking as if she had just left her hairdresser, came running down the steps. Betsy noticed that she hadn’t made up her face either.

“I want a word with you, Betty. Can you come up to my office, please?” Her voice was shrill.

“My name’s Betsy. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?” Betsy asked. “I loaded the dishwasher before I left last night and …”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not that.” Lady Annabel climbed the last of the steps at a great pace. “I wanted to ask you about your session with my husband yesterday afternoon.”

Betsy shot her a glance. Was she jealous? Did she suspect her husband of flirting with an attractive young girl?

“I didn’t have the session with him yesterday,” Betsy said.

“But it was down on his schedule. Bethan said you went down to Meditation to meet with him around four.”

“I did.” Betsy nodded. “But he wasn’t there. I waited around but he didn’t show up. After a while I thought that maybe something more important had come up, and I was supposed to be helping with dinner shortly. So I went up to the kitchen and decided he’d find me there if he wanted to.”

Lady Annabel pushed open the door of the admin building and swept in ahead of Betsy, not seeming to care that the door swung back into Betsy’s face.

“Why? What did he say about me?” Betsy asked with a tremulous voice.

“He didn’t say anything!” Lady Annabel’s voice rose almost to a shriek as she turned to face Betsy. “He didn’t say anything because he’s nowhere to be found!”

“You mean he’s gone?”

“Of course I mean he’s gone!” Lady Annabel snapped. “When he didn’t appear for dinner, I sent Michael to look for him. He found Randy’s desk with some notes about you scribbled on a pad, a half-drunk cup of coffee, and no sign of him. Nobody has seen him since midafternoon.”

Betsy couldn’t think what to say. What kept crossing her mind was that Randy was a rather gorgeous man and Lady Annabel was a chubby older woman. Maybe Randy had a good reason for slipping out for the night.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she said, trying to be helpful.

Annabel gave her a poisonous stare. “If you’re as bloody psychic as they claim you are, then why can’t you bloody well see him and tell me where he is?”

“There’s no point in screaming at Betsy.” Michael came out of Mrs. Roberts’s office. “She obviously knows no more than the rest of us.”

“You’re all bloody useless,” Annabel snapped. “And you more so than the rest of them.”

“What do you want me to d-do?” Michael demanded patiently, blinking worriedly behind his glasses. “I’ve done everything I can. I’ve searched the grounds for you … .”

“Well, it’s not enough. Call the police. Get that policeman back here. He’s just spent the last two days annoying us. Now let’s see if he can do something useful for a change.”

“I don’t think you can call the police to report someone missing when it’s only been a few hours,” Michael said patiently.

“He went swimming and was swept away by the tide, I know it!” Annabel wailed hysterically.

“Just think for a moment,” Michael said in his low, reasonable voice. “It was low tide around five yesterday. There would have been no water in the estuary until almost dark. And he wouldn’t have walked out half a mile through the mud, would he?”

“Then where the devil is he?” Annabel demanded.

“It’s not going to help to upset yourself like this,” Michael said. “You’ve still got guests, haven’t you? You don’t want to scare them off.”

“Oh, bugger off, Michael, and don’t try to tell me what to do. You, of all people!” She changed direction and headed for the main staircase. “I’ve got a terrible headache. Bring me up some tea and don’t let anyone disturb me unless it’s good news!”

Betsy stood there, feeling embarrassed and awkward until Annabel disappeared. Michael gave Betsy a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that,” he said. “She flies off the handle rather easily.”

He began to walk toward the kitchens. Betsy walked with him, feeling great sympathy.

“Why do you let her talk to you like that?” Betsy whispered when they were alone in the passageway. “And why do you stay here if she’s so difficult? You’ve got an education, haven’t you? You speak posh and all that. I bet you could get a better job easily. With more money too.”

“That wouldn’t be hard,” Michael said, “as she pays me nothing except room and board.”

“Room and board? Why do you stay here then?”

Michael looked amused. “Didn’t anyone tell you? She’s my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“The resemblance isn’t exactly striking, is it? I’m the product of her first marriage, to Colonel James Hollister. She married him at eighteen—big society wedding. Had me then dumped us both and ran off with a race car driver.”

“Oh, it’s like something out of a film, isn’t it? Rather romantic.”

“Except if you happen to be me, left alone in that drafty old castle, brought up by a succession of nannies and a father who hardly said two words to me in his life. He died when I was fourteen. As soon as I finished school, I sought out my mother again. The race car driver had killed himself by that time and she was working her way through a string of young and gorgeous men, of whom Randy is the latest. Unfortunately she was stupid enough to marry him.”

“I wonder why—” Betsy began, then stopped.

“Why he married her?”

“Yes, I mean she’s not—”

“No spring chicken? Not the greatest catch? She has a title and this property, but not much else. If he thought she was rich, he’s been sadly disillusioned by now.”

“It’s strange that he should just hop it, though,” Betsy said.

“He wouldn’t be the first one who’s done a bunk on her,” Michael said. “As you’ve seen, she’s not the easiest person to live with. Very possessive. And naive too. Easily taken in. All this psychic stuff. It’s her latest craze. She’s already been through acupuncture and Buddhism and God knows what else. She thinks that Randy can see her future for her and help her straighten out her present as well.”

“Don’t you think he can?”

“If you want me honest opinion—” Michael put his head close to Betsy’s “—I think he’s a big phony. Why else do you think I’m here? I interrupted my university course so that I could keep an eye on her. What with Randy and that accountant of hers, I wanted to make sure that the property was here for me to inherit someday.” He smiled at Betsy. “But don’t let it worry you. It’s not your problem. I’ll see you later. I’ve got to take her a cup of tea, and a couple of tranquilizers, I expect—even though she claims to be a devotee of only natural healing these days.” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation, then went into the kitchen, leaving Betsy standing alone in the dark hallway.

Chapter 11

There was a rumbling in the darkness. Evan came to consciousness and lay there, listening. Thunder? Outside his window the sky was still lit with stars. Not thunder then. When it came again, he recognized it for what it was—someone was pounding on his front door.

He grabbed his dressing gown and fumbled for the hall light, his heart racing. Bronwen, he thought. Bad news about Bronwen. She hadn’t seemed any better when he left her last night and he was worried, even though the doctor had dismissed it as probably nothing more than a twenty-four-hour bug—lots of it going around.

He opened the door. A small, waiflike figure, wearing an anorak over what looked like a white flannel nightgown and fluffy pink slippers, was standing there.

“Betsy? What on earth’s the matter?” he asked.

Her eyes were as big as saucers. “I saw him, Evan. I saw him,” she gasped.

“Saw who?”

“Randy. I saw Randy.”

“The man from the healing place? Where?” He leaned out of the front door, expecting to see a figure running from Betsy’s cottage, but the street was deserted.

“In my dream.”

“Betsy, what are you talking about?” He wondered for a moment if this was Betsy’s latest excuse to get into his house, but the terror on her face was genuine and she was shivering violently.

“Hold on a moment. Come on inside. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

She put out her hand and grabbed at his sleeve. “No, you don’t understand. I’ve got to get down there and tell them.”

“Betsy, calm down,” Evan said. “You had a bad dream, did you? Well, it was only a dream and your dad’s in the house, isn’t he? What do you want me to do?”

“Come with me, down to the Sacred Grove.”

“At this hour? Can’t it wait till morning?”

“No. I have to get down there now, because he’s missing and I’ve just found him.” Betsy’s teeth were chattering so violently that she could hardly speak. “And Emmy said we should take you with us, just in case.”

“Randy is missing?”

“Yes. Lady Annabel wanted to call you—she wanted to report him missing but Michael said you can’t just go calling the police when someone has only been gone for a few hours. And then I fell asleep and suddenly there he was and I saw the whole thing—him lying there and everything and I ran to tell Emmy and she believed me. She said things are often communicated to psychics through dreams and I should get you.”

Evan looked out of his front door and noticed a car parked by the curb with a figure inside it. He strode out to it. Emmy had the window wound down and was sitting there, bundled in a dark jacket and hood.

“What nonsense have you been putting into her head?” Evan demanded. “You’ve scared this poor kid half to death.”

“I think you should face the fact that this girl has strong powers. You should have seen the test results. She matched eight out of ten shapes. There is no way to fake tests like that. And if she has seen Mr. Wunderlich in her dream, then I think we had better take it seriously. I do anyway. I’m driving her down there now. I thought you should come with us, just in case.”

“Very well. I’ll get dressed,” Evan said. “And Betsy should too. She’ll catch cold the way she’s shivering right now.”

“The psychic experience often does produce intense physical side effects,” Emmy said, “but I agree. She should get dressed. We may be doing some climbing.”

A few minutes later they were driving in Emmy’s rental car down the pass to the coast.

“So what’s this about Randy going missing?” Evan asked. “You’d better fill me in on the facts.”

“I’m sure Lady Annabel can give you all the details,” Emmy said. “I showed up to pick up Betsy yesterday evening and found the place in turmoil. Nobody had seen him since the afternoon before. They’d searched the grounds. Annabel was in hysterics.”

“Wasn’t it just possible that he’d gone off somewhere on a whim, without telling anyone?”

“His car was in the car park. The security guard didn’t see him leave.”

Beddgelert was in darkness and sleeping as they passed through it. A lone cat slunk through the deserted streets of Porthmadog.

“It would have been more sensible to call first.” Evan was just realizing all the things he should have done, including making a cup of tea, as well as checking in with HQ, and he was annoyed at having been hustled into action by this forceful American woman. Emmy sat, tense and excited, staring at the road as she drove. “This will be a first for me,” she said. “I’ve done plenty of research, I’ve read all the books, but actually seeing a psychic experience taking shape. I mean, wow—is that mind-blowing or what?”

Betsy sat in the front seat beside her, huddled in her coat, still shivering. Evan was jammed into the inadequate backseat. The light of the dying moon gleamed from water on either side of them as they crossed the estuary.

At last their headlamps illuminated the wire mesh of the security gate outside the Sacred Grove. Evan pressed the buzzer and hardly expected a reply at this time of the night, but a voice answered almost immediately and at the barked “North Wales Police,” the gate swung silently open.

Lady Annabel appeared in a purple satin robe, looking pasty faced and dazed. Mrs. Roberts, in a sensible gray wool dressing gown, hovered behind her, like a faithful dog. “Now tell me again,” Annabel said as she came down the stairs. “This girl thinks she’s found Randy?”

“She had a dream,” Emmy said at the same moment that Betsy said, “I saw him in my dream.”

“The preliminary tests show she has strong psychic powers,” Emmy said. “I think we should take her seriously.”

“At this stage I’m willing to take everything seriously,” Annabel said. “I’m willing to grasp at any straw if she can only find my husband.” She grabbed Betsy’s arm. “Tell me what you dreamed.” She glanced up at Emmy. “Should we wake Rhiannon? Does the dream need to be interpreted?”

“About as straightforward as you can get,” Emmy said. “Tell her, Betsy.”

“I went into a cave,” Betsy said, “and I saw someone lying on the floor. It was dark in there and it smelled of seaweed. As I got closer, I saw that it was Randy—Mr. Wunderlich. He was just lying there. I went to touch him and I woke up.”

“A cave! Why didn’t we think of that? Of course. How stupid. Get Michael now. We need torches. Where’s my mobile phone? How did Randy look in this dream? Had he had an accident, do you think? We might need a doctor for him—should we call a doctor now? Do you think he was taken ill? Or fell? Or you can be trapped by the tide in some of those caves …”

She was rushing around, her arms waving like fluttering wings.

Mrs. Roberts stepped forward to restrain her. “Just a moment, Miss Annabel. You’re not going anywhere in your nightclothes. You go up and get some warm garments on and I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea.”

Annabel looked around in a dazed manner. “All right,” she said. “You’re right. I should get dressed first. And tea would be nice. Thank you, Mrs. Roberts. You’re so good to me.”

“Somebody has to be,” Mrs. Roberts muttered as she moved away.

“And please wake Ben and Michael for me,” Annabel called after her. “I need them to be here.” She ran up the stairs, her slippers flapping and her silk gown flying out behind her.

Evan looked at Emmy and Betsy. “Are there caves on the property?”

Emmy shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’ve only seen two buildings so far. This one and the meditation center, but I understand the property is huge.”

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Betsy said. “It was ever so clear in my dream.”

“It has to be on the coast. You saw seaweed. That’s significant,” Emmy said.

“I could do with that cup of tea,” Evan said, “and so could you, Betsy fach. You’re still shivering.”

“I know,” she said. “I can’t stop my teeth from chattering.”

“I’ll go and see if I can help Mrs. Roberts.” Evan struck out in the direction of the kitchen. He needed something to keep him busy. It was too unnerving being with the two women. This whole scenario felt so unreal, almost as if he had been cast as an actor in a play and nobody had given him his lines. He met Mrs. Roberts, on her way with a tray of teacups. She refused his offer to carry it for her with a polite, “I can manage very well, thank you, sir.”

By the time they reached the foyer, Annabel had come downstairs again, this time in her purple velour tracksuit, and both Michael and a portly man Evan hadn’t seen before were there, the latter looking decidedly grumpy.

“I know you believe in this psychic stuff, Annabel dear,” the man was saying, “but couldn’t it wait at least until dawn. Couldn’t we send someone out on a preliminary recky? Michael could go with the young woman for you.”

“I want to be there myself,” Annabel said. “He’s my husband. I want to rescue him.”

“But why the caves? What on earth would he have been doing there?”

“I suppose he might have been meditating in a cave. He chose the most unlikely places to meditate,” Annabel said, as if the idea had just struck her. “He told me once he picked up incredible vibes in caves. I had completely forgotten we had those caves on the property. I’ve no idea how Randy found out about them.” She took the offered cup of tea. “You are a gem, Mrs. Roberts.”

“I do my best, Miss Annabel,” Mrs. Roberts said gruffly.

Evan drained his own cup gratefully.

“If you want to get to the caves, we should be going then,” Michael said. “We might not be able to reach them if the tide’s in.”

“It’s not.” Mrs. Roberts said. “Low tide at six, isn’t it? You’ll be able to get around all right.”

It was a silent procession that made its way down the many steps, past the meditation center. The copper pyramid seemed to shiver with an energy of its own and the sandy estuary below glowed ghostly gray in the dying moon. The tide was still far out and water channels made streaks of silver across the sand. Michael led with a large torch. Annabel and Betsy were right behind him, then Emmy and Ben, whoever he was, with Evan bringing up the rear. Down the last steps onto the sand. It was fine and soft and squeaked under their feet, making walking difficult. As they passed the last of the buildings, looming like a great black shadow perched above them, Evan saw that the land rose into a headland at the end of the bay. There was a line of dark cliffs on their right, and the sand on the beach was dotted with large rocks and rock pools, around which they had to skirt.

“There.” Michael shone the torch on the cliff face. Just before the rocky headland were two black slits in the cliff face. One of them was almost down at beach level, one a little higher.

“My father always maintained that smugglers used to use them,” Lady Annabel said. “I thought there ought to be a secret passage to one of the buildings. But I never found it.”

“Are these the caves you saw in your dream, Betsy?” Emmy asked.

“I don’t know,” Betsy said. “I only remember being at the mouth of the cave.”

“Watch your step,” Michael said. “We have to sort of scramble here. Are you all right, Mother?”

“I’ll manage,” Annabel said. “You go ahead with the torch. I think I’ll wait down here until you find …” She shuddered. “Oh, I hope he’s there. I hope he’s all right. He might have fallen and injured himself and not have been able to walk. That’s probably what happened, don’t you think? And he had to seek shelter in the cave … .”

Michael had begun to scramble up the boulders that formed a ramp to the caves. Evan went to join him. “Here, let me.” He took the torch so that the boy could use two hands to find his way up. “There must be a huge tide here,” Evan said. “These rocks are quite slippery even up here.”

“There is a big tide,” Michael said. “The lower of these caves is almost flooded at high tide.”

“So someone could be trapped in there.”

“And the upper one too,” Michael said. “You can’t climb up the cliff right here and your way back along the beach would be cut off at high tide. You’d just have to find a spot to sit it out. Of course, the upper cave stays pretty dry.”

Evan didn’t add that there had been at least a couple of low tides since Randy went missing when anyone could have reached safety again.

Betsy and Emmy scrambled up to join Evan and Michael.

“Come on, Betsy.” Emmy held out her hand. “I’ll go in with you, so that you’re not too spooked.” She went to drag Betsy to the upper cave.

Betsy froze. “No, not that one. The other.”

“Surely not.” Emmy gave a nervous laugh. “Why would anyone want to go into that cave? If he was hiding out with a broken ankle, he’d go up to the dry one, wouldn’t he? Come up to the entrance and see what vibes you’re feeling.”

“It’s this one.” Betsy stood before the entrance to the sea cave. It was a narrow, diagonal slit in the rock, not quite as high as a person, and the opening was piled with seaweed-covered rocks. Betsy started clambering over them, slithering and sliding as she tried to make her way inside.

“I’m sure you’ve got it wrong, Betsy,” Emmy called after her. “Do wait a minute. Wait for the light.”

“He’s in here, I know it,” Betsy said. “Look. There.” Evan had climbed down to her and shone the torch into the cave. Inside, the cave widened out, but the debris-strewn floor rose upward to meet the roof at the rear of the cave. The light cast grotesque shadows from rocky outcrops. The back of the cave was strewn with boulders and behind one of these they could make out a pale hand and blond hair.

Betsy was shivering again. “It’s him, isn’t it? Is he trapped? Is he okay?”

Evan had pushed past her to where Randy lay. He didn’t need to feel for a pulse to know that the man was dead. He looked up at the horrified faces, all of them like white death masks in the torchlight.

“I’m afraid we’re too late … .”

Annabel let out a wail and Emmy hurled herself forward. “No, that can’t be right. He’s not dead. He can’t be dead!”

Chapter 12

The first streaks of cold dawn were silhouetting the mountains across the estuary when reinforcements arrived in the persons of a paramedic team, Sergeant Watkins, and D.C. Glynis Davies. Evan had sent the others back to the center, Ben and Michael supporting the hysterical Annabel, Betsy and Emmy clutching each other sobbing. Evan had decided to stay with the body until help arrived.

“Just when I thought I could sleep in for once,” Watkins muttered as Evan scrambled over the rocks to meet him. “Do you know I had to be at those training sessions in Colwyn Bay at eight in the morning? Today I thought I wouldn’t have to show up until nine and what happens? I get called out at bloody four-thirty.”

“You got an hour’s more sleep than I did,” Evan said, returning Glynis’s friendly smile.

“I bet you didn’t expect we’d be back here again so soon, and on a completely different matter too, did you?” Glynis accepted his hand to help her up onto a large, seaweed-draped boulder. “How very bizarre. Did you say you found him?”

“I was in the party that found him,” Evan said. “We came to this cave because young Betsy from our village dreamed he was here.”

“Wow, and it turned out to be true.” Glynis looked impressed.

“Looks that way,” Evan said. He switched on the torch he had kept with him. “The body’s in this cave, Sarge.”

Sergeant Watkins ducked as he followed Evan into the cave. “Been dead long, do you think?”

“I can’t say. I’d imagine the body has been covered with water more than once.”

“So it might have been washed in from the outside?”

“I wouldn’t think so. The opening’s too narrow for one thing and I don’t see how the waves would have been strong enough.”

“Then what the devil was he doing in a place like this? Not exactly where you’d come for comfort, is it?” Watkins shivered.

“His wife says he liked to meditate in these caves, but there’s a perfectly good large dry cave a little higher up. I can’t imagine anyone choosing to meditate in here.”

The torch shone down on Randy Wunderlich’s body. The golden hair was plastered around his face and encrusted with sand. Evan shivered. He still wasn’t able to handle death casually. Neither, it appeared, was Sergeant Watkins.

“Poor bugger,” he said. “What a stupid thing to happen. Here—hold on a mo—” This to the paramedics who were now also trying to get to the body. “I don’t want him touched until we’ve got the police doctor and photographer here. There’s nothing you boys can do anyway. He’s long gone.” He took out his mobile phone. “I’ll just go outside and report to HQ. You boys can come with me and put your own call in.”

“It’s very odd, isn’t it?” Glynis asked when she and Evan were alone in the cave. Of the three she seemed the least affected, climbing over the body to view it from behind. “An odd way to die, I mean.”

“Just a minute, Constable.” Sergeant Watkins reappeared. “Don’t go trampling on any potential evidence.”

“You don’t suspect foul play, do you?” Glynis looked surprised.

“Always suspect foul play until it’s ruled out, and then you don’t get into trouble with your chief,” Watkins said, giving Evan a knowing grin. “Not that it matters much here. The tide’s been over all this at least once.”

“He must have drowned, obviously,” Glynis said, peering down at the body. “But the question is why?”

“Trapped by the tide while he was meditating?” Watkins suggested.

“You’d have to be in a pretty deep trance not to notice cold water coming all over you, wouldn’t you?” Glynis said. “And even then, he’d have tried to force his way out through the waves. It hasn’t been stormy recently, so I can’t think the waves would have been too strong for him.”

Evan had been examining the body. “Hey, look here, Sarge. There’s a makeshift bandage around his ankle.” One foot was bare and someone had tried to bind up the ankle using a sock and a handkerchief. “That might be it. He might have slipped and sprained an ankle. Perhaps he couldn’t get past the waves if he couldn’t stand properly.”

Watkins nodded. “I suppose it’s possible that he passed out with the pain at the wrong moment—just as the water was coming in.”

“And drowned, you mean?” Evan shook his head. “I don’t think so. I passed out with pain once when I separated my shoulder playing rugby. Someone threw cold water over me and it woke me up pretty damned quick.”

Glynis was down on her hands and knees. “There are plenty of loose rocks in here. Do you think his foot got trapped under one of them?”

“How could he have bound up his ankle if it was under a bloody great rock?” Watkins asked, grinning at Evan.

“I don’t know. Maybe a rock rolled onto his foot, and then the waves rolled it off again.”

“While he was lying there unconscious? Then he woke up long enough to bind his ankle only to pass out again and drown?” Watkins finished for her.

“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense,” Glynis said, laughing with them. “What does the brilliant Constable Evans have to say about it?” She turned to Evan. “You’re the one who solves the really tricky cases.”

“Only by luck,” Evan said. “I’m as stumped as you are. Even if I’d got a broken ankle, I’m pretty sure I’d manage to fight my way out of a cave rather than stay there and be drowned.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t swim,” Glynis suggested. “Perhaps he had a water phobia.”

“There’s one possibility we haven’t considered,” Watkins said. “Maybe he didn’t want to get out.”

“Suicide you mean?” Evan asked. Then he shook his head. “I don’t think so. If ever there was a man who was full of himself, it was Randy Wunderlich. He thought he was God’s gift.”

“Anyway, Dr. Owens will be here soon. Young Dawson can take his photographs and then we can have the body removed and go and have a decent breakfast.” Watkins frowned at Evan as he spoke. “You look frozen to the marrow.”

“I am Funny, because I don’t often feel the cold. There’s something about this place that’s giving me the creeps.”

Glynis nodded. “It is creepy in here. Do you think he was dabbling in something like witchcraft or black magic?”

“No more speculation, Constable Davies,” Watkins said firmly, helping her out of the cave. “Wait until we’ve got the pathologist’s report, then we’ll know what we’re talking about. Ten to one it will be very simple. We’ll probably find he had a heart attack and dropped down dead.”

“Ah, then the lungs wouldn’t have any water in them. I know that much,” Glynis said, grinning at Evan. “Look, the sun’s up. It’s going to be a nice day again.”

It was a solemn tableau that greeted Evan and the two detectives as they came into the well-appointed lounge with its comfortable armchairs and sofas in muted pastels. Mrs. Roberts, still in her sensible dressing gown, was sitting straight backed and grim beside another tea tray. Annabel, red eyed and disheveled, was sitting on the sofa beside the large paunchy man she had called Ben, while Michael perched protectively on the sofa arm beside her. Betsy was on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, while Emmy was sitting up straight, staring at the ceiling. They all looked up at the sound of approaching feet.

“Dr. Owens, the home office pathologist, and an incident team from police headquarters are down at the cave right now, Mrs. Wunderlich,” Watkins said.

Evan started at the use of this name. Watkins was correct, of course. She had been married to Randy Wunderlich, but nobody had ever called her anything other than Lady Annabel.

“Your husband’s body will be taken for autopsy,” Watkins stated.

“I don’t want him cut open.” Annabel started to wail again. “I don’t want that beautiful body spoiled in any way.”

“I’m afraid there’s no choice when the cause of death isn’t obvious.” He looked around at the group. “Now, if I could just ask you a few questions. We need to establish when he was last seen.”

Glynis had taken out a notebook and pen and was standing looking efficient. Evan stood in the doorway, feeling superfluous.

“Right. Mrs. Wunderlich,” There was a definite intake of breath from Mrs. Roberts this time. “When was it you first noticed that your husband was missing?”

“The day before yesterday. Two guests had arrived. We normally welcome guests at a private cocktail party before dinner. My husband didn’t show up. I sent Michael to look for him and to remind him. He could be a little absentminded, especially when he—when his psychic receptors were open, as he put it.”

“But I-I couldn’t find him anywhere,” Michael said.

“So I sent Michael to see if his car was gone from its parking space,” Annabel continued.

“But it was still there,” Michael finished.

“Which meant that he couldn’t have left the premises?” Watkins asked.

“He could have gone for a walk,” Annabel said. “He often went for walks.”

“And what happened then?”

“When he didn’t turn up all evening, I became very angry and frightened. I thought of calling the police that night, but I was told it was too early. And I was sure he’d call. I was sure he must have had a good reason—” She broke off and put her handkerchief to her mouth. Then she controlled herself again. “In the morning I had Michael and some of the young people who work here search the grounds, in case something had happened to him, but they found nothing.”

“But you didn’t think of looking in those caves?” Watkins turned to Michael.

“No. It never crossed my mind. Actually, I’d forgotten all about them. N-nobody ever goes near them. We advise people to use only the beach directly in front of the swimming pool, because it’s so easy to be cut off by the tides and those caves are under water half the time. I’m surprised Randy even knew they existed. You can’t see them from the beachfront.”

“Lady Annabel mentioned that he used to meditate in the caves, I believe,” Evan said.

Annabel nodded. “He said he picked up amazing vibrations.”

“Let’s back up,” Watkins said. “Let’s go back to the day he didn’t show up for cocktails. When was the last time he was seen?”

“We had lunch together,” Annabel said. “After lunch I usually take a little rest. I don’t know where Randy went after that. You’d have to ask the staff.”

“How many staff work here?” Watkins asked.

Lady Annabel fluttered her hands again. “We have a full-time masseur, and a team of experts in the healing arts on call, so the number would vary from day to day. Sometimes it’s the Reiki therapist, sometimes the acupuncturist or the bio energy balancer … .”

A lot of people to pay when guests are almost nonexistent, Evan thought.

“And then there’s the domestic staff. I’m not exactly sure how many of those we have at the moment. You’d have to ask Mrs. Roberts. She’s the housekeeper.”

“Let’s see,” Mrs. Roberts said. “At the moment there’s the chef and the two kitchen helpers. Bethan helps me with the housekeeping. Then we have the maintenance man and the two grounds-keepers and security. That would be it. Oh, and the new girl, Betsy here.”

Watkins looked at Betsy with interest. “You were the one who dreamed where Mr. Wunderlich was?”

Betsy nodded.

“Have you worked here long?”

“No, I just started a couple of days ago. The day before Randy—Mr. Wunderlich—was missing.”

“Did you now?”

Evan noticed the glance that passed between Watkins and Glynis. He was just beginning to realize that the sequence of events must look suspicious.

“Well, yes,” Betsy said, blushing bright red. “Miss Court, the American lady here, she brought me down to the Sacred Grove center so that Mr. Wunderlich could test my psychic abilities and Harry, my old boss at the pub, wouldn’t give me time off, miserable old sod that he is, so Miss Court said she’d ask if they could give me a job at the center so I could be right on the spot when Mr. Wunderlich wanted to work with me.”

“I see,” Watkins looked at her for a long moment, then turned back to Lady Annabel.

“Could we have the staff assembled so that we could question them about Mr. Wunderlich’s whereabouts after lunch that day?”

“The staff don’t sleep on the property,” Mrs. Roberts said. “The first of them will be coming on duty at eight. I’ll send word to the gatekeeper that they’re to report in here first.”

“So do we have any idea at what time Mr. Wunderlich was last seen?” Watkins asked. “Did he have appointments that afternoon?”

“He was supposed to be meeting with me at four,” Betsy said. “But he didn’t turn up. I waited in his office but he never came.”

“Did any of you have contact with him after lunch?” Watkins asked, looking around the room. His gaze fell on Emmy, who had been sitting silent and withdrawn.

“Me? I wasn’t here,” Emmy said. “I’m not attached to this place. I’m a grad student, doing research work, and I brought Betsy here because I’d heard about Randy Wunderlich and the advanced methods he had developed for testing psychic ability.”

“And I wasn’t here,” Michael said. “I went into town after lunch to run some errands for my mother.”

“I saw Mr. Wunderlich after lunch,” Betsy said. “I was asked to take him down a cup of coffee—around two-thirty, that would have been. I took it down and he was on the phone and he said, ‘Thank you. Leave it there.’”

“You took his coffee?”

Betsy nodded. “And the empty coffee cup was still there on his desk when I went into his office at four. I was planning to take it away and wash it up, but I forgot.”

“Rhiannon might know something,” Lady Annabel said. “We should have her here.”

“Rhiannon?” Watkins asked.

“Our resident Druid priestess,” Lady Annabel said. “She runs our meditation center and directs our Celtic spirituality classes. She might well have seen Randy that afternoon—his office is in the same building.”

“And where can we find her now?”

“She lives in one of the cottages, right behind the meditation center,” Annabel said. “I can send Michael to find her for you.”

“No, I think we’ll go down that way ourselves and take a look,” Watkins said. “If one of you would be kind enough to direct us.”

“Michael will take you down, won’t you, dear?”

“If you say so.” Michael got to his feet. “This way, please.”

Watkins followed him out through the etched-glass front doors. Glynis looked back at Evan and nodded that he should come too.

“A resident Druid priestess,” Glynis muttered to Evan. “This place is too much, isn’t it? Do you think they really believe in all this stuff?”

“Wait until you meet the priestess,” Evan said. “She takes herself very seriously.”

“So I might not have been so far off with my suggestion of black magic down in the cave?” Glynis said as they descended the flight of steps.

Evan remembered the bone-chilling dread of that cave. Now, with the early morning sun sending steam rising from the grass, it seemed laughable that it was caused by anything more than inadequate clothes and an empty stomach.

They were halfway down the steps when they saw a figure walking up to meet them. It was wearing a white, hooded, floor-length cloak.

“Ah, Rhiannon,” Michael called. “I was sent to find you.”

“And I was coming to you.” Rhiannon threw back her hood to reveal the striking gray hair. “They’ve found Randy, haven’t they? I was awakened while it was still dark. I felt a tremendous disturbance in the cosmic forces.”

Michael nodded. “Yes. They’ve found him. Dead, I’m afraid. Drowned.”

“I knew it.” Rhiannon said. “I sensed it all along. Not that one would have ever picked up vibrations from him, but the universe told me.”

“Why wouldn’t you feel vibrations from him?” Glynis asked, moving up beside Watkins. “Were you not on the same wavelength?”

Rhiannon’s penetrating stare held Glynis until the young woman blushed and laughed awkwardly.

“What we do here is not to be taken lightly,” Rhiannon said. “Randy Wunderlich took it lightly and see what fate awaited him. The universe will not be mocked.”

“So—uh—do you remember when you last saw Mr. Wunderlich?” Watkins asked. “So far, the last time any person had contact with him was around two-thirty in the afternoon that day.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Inspector. I was out and about all afternoon.”

“It’s not inspector, it’s sergeant,” Watkins said.

“Ah. Not inspector yet. I’m sorry. A little premature.” Rhiannon’s fixed her intense gaze on Watkins. “I try to shut Randy Wunderlich from my mind. I find his presence very disturbing, so I wouldn’t have noticed him even if he were in the next room.” She gave a curt little nod. “Good day to you. I expect I’m required at the great house.”

She continued on up the steps.

“What a strange woman,” Glynis muttered.

Watkins glanced back over his shoulder. “How did she know I was going to be promoted?”

“Rhiannon is a law unto herself,” Michael said, watching her go up the steps, the white cape flying out behind her. “She’d like people to think she is in constant contact with the forces of the universe—whatever that means. You should go to her ceremonies some time. P-pretty impressive stuff. She knows how to put on a good show—I’ll say that for her.”

“I gather you don’t go along with all the things they do here?” Evan asked the young man.

Michael laughed. “If you want my honest opinion, it’s a load of cod’s wallop. But if enough misguided people are willing to pay to have their auras put back into shape and find out that they were Cleopatra once, who am I to rock the boat?”

“Yet you choose to work here. The money must be good,” Evan said.

Michael looked surprised. “Didn’t anyone tell you that I’m Annabel’s son? Rightful heir to the Bland-Tyghes, come home to claim my inheritance?”

“No, I’d no idea,” Evan stammered. “You don’t exactly look like …”

“The lord of the manor? No, I’m not exactly treated like it either, am I? And believe me, being here is not my idea. I should be back at university, finishing my degree, but someone had to keep an eye on my mother.”

“Why was that?” Evan asked.

“I didn’t trust Randy Wunderlich, if you really want to know. He had to have had some motive for marrying her, other than her charm and good looks. I rather suspect it was to get his hands on her property.”

“In which case, his death should come as a relief to you, I’d imagine.”

Michael gave an uneasy grin. “Put that way, I suppose you’re right, Constable.”

Chapter 13