Chapter 4

Instantly the pub emptied out, the occupants scrambling up the steep mountain track in their polished Sunday boots.

“It’s Rhodri’s cottage!” Evans-the-Meat shouted. “What’s the betting those bloody English people left the gas on?”

Flames were already consuming the cottage, shooting out through shattered windows and the partially collapsed roof. Sparks shot into a clear night sky.

“What a sight. This is better than Guy Fawkes night!” Barry-the-Bucket exclaimed.

“The fire brigade better get here in a hurry or the whole mountain will go up.” Farmer Owens glanced nervously at his meadows full of sheep.

“All right everybody, not too close,” Evan yelled over the roar of the flames and the excited shouts of the men. “Keep well away from the track so that the fire engine can get up here. Come on. Move over, please.” He ushered the spectators to one side.

“Shouldn’t we see if we can start putting it out, Mr. Evans?” Farmer Owens asked. “I’ve got spades at my place . . .”

Evan hesitated. There was a real danger of the whole hillside going up, but he didn’t want to risk putting inexperienced people in harm’s way.

“Let me get to it.” Bryn pushed past Evan. “Don’t worry. I’m trained to do this kind of thing, Constable Evans.” He was halfway down the path when he called. “They’ve got a tap here with a hose on it, Constable Evans. Now let’s just hope they haven’t turned the water off.”

A feeble stream of water came out of the hose. Evan didn’t believe it could possibly do any good against the raging inferno a few yards away, but Bryn stood there, steadfastly wetting down the ground around the cottage until the sound of a siren echoed up the pass, then the fire engine lurched up the track. It was followed by a tanker whose powerful hoses rapidly extinguished the blaze.

“At least it didn’t spread.” A gray-haired fireman came over to Evan as the men dragged their hoses away from the ruined cottage. “Thanks for keeping the crowd back.” He held out his hand. “Geraint Jones. I’m the head of this mob. You must be Constable Evans.”

“That’s right.” Evan shook the offered hand. “We were lucky you got here in such a hurry. And we were lucky young Bryn happened to be up here visiting his grandmother. He stopped it from spreading until you got here.”

Captain Jones nodded. “He’s a good lad. A bit too keen, but then I expect I was too at his age.” He tapped Evan on the arm. “I imagine you’ll want to notify your chaps about this, won’t you? Definitely a suspicious fire.”

“You think it was deliberately set?”

The fireman sucked through his teeth. “When we arrived the whole place was already in flames, so I can’t tell you where it started, but I do know from experience—it takes a lot to make one of these old cottages burn like that. Stone walls, stone floors. Fires don’t spread without a little help, you know. I’d put in a report, just to cover your rear end.”

“Thanks, I will,” Evan said.

“And I’d keep people out of the place until your arson specialists have taken a look in daylight. You’d be amazed what people like to cart away as souvenirs.”

“Thanks. I’ll cordon it off tonight, then,” Evan said. “I’d better call HQ and see if they want to send up someone to keep watch for the night.”

“I’ll be leaving a couple of my men up here for a while anyway,” Captain Jones said. “They might need to wet down hot spots. We don’t want the hillside catching fire if a wind gets up, do we?”

“I’ll get these people back to their homes.” Evan headed toward the crowd that was still watching, fascinated. “All right everybody. Show’s over. Go home. And I don’t want anybody near this place until we’ve finished up here.”

He was slightly surprised at the power of his own voice and at the way they meekly began to leave.

“Come on, boys. The Red Dragon’s still open,” Charlie Hopkins called. “Where’s young Bryn? I want to buy him that pint now.”

Evan watched the old man make his way down the hillside with his arm around his grandson’s shoulder.

As the crowd was dispersing a woman’s scream rose above the murmured conversation. “He’s not here! Oh my God—where is he?”

Evan pushed through the crowd to see a distraught woman looking around her in utter terror. He recognized her as the owner of the cottage next to Bronwen’s school. Her name was Ellie Jenkins and she worked as a maid at the Everest Inn.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Jenkins?” He grabbed her arm.

“My Terry. You haven’t seen him, have you? He’s missing.” She could scarcely get the words out.

“Young Terry? No, I can’t say I’ve seen him.”

“He has to be up here.” Her eyes darted around nervously as she spoke. “Where else could he be?”

Evan put a restraining hand on her arm. “It’s going to be all right, Mrs. Jenkins. Young boys are always getting into mischief, you know that. Now take a deep breath—when did you see him last?”

The breath came out as a shuddering sigh. “I thought he was in his bed, didn’t I? Then I heard the fire engine go past and I was surprised he didn’t get up to see what was going on. He’s mad about fire engines. That’s when I saw his bed was empty. So I was sure he must have come up here and . . .”

Evan tried to give her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure we’ll find him, Mrs. Jenkins. Don’t worry. Come on. I’ll help you look.”

The crowd was now streaming down from the mountain. Evan stopped any young boys he met, asking them about Terry Jenkins but nobody seemed to have noticed him.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with him, Mr. Evans,” Mrs. Jenkins sighed as they made their way up to the fire engines beside the smoldering ruin. “He’s that wild since his father walked out on us. I can’t make him see sense anymore. Anything dangerous—that’s what he likes. Fires, explosions, bombs. All those action shows on the telly and people being blown up. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him—”

“Just a second,” Evan interrupted. He had overheard one of the firemen yelling, “Out of the way, son, or you might get hurt.”

Evan caught sight of a small figure darting among the tall shapes carrying the hose.

“Terry?” he shouted.

The boy looked up.

“Terry Jenkins, get over here this minute!” His mother’s voice drowned out every other sound.

Evan went over to the boy who was wearing a red anorak over his pajamas. “Come on, Terry. Your mum’s been looking for you.”

Terry looked up at Evan and wiped a sooty hand across his face. “I’m in for it now, aren’t I, Constable Evans?” He grinned. “But it was worth it. Did you see the way the water came out of that hose? It was brilliant. And those flames—they must have gone hundreds of feet up into the air! I want to be a fireman some day and put out fires like that.”

“Terry Jenkins, you’ll be the death of me.” His mother stepped forward and yanked him by the arm. “What do you mean by sneaking out into the night like that? You might have been burned alive!”

“Aw, Mum.” Terry looked embarrassed. “I had to go and take a look at the fire and I knew you wouldn’t let me. You should have seen it—the roof fell in and the flames went whoosh! It was spectacular!”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Mrs. Jenkins went on. “If only your daddy was here . . .”

“Yes, well he’s not, is he?” Terry said angrily. “He doesn’t care what I do.”

Then he broke free and ran ahead of her down the track. Evan watched her go, feeling sympathy for the woman. Terry was just getting to that difficult age and he wasn’t an easy child to begin with. Evan had caught him a few weeks previously trying to extract chocolate bars from the machine at Roberts-the-Pump’s petrol station. He hadn’t seemed to think he was doing anything wrong—and that type made the worst kind of criminal.

Evan made sure the last of the stragglers came down with him from the mountain. He was on his way to the police station to call in his report when he saw Bronwen running down the village street, her long red cape flying out behind her like wings.

“Evan, are you all right?” she called. “I’ve just heard there was a fire.”

“I’m fine,” he said, smiling at her as she came up to him. “Old Rhodri’s cottage went up in flames. Nobody was hurt. The fire brigade’s just finishing up right now.”

“I don’t know about you,” she said, standing so close that she was looking up into his face. “I can’t leave you for one day without some great drama happening behind my back.”

“Then you’d better not go away again, had you?” Evan teased. He reached out and stroked her cheek, even though he was aware that this action would undoubtedly be all around the village by morning. “You worry too much. And I’ve told you often enough that a policeman’s job isn’t all beer and skittles, haven’t I?”

Bronwen nodded. “You’re right. I’m a born worrier. I’m glad nobody was hurt. Do they know what started it?”

Evan shook his head. “The English people had gone hours before and the place was all locked up. We’ll have to take a look in daylight.”

Bronwen wrapped her arms around her as she stared up at the headlights of the fire engine on the mountainside. “I don’t like it, Evan.”

“Don’t like what?”

“That it was that cottage which burned—the one recently bought by outsiders. I hope that kind of thing’s not starting here.”