"A stranger hanging around. Any more threats. Anyone who's rude to you. A hostile neighbor, for example."

"Mon dieu! You don't really think I'm in danger, do you?" She put her hand to her breast in a dramatic gesture. You don't really think I'm in danger, do you?" She put her hand to her breast in a dramatic gesture.

"No, I don't, but you shouldn't take any chances until the detectives have checked out the note. As I say, I'm not far away. Give me a call if you're worried."

"Sank you. You are tres gentil tres gentil, as we say," she said. "You speak French, maybe?"

"I took it in school, but I've not had much call to use it since. I can probably still conjugate a few verbs."

"Ah . . ." She gave him a long, slow smile. "You never know when you might need to conjugate . . . verbs. I 'ave to go now. I look forward wiz pleasure to serving you at Chez Yvette. Au revoir Au revoir, Monsieur Evans."

Evan escorted her to the door. Phew, he thought. A woman like that is going to make some waves around here.

On Sat.u.r.day evening Evan escorted Bronwen to his old bone-shaker.

"I'm not sure that I should introduce you to Madame Yvette," Bronwen said. "She's very-French."

"I know. I already met her."

"You did? when?"

"She came into the station. Someone had sent her a threatening letter telling her to go home."

Bronwen frowned. "Like the one at the cottage?"

"Similar."

"How awful. I hope that sort of thing isn't going to spread."

"I think it's a few extremists, maybe just one bloke, but probably not. There are fingerprints on both the notes. Unfortunately not the same prints, and not the same method either. One was words cut from a newspaper, the other was printed in capital letters."

"So it looks as if a group is involved?"

"Possibly. People who write threatening notes usually like to stick to the same method. Which suggests it wasn't the same person."

"Unless he couldn't find all the words he needed in the newspaper this time," Bronwen suggested.

Evan opened the car door for her and she climbed in. "So what did you think of Madame Yvette?" she asked.

Evan got in beside her. "I agree with Terry. Very s.e.xy. In fact, I think I should sign up for those cla.s.ses myself, just so I can watch her bending over a hot stove. Ow!" he added as Bronwen hit him.

"We had our first lesson today," she said. "It was fascinating. I'm going to try out the recipe she taught us and if it's anything like the original, I'll cook it for you. Actually it mightn't be a bad idea if you did take cooking cla.s.ses. You've got to learn to live alone someday."

"I don't see why," he said. "I always thought that's what women were for-no, don't hit me when I'm driving!"

He was backing into the parking area outside Chapel Beulah so that he could turn around. Suddenly he swore under his breath and jammed on the brakes. "b.l.o.o.d.y young idiot," he shouted as he stopped the car and flung open his door.

"What is it?" Bronwen asked.

Evan was already half out of the car. "Young Terry. I almost backed into him. He was already yelling. What were you thinking, riding that close to me, Terry? You could see I was backing up."

"I was coming to find you," Terry shouted. His voice was high and shrill. "There's another fire!"

"Where?"

"Up there-the Everest Inn."

"Another fire, Bron," Evan yelled as Bronwen emerged from the car. "Go and call 999, will you?"

A flickering glow outlined the giant chalet as Evan started to run up the hill. As he pa.s.sed Charlie Hopkins's cottage young Bryn emerged ahead of his grandfather.

"Another fire, Mr. Evans!" he shouted. "My grandma's calling the brigade. Don't worry. We'll soon have it out!"

The next morning Sergeant Watkins joined Evan at the Everest Inn car park.

"I'm surprised that Peter Potter let you come before he's been over the scene himself," Evan said.

"His day off, isn't it?" Watkins chuckled. "We've put in a call but he's not at home. Probably gone back to England for the weekend. I bet you're glad to see me instead of him, aren't you?"

"You can say that again," Evan muttered.

"Gave you a hard time, did he? Don't worry, he's not winning any popularity contests with the rest of us either, but I gather he's the cat's whiskers when it comes to arson."

They walked across the car park together.

"It doesn't look as if much harm was done this time," Watkins said.

"Luckily it was only a storage shed at the back that went up. It could have been worse."

"Any sign of a note this time?" Watkins asked.

"Not that we've found so far."

"So it could be accidental," Watkins commented, stepping carefully over the rubble. "Phew," he added, pointing at a pile of scorched cans. "Paraffin. Lucky they put the fire out before that lot went up."

Evan was staring thoughtfully at the giant Swiss chalet shape of the Everest Inn. "You know what I keep asking myself, Sarge-why this?"

"Because the inn's full of rich foreigners?"

"In that case why not go the whole hog and try to burn it down?" Evan asked. "Why bother with a piddling little outbuilding that does no real damage?"

"Maybe they got cold feet about burning something as large as the inn," Watkins said, scowling at it, "or maybe they knew that flammables were stored in here and they expected the whole lot to explode and spew burning liquid on all these nice cars."

"It doesn't make sense to me," Evan said. "Why not torch some of the cars, if that's the aim? n.o.body has come forward to claim responsibility yet. There's not much point in burning down buildings if n.o.body knows who's doing it."

Watkins nodded. "You've got a point there. We're busy trying to match up fingerprints but no luck so far. I hope we get them before there's much more of this."

"So you think it is arson again, then?"

Watkins bent and retrieved something with his handkerchief. "This looks like the same type of fuse that was used at the cottage. I reckon it was the same bloke all right."

As Evan and Watkins came down the street from the inn, the Reverend Parry Davies was standing in the pulpit addressing his newly acquired flock.

"My dear friends," his voice boomed out through open windows, "a great evil has come among us, an evil that mocks one of the Ten Commandments-a heathen foreigner who thinks she can besmirch the Lord's day. I am referring to that new house of iniquity down the pa.s.s-the French restaurant. As I drove up with a vanload of new worshipers today, what do you think I saw? I saw that the restaurant was open-open today on the Sabbath!

"My dear friends, I, your pastor, warn you to stay away from that house of sin. Any place that does commerce on the Sabbath day is a house of the devil and anyone who frequents it is asking for an eternity of h.e.l.lfire and d.a.m.nation."

Across the street the Reverend Powell-Jones couldn't help overhearing. "Vanity!" he boomed at his own congregation. "Vanity is a tool of the devil! There are those among us who seek to better themselves, who seek to better their own position in life-who waste money on costly vans to swell their congregations. And why? Not for the salvation of more souls, but to swell the amount of money in the collection plate!"

As soon as his service was over he rushed out to his billboard and pasted a new text: "Before you criticize the speck of dust in your neighbor's eye, remove the beam from your own eye!"

"And very apt too, Edward," Mrs. Powell-Jones commented, glaring at the van parked across the street. "If it's not nipped in the bud, that Parry Davies woman will be using that van to get members for her women's prayer group and then there will be no stopping her!"

Chapter 7.

On Monday morning Evan received a brief visit from Sergeant Potter on his way back from his inspection of the crime scene.

"It looks like we've got ourselves a serial arsonist here allright," he said. "Same modus operandi-same accelerant dropped in through a broken window, same type of fuse."

"But no note found this time," Evan pointed out.

"Not yet. It could have been burned by mistake." He stood staring out of the open doorway, then suddenly turned to Evan. "So who is it, then?" the sergeant demanded. "Come on, man, you must have some idea. It's a village. Everyone knows everything about everyone else, don't they?"

"Are you saying that someone from the village has to be responsible?" Evan asked.

"Stands to reason, doesn't it?" Potter barked. "Two fires in a week, both around Llanfair. Which makes me ask, why here? It's not exactly a tourist mecca, is it? I mean, who cares if Llanfair burns down? So it has to be a local. And the fuses-I understand that all the men around here used to work in the slate quarry before it shut down. They'd all have had access to fuses like that, wouldn't they? Start putting the screws on, Constable. Find out who might have kept a fuse or two around the house. Get a statement from everyone in the village and see who has an alibi for the half hour before the building went up. I want this bloke nabbed before he does any more damage."

He didn't wait to hear Evan's answer as he stalked out again.

Evan did as he was ordered and made the rounds of the village once more, but with no obvious success. n.o.body admitted to having old fuses around the house. There had been a European league game between Real Madrid and Manchester United on the telly that kept a lot of men home from the pub. Evans-the-Meat remained sullen and unhelpful. And he had a cast-iron alibi for the night of the second fire. He said he was down at a darts club meeting in Caernarfon. Evan noted the name and address of the club; that might prove worth looking into.

Evan arrived at Mrs. Williams's house for lunch with a good appet.i.te and great expectations. They'd had leg of lamb yesterday, which should mean shepherd's pie today, and Mrs. W. made a top-rate shepherd's pie.

Mrs. Williams's face looked flushed and nervous as she opened the oven. "Here," she said. "I hope you like it!"

Then she put a plate in front of him. It contained three round dabs of food, each about the size of old half crowns.

"Uh-what is it?" Evan asked cautiously.

"It's French cooking, that's what it is," she said with a hint of pride in her voice. "What we learned in our cla.s.s. That's a lamb noisette"-she pointed at the brown morsel-"that's pureed leek, and that's whipped potato made with garlic."

"Mmmm-very nice, I'm sure," Evan said. It was was very nice, too, but it only took six mouthfuls to finish his plate. very nice, too, but it only took six mouthfuls to finish his plate.

"There-wasn't very much, was there?" he said as he put his knife and fork together.

"That's the French way," Mrs. Williams said. "Just enough to excite the taste buds, that's what Madame Yvette said. If you want to fill up, you eat bread in France . . . and of course she said we had to have red wine, but I'm not going that far."

Evan sighed and reached for the bread.

On his next visit to the Red Dragon he discovered he wasn't the only one who was now on a starvation diet.

Betsy had put a new blackboard on the wall above the bar. Underneath heading Red Dragon Bistro there was written Tonight's special: Leek and Gruyere Souffle.

"What the devil is a souffle?" an old farmer demanded. He p.r.o.nounced it to rhyme with shuffle shuffle.

"It's soo-flay," Betsy said, "and I learned to make it at our cooking cla.s.s."

"b.l.o.o.d.y cooking cla.s.s," one of the men growled. "You should see what my wife served me last night. b.l.o.o.d.y mashed-up muck with garlic, that's what it was. I told her any more of this and I send her back to her mother."

"Don't worry, this Madame Yvette won't last long," Evans-the-Meat said.

"Oh, why not?" Evan's ears p.r.i.c.ked up.

Evans-the-Meat looked fl.u.s.tered. "Stands to reason, doesn't it? n.o.body wants that kind of food around here. And have you heard what she's charging? You can get a whole serving of fish and chips for what she charges for a bit of lettuce and a couple of spring onions. No, she'll be out of here by Christmas, you mark my words."

"You wouldn't be thinking about helping her to make up her mind, would you, Gareth?" Evan asked quietly.

"Meaning what?"

"Someone sent her a threatening note."

"Well, it wasn't me. More likely to be Mr. Parry Davies, if you ask me. I gather his sermon about her was a real scorcher. He called her a Jezebel and worse."

Evan decided it might not be a bad idea to get a sample of printing from the minister in the morning-and one from the butcher as well.

The next day Evan collected samples of printing from most of the villagers. Evans-the-Meat gave his, complaining all the time about duress and the police barking up the wrong tree as usual. Rev. Parry Davies sighed and gave a good impression of a Christian martyr. His wife complained more vocally than either her husband or the butcher, and Mrs. Powell-Jones flatly refused, threatening to contact her MP and the commissioner about defamation of character.

Evan duly sent the samples down to headquarters. He waited expectantly but heard nothing more. It wasn't until the next morning that Sergeant Watkins appeared as he was making himself a cup of tea.

"Slacking off again? Sergeant Potter wouldn't like that." Watkins put his head around the station door.

"Oh, morning Sarge. How's the inquiry going?

Watkins sighed. "Going nowhere, if you ask me." He came into Evan's office and pulled out a chair. "I can't say it's their number-one priority at HQ right now. All D.I. Hughes can talk about is this Operation Armada, as he calls it."

"Operation Armada?"

Watkins made a face. "The drug sting. Sinking all the boats. Rule Britannia, you know . . ."

Evan grinned. "So it's just you and Peter Potter working on this case. I'd help if I was allowed to."

"I wish you b.l.o.o.d.y would." Watkins sank onto the chair. "Tell me honestly, Evans, have you really got no clue about these fires? I mean, you're normally the one who gets the hunch that puts us on the right lines. We've done everything we can-we've fingerprinted any known Welsh extremist-anyone who has written a nationalistic letter to the newspaper, anyone who belongs to a club like your butcher up here. But we can't match the prints to either note."