Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs Read Online Free

appreciative, Constable Evans.” Mostyn Phillips shook Evan’s hand as they came out of the village hall. It was almost dark and as they took the shortcut to the Red Dragon, the peak of Mount Snowdon glowed black against a silver sky.
    “I do hope you decide to join our little endeavor,” Mostyn continued. “As you can see, or should I say hear, we could really use the extra voice.”
    Evan thought privately that the modest addition of his somewhat-in-tune voice was hardly going to turn the Llanfair Côr Meibion into an award-winning choir, but he kept quiet. He felt sorry for Mostyn Phillips, who took his duties so seriously and was faced with a choir of aging voices. Most of the singers were more of Charlie Hopkins’s vintage—former slate miners to whom singing in the choir was almost a requirement of living in Llanfair. There were only a few young men in the village now and those teenage grandsons and nephews who were dragged along thought the whole thing was a bit of a joke.
    “This used to be a fine choir in its heyday,” Mostyn went on, voicing Evan’s thoughts out loud. “When the slate mine was working, every man in this neighborhood was proud to sing with the choir. Has Charlie shown you the cups we won in those days? My, but they were fine—the National Eisteddfod, too, not just local ones.”
    Evan glanced at Mostyn Phillips. He was a dapper little man with a neat Hitler-style moustache. He always dressed formally in a blazer and striped tie, or tweed jacket and cravat, but he gave the impression of being frozen in a time warp in both his dress and his behavior. He could never forget that he was a schoolmaster either. It must have been a constant annoyance for him to face an undisciplined group of men who couldn’t be threatened with detention.
    “Sometimes I wonder,” Mostyn went on. “I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, entering us for the eisteddfod again. My whole reputation is riding on it. I’m well known for the quality of my choirs, Mr. Evans.”
    “Then maybe you should think twice about this eisteddfod, ” Evan said. “I doubt very much that you can whip us into shape in a month.”
    “But it’s good for the men to compete. It gives them something to aim for—and we’re only entered in the small choir division—under one hundred voices.” He leaned confidentially close to Evan. “I hope to stun the judges with my choice of music.”
    Evan kept quiet about this, too. After all, what did he know about music? But none of the songs they had sung tonight were familiar to Evan. None of the old favorites that you could belt out with confidence, like “Men of Harlech” or “Sauspan Fach.” It seemed to be all modern stuff and rather strange.
    They had reached the Red Dragon at the same time as a couple of village women and Mostyn sprang ahead to open the door for them.
    “After you, ladies,” he said with a little bow, reducing both of the round village matrons to giggles.
    “ Diolch yn fawr, thank you very much,” they mumbled.
    “Nice to know that old world chivalry isn’t dead yet, eh Sioned?” one of them exclaimed with a glance back at Mostyn.
    “Holding the door open for us then, Austin Mostyn?” Roberts-the-Pump gave Charlie Hopkins a nudge as they walked through the open door. “Nice to know that old world chivalry isn’t dead yet, eh Charlie?”
    Mostyn flushed and gave a half laugh to show that he appreciated the joke.
    “No, Constable Evans. I’m going to keep plowing ahead regardless,” he said as they followed the men inside. “I’m an optimist. I keep hoping for a miracle.”
    “I don’t think miracles come around too often, Mr. Phillips,” Evan said.
    “Well, look you, here he is now!” Betsy’s high clear voice cut through the murmur of voices in the crowded bar. Her face lit up as Evan ducked under the big oak beam at the doorway and made his way through the crowd. “Charlie’s just told me to pour you a pint of Brains courtesy of him,