Free Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs by Rhys Bowen Page A

They’ve asked me to join them. It’s a very fine choir, I hear. First class. They hope to win the gold medal and with me they’d definitely do it, wouldn’t they?”
    The color had drained from Mostyn’s face. “You’re not seriously thinking of backing out at this stage, and joining a rival choir?”
    “Don’t shriek, Mostyn. It’s unladylike,” Ifor said, still grinning. “I haven’t signed a contract with you, you know. I was only doing this out of the goodness of my heart, and frankly I’m having second thoughts. I have my reputation to consider. I don’t want Ifor Llewellyn to look a complete idiot in front of an audience, do I now?”
    “It’s just the sort of traitorous act I’d expect from you,” Mostyn yelled. “I don’t know why I thought you’d ever change. You always excelled at backstabbing, didn’t you? Well, you’re not letting us down now. Dress rehearsal in the pavilion, seven o’clock sharp tomorrow, and I expect you to be on time!”
    He stormed out, pushed past Ifor and slammed the door behind him. Ifor looked at the stunned faces then he shrugged. “I really shouldn’t do it, but it’s too tempting,” he said. “He asks for it, doesn’t he?”
    *   *   *
    “Bloody ’ell,” young Billy Hopkins, Charlie’s grandson, exclaimed as he climbed out of the back of the van and got his first sight of the eisteddfod grounds. Evan seconded the thought. On what used to be the playing fields there were now three huge marquees, the middle one the size of a circus tent. Around them were tents of varying sizes, and around the perimeter hundreds of small booths were going up, ready to sell everything from Celtic jewelry to toffy apples. Everywhere was bustling with activity. Guy ropes were being tightened, frames assembled. People passed them carrying spinning wheels, garlands of flowers, blots of cloth, stage prop pillars, boxes of paper cups. A young girl staggered past, clutching a Welsh harp as big as she was. Cars and vans wove cautiously in and out, hooting at pedestrians to get out of their way. The overall effect was that of an army setting up for a siege. This was heightened by the banner of the Red Dragon of Wales, fluttering from the tallest tent post and the towering form of Harlech Castle etched in black against a threatening sky.
    “I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” Billy Hopkins muttered to Evan, who had just emerged from Roberts-the-Pump’s ancient limo. “I mean, this is something, isn’t it?”
    “Where’s Austin Mostyn then?” Roberts-the-Pump asked, looking around him.
    “He drove some students here straight from his school,” Evans-the-Meat said. “They were in the the boy soprano competition so Mostyn said he’d meet us here.”
    “Boy soprano, thet’s what you should have entered, Evan bach,” Charlie chuckled.
    “And where’s Ifor?” Roberts-the-Pump lowered his voice this time.
    “Don’t ask,” Barry-the-Bucket muttered. “Let’s just hope he shows up by seven o’clock or we’ll never hear the last of it.”
    Mostyn came bustling over to them, clutching his conductor’s baton and trying to look important. “Ah, there you are. I’ve had a chance to scout the place out and I know which pavilion we’ll be singing in. So let’s look sharp and get over there. I’ve been told they’re on a very strict schedule.” The words came out in a torrent. He set off at a brisk pace, causing the rest of the choir to break into a run to keep up with him.
    “Look at all the TV vans,” Billy Hopkins commented as they came to a halt outside the biggest tent. “Do you think my mam will be able to watch us at home?”
    “It might even go out on the BBC national,” Mostyn said proudly. “Especially since we’ve got such a great man singing with us.”
    “Where is he then?” Evans-the-Milk looked around nervously.
    “He said he was driving down in his own car,” Mostyn said. “That’s understandable. You can’t expect a