Read Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us for Free Online Page B

hermitage, don’t you agree?”
    Several heads nodded.
    “Too small for King Arthur, anyway,” Barry-the-Bucket commented.
    “And the big stone slab on the floor,” Rev. Parry Davies went on, “surely that must be the saint’s grave. The local people buried him here, where he was at home.”
    Evans-the-Meat pushed his way through the crowd until he was standing beside the minister. “So what you’re saying is that Gelert wasn’t really Prince Llewellyn’s famous dog and Beddgelert doesn’t really have Gelert’s grave at all?” he asked.
    “That is correct.”
    Evans-the-Meat let out a sudden whoop of laughter. “How about that, eh? This will be one in the eye for the folk down in Beddgelert, won’t it? And it will put Llanfair on the map at last. Llanfair—home of Saint Celert’s grave. We should call ourselves that, like that other Llanfair.”
    “You mean the other Llanfair over on Anglesey; the one that claims to have the longest name in the world?” Barry-the-Bucket asked.
    “That’s exactly what I mean,” Evans-the-Meat said grandly. “If they can call themselves Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, which we all know means nothing more important than Saint Mary’s church in the hollow of white hazel near the rapid whirlpool and Saint Tisilio’s church near the red cave, then why shouldn’t we start calling ourselves Llanfair-up-on-the-pass-with-the-brook-running-through-it-and-Saint-Celert’s-grave-right-above-it?”
    There was general laughter.
    “You’re not serious, man?” Barry-the-Bucket asked.
    “Indeed I am,” Evans-the-Meat replied. “It’s about time we put our Llanfair on the map. Now that we’ve got the real Celert’s grave, we’ve got something to shout about, haven’t we?”
    “You’re sure it couldn’t be a small fort?” Colonel Arbuthnot asked, the disappointment showing on his face.
    Evans-the-Meat slapped him on the back. “A saint is just as good as a king, colonel bach,” he said.
    “Either way you’ve made an important discovery, colonel,” Evan said. “We’ll just have to wait and see what the trained archaeologists from Bangor say about it.”
    “I’m sure I’m right,” Rev. Parry Davies said. “I’ve always thought that the saint’s final resting place would be found one day.”
    “I thought Methodists weren’t supposed to believe in saints?” Barry-the-Bucket chuckled.
    “Of course we believe in holy men and women. We respect them for the lives they led. We just don’t go praying to them like the heathen Catholics.” He stood in the doorway to St. Celert’s cell, head bowed with reverence. “And from what I’ve read, Saint Celert was among the most holy of the early Christians. I shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t convert this whole valley himself, single-handedly.”
    “I’ve never heard of him,” someone in the crowd muttered as they started down the mountain again.
    “Then I think it behooves me to do a little research,” Rev. Parry Davies said. “Yes, maybe I should write a simple life of Saint Celert. We could sell it, for a modest sum, when tourists want to visit.”
    “You should do an article in the North Wales weekly, reverend,” someone suggested.
    “That’s right,” Evans-the-Meat said proudly. “We should let the world know that Llanfair now has its own historic monument—just as long as the bloody tourists don’t want to come and look at it.”
    The men walked down the mountain calling out absurd suggestions and laughing loudly.
    “Don’t forget to put in your book that the grave was discovered by the colonel, will you reverend?” Evan suggested, noting that the colonel had been walking along silent and tight-lipped.
    “Of course he must,” Barry-the-Bucket said, slapping the colonel on the back. “Go down in history, you will, colonel! They might want you to help them dig it up. I wonder if I could get my bulldozer up this path? That would speed things up, wouldn’t