The Evil that Men Do Read online

  ‘Don’t worry. You did nothing wrong. The woman got up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s all. Are you ready?’

  We had decided that we would spend the morning wandering around Broadway, having got only a taste of it the day before, so we first headed up the High Street to its end. I kept pausing to take pictures. ‘I’m going to run out of space on the disk, or whatever they call it,’ I said, zooming in on an idyllic view. ‘I don’t think this scene has changed a bit in the past three hundred years.’

  ‘Take away the lamp post and the motorcycle, and I’m inclined to agree with you,’ said Alan.

  I began to frame another shot, and then lowered my camera. ‘Look, Alan. Isn’t that the bearded wonder from the Holly Tree?’ The young man had come out of one of the houses and was climbing aboard the motorcycle.

  ‘Looks like him.’

  ‘I wonder what he was doing at that house. It is just a house, isn’t it, not a shop?’

  Alan shook his head. ‘There’s no sign, but I suppose it could be an antiques shop. Some of them are oddly reserved about their trade. Hours by appointment only, that sort of thing.’

  ‘If he’s an antique hound I’ll eat his motorcycle. More likely visiting a relative, or a girlfriend. That might explain why he’s staying at the Holly Tree. It’s at the right end of town.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s a trifle expensive for someone like him, though, and the distances in Broadway are not so great as to make that a consideration, especially for a motorbike.’

  ‘All right, what’s your explanation, then?’

  ‘I haven’t one, and speculation on no data is futile. We’ll probably find he’s an art student in search of culture in the Cotswolds. Remember the lord mayor and the vicar?’

  ‘I don’t care.’ I linked my arm through his. ‘It’s just a game, and it’s fun. Wot’s the h’odds, so long as you’re ’appy?’

  Alan winced. ‘You’d never make a Cockney, Dorothy. Shall we turn around and go down to the end of the town?’

  So of course I began reciting ‘James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree,’ and Alan joined in, and neither of us paid the least attention to the amused stares of passers-by.

  Broadway is a biggish village, as villages go, but we’d pretty well seen what there was to be seen by noon. ‘Right,’ said Alan, as we collapsed on to a bench on the village green. ‘Lunch. Then we’ll rest for a little, and then climb up to the Broadway Tower?’

  ‘Agreed. Where shall we lunch?’

  The only question was which pub, since Broadway, long a tourist destination, boasts several. Having experienced the Swan, we decided to try out another one, the Hunting Dog. That turned out to be a mistake.

  We finally found a table, but it took Alan for ever to get our beer, and when he came back with it, I had already begun to cough. ‘Someone is smoking in here,’ I said when a gulp or two of beer had cleared my throat for a moment. ‘Several someones. I thought that was illegal now.’

  ‘It is,’ said Alan morosely. ‘The law isn’t always enforced. I didn’t order anything to eat. The selection was sparse and not terribly tempting. Drink your beer and let’s go.’

  I took another swallow. ‘It’s not very good, is it? Watery and sour. More like American beer. I’ve had enough.’

  We left half our pints and threaded our way to the door. As we stepped into the welcome fresh air and started up the sidewalk (pavement, I reminded myself), Alan pulled me back sharply. There was a screech of tyres, a clattering crash, and the smell of burned rubber.

  ‘Bloody fool!’ Alan roared.

  I took a shaky breath. ‘It’s all right, Alan. He never touched me. No harm done.’

  ‘It is bloody well not all right! The idiot doesn’t belong on the pavement! I should—’

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry!’ The bearded lad from the Holly Tree stood before us. ‘There was a patch of mud or something, and I lost control. I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  His motorcycle lay forlornly on its side, fluid seeping slowly from somewhere in its middle. He was white and shaking, and covered with mud. His jeans were torn and his brow was bleeding profusely, staining his shirt and the hands with which he was trying to stanch the flow.

  ‘I’m sorry, truly,’ he kept repeating.

  I found my voice. ‘You’re the one who’s hurt. You’re staying at the Holly Tree, aren’t you?’

  ‘Ye-es.’ He sounded a little wary. Was he afraid I was getting an address to give to the police?

  ‘So are we, my husband and I. My name is Dorothy Martin, and this is Alan Nesbitt.’

  He put out a hand, and then quickly withdrew it. ‘Sorry. Not fit to touch anyone. Paul Jones.’

  ‘All right, Paul, I think we’d all better go back to our B-and-B. That cut on your cheek needs seeing to, and then we could all do with a drink, I imagine.’

  Alan had been remarkably silent through all this. His face was closed, and I thought, with a little glint of amusement, that a man was never too old or too happily married for a spot of jealousy. Mr Paul Jones was, despite his torn and ragged clothes, beard, and blood, a very handsome young man.

  ‘I’ll go and clean up, but you don’t have to go with me, Mrs Martin. I can fend for myself. I’m quite used to it.’

  Was there a touch of bitterness in that last remark? None of your business, Dorothy, I chided myself. But I found myself intrigued by Paul Jones, and welcomed the chance to get to know him better. ‘Well, we’ll walk with you as far as the Swan, anyway. At least I suppose you’ll have to walk. Your bike doesn’t look as if it’s going anywhere for a while.’

  He looked at it. ‘No,’ he said briefly. ‘And it’s borrowed.’

  Oh, dear. The boy didn’t look as though he had two pennies to scrape together, much less enough for expensive repairs to a friend’s motorbike.

  And yet, I thought, he’s staying at the Holly Tree, which runs to nearly seventy pounds a night for one person. A real bargain for what it is, a lot cheaper than a hotel of the same quality, but still . . .

  Not your problem, I told myself firmly as the three of us walked up the street, Alan slipping my hand over his arm and holding me close.

  When we got to the Swan, Paul stopped. ‘I’ll leave you here,’ he said, a little awkwardly. ‘And thank you for being so understanding.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re coming in with us, and we’ll treat you to a beer. Just to show there are no hard feelings.’

  ‘But . . .’ He gestured at his torn jeans, his dirty and bleeding face.

  ‘Then we’ll eat outside. It’s a lovely day, and I can bring you a paper towel to mop up your face. I insist.’

  Alan had still not spoken a word, but now, to my surprise, he seconded my invitation. ‘You need to sit, Jones. You’re still shaking. My wife is quite right. I’ll fetch us some beer and a ploughman’s apiece. Stilton all right for you?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. I mean, yes, Stilton is great, but . . .’

  He was talking to the air. Alan had disappeared into the pub.

  He came back in a remarkably short time with three brimming pints and a fistful of damp paper towels.

  ‘Lunch is on its way,’ he said, distributing the beer without spilling a drop. ‘And this should make you look a trifle less disreputable.’ He smiled and handed Paul the towels. ‘Careful. That’s hand sanitizer, not water. It’ll sting a bit.’

  Paul dabbed at his face, hissing as the alcohol hit the raw patches.

  ‘Here, let me.’ I took the towels from him. ‘You’re just smearing everything around.’ He set his jaw and allowed me to torture him. ‘There. More or less clean and sanitary. There’s not much we can do about your clothes, I’m afraid.’

  ‘’S’all right. I can patch the jeans. I told you, I can look after myself. But thanks.’ He lifted his beer in a salute, and drank deeply.

  I raised my eyebrows at Alan, who gave a tiny shrug and addressed himself to his beer. I persisted in trying to make conversation. ‘You have a
Welsh name, but not the accent. Are you Welsh, then?’

  ‘No.’ He would have left it at that, but I fixed him with a bright, inquisitive look, and he was, after all, drinking our beer. ‘I’m . . . I was adopted. When I was a baby. Jones isn’t my real name. And no, I don’t know what my real name is.’

  That, I thought, could explain quite a lot. If he’d been legally adopted, Jones was in fact his real name, but apparently he didn’t lay claim to it. A troubled family? Abandoned at some point? I can fend for myself, he’d said. The defensive attitude, the penniless appearance . . . but I still couldn’t figure out why he was staying at the Holly Tree. Was there a way I could find out, without prying?

  Well, no, not really. And it was, I told myself for the third or fourth time, none of my business.

  I am involved in mankind, said John Donne in my head. And there was something about this boy . . .

  Our meals arrived just then, so for a little while we were occupied with crusty bread and creamy, tangy cheese, and chutney, and salad, and I confined myself to comments about the food. Paul responded only with the occasional nod. He was picking at his food, when I’d expected him to have the hearty appetite of the young. Ah, well, he was upset, and of course he’d partaken of, or at least had been offered, the same enormous breakfast we’d had ourselves.

  When I had popped the last pickled onion into my mouth, and taken a last swallow of beer, I began, ‘Are you enjoying the Holly Tree, Paul? We think it’s the nicest B-and-B we’ve ever stayed in.’

  ‘It’s great, yeah. And I’d better get back there and change, and then see what I can do about the bike. Look, this’ll pay for part of my lunch, anyway. Thanks a lot.’ He pulled a fistful of change out of his pocket, plunked it on the table, and was gone.

  ‘What is eating that child?’ I demanded when he was out of earshot. ‘I’ll swear it’s more than just embarrassment about the accident.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alan, running his hand down the back of his head in the familiar gesture that meant he was thinking furiously. ‘I agree, it’s more than just embarrassment. He couldn’t wait to get away from us.’

  ‘And why? We were being nice to him. We fed him, didn’t fuss about him nearly running me down, doctored his injuries. I tried to draw him out, but he wasn’t talking. Pam Littlewood is right; there’s nothing really wrong with his manners, but his manner is peculiar.’

  ‘That’s just the thing. His manner. You realize we’ve spent an hour or so with the boy, and we know nothing whatever about him except his name – and he told us himself that it isn’t really his.’

  ‘I usually manage to do better than that with new acquaintances.’

  ‘Indeed. Inside of fifteen minutes you know their name, address, occupation, favourite brand of tea, and number and breed of pets. If the police had you on staff, they wouldn’t need a database.’

  ‘So why wouldn’t Paul talk to me?’

  ‘I think the answer to that question might prove very interesting.’

  THREE

  When we got back to the Holly Tree there was no sign of Paul Jones, or whatever his name was. I considered asking Pam if he was registered under that name, but she was nowhere to be found, and anyway I hated to bother the poor woman. With her house so full, she must be run off her feet, even with her husband and a small staff to help.

  ‘Let’s stick to the original plan, shall we?’ said Alan. ‘I’ve never seen the Broadway Tower, and it’s only a short walk.’

  ‘Uphill all the way,’ I said, a little dubiously.

  ‘Ah, but then it’s downhill all the way back. Come on, love. Onward and upward.’

  I found my stick, with the nice sharp point for negotiating slippery slopes, and we set out.

  I was panting and lagging at the end of ten minutes. ‘Alan, exactly how far away is this thing?’

  ‘Mile and a quarter, according to the little village map.’

  ‘And how far up?’

  He had to get out the OS map for that one, and when he’d unfolded the thing to the proper panel I got a look at the contour lines, which were very, very close together in the direction we were going. I let out a little squeak. ‘For Pete’s sake, how high is this thing? Nosebleed territory? Are we going to need oxygen?’

  ‘Not according to my Sherpa guide,’ he said. ‘It’s only about three hundred metres.’

  ‘And we were starting from what?’

  ‘A hundred, roughly. And we’ve already climbed forty or thereabouts.’ He consulted the map again. ‘So a hundred and sixty to go, perhaps. I do believe it will be worth it.’

  ‘One hundred sixty metres,’ I said grimly. ‘That’s . . . let’s see . . . Alan, that’s almost five hundred feet!’

  ‘Yes, dear.’ And he forged ahead.

  It took us an hour to walk that mile and a quarter, and at the end of it I would have wanted to do nothing but throw myself down on the grass and lie there for another hour, except . . .

  ‘The view, Alan! I’ve never seen anything . . . those are mountains over there!’

  ‘The mountains of Wales,’ he said in that deprecatory, throwaway tone the English use when they’re extraordinarily proud of something. ‘It’s a trifle misty today, but on a truly clear day I’m told one can see ten counties.’

  One would have thought he’d invented the view himself.

  ‘OK.’ I grinned and held out a hand. ‘You were right. It was worth it. But I flatly refuse to climb any stairs to the top of the tower. The view is just fine from right here. And do you suppose we can find a different way down, that’s not quite so steep? Because down is still harder than up for me, even with the nice new knees.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He unfolded the map, which he had put away. ‘Well,’ he said after studying it for a little, ‘there are other footpaths. They’re a bit out of our way, but they take the grade rather more gradually. I don’t know how well they’ll be marked.’

  ‘How far wrong can we go? My stick has the compass, and as long as we keep heading downhill, we’re bound to end up in Broadway somewhere.’

  That probably falls into the category of ‘Famous Last Words’. When we were rested, and sated with the view, we started down. The footpath set off to the south at first, away from Broadway for perhaps a quarter of a mile, almost on the level, and then turned more or less west and sharply downhill.

  At least that’s what it did on the map. We were all right until it came to the point where we should head west. This was not one of the named paths like the Cotswold Way, but simply a track used for the last several centuries by countrymen and women who wanted to get from here to there and had no horse or wheeled conveyance. And although landowners are supposed to keep the paths cleared and open, either this landowner had abandoned the responsibility, or we had missed the turn. We headed out confidently, walked a few steps and realized this couldn’t be the path, doubled back, tried another promising lead, and in five minutes were hopelessly lost in a steep, wooded area with rocks. Lots of rocks.

  I tripped over one and would have fallen without Alan’s sustaining arm. ‘This is ridiculous!’ I said angrily. ‘How can we be lost, so close to Broadway and just a few hundred feet from a landmark like the Tower?’ I was tired and hot and cross, and I wanted my tea.

  ‘We’re not exactly lost,’ said Alan, with a calm equanimity that made me want to spit. ‘We’ve simply strayed from the path. It’s broad daylight in a civilized, well-populated part of the country, and all we need do is make our way downhill, as you said earlier. We’ll have to watch our step, though. The trees make it hard to see very far ahead, and the map says there are abandoned quarries hereabouts. I shouldn’t like either of us to fall in.’

  ‘No?’ I meant it to be sarcastic, but it came out sounding a bit forlorn.

  ‘Buck up, old girl. You’ll have your tea in no time. Meanwhile, I planned ahead.’ He pulled a bar of dark chocolate out of his pocket. It was soft from the heat of the sun and of Alan, and the paper stuck to it, but it tas
ted wonderful.

  I smiled shamefacedly. ‘Prescription for chasing the nasties away, right? It works. Let’s find the way home.’

  ‘That’s my girl. Here, take my arm. That blasted yellow Cotswold stone makes beautiful buildings, but it’s foul underfoot.’

  Inch by inch, it seemed, we made our way through the dense wood. It was, I suppose, lovely, but I was in no mood to appreciate it. There were clouds of tiny flies, for one thing, not the sort that bite, but the sort that get in your face and hair. I was afraid to open my mouth, afraid almost to breathe lest I inhale them. There were gorse bushes, heavy with blossom and scratchy with briars. There were other bushes that would, presumably, be thick with blackberries later in the season, but now were thick only with blossoms and thorns sharp as tiny knives. I clung tightly to Alan’s arm and tried to avoid the treacherous rocks that seemed to be everywhere.

  The undergrowth became so dense and the path, if path it was, so narrow I was forced to step behind Alan and follow him. We were moving at the pace of a couple of elderly, arthritic turtles, but I still bumped into him when he stopped abruptly. ‘What? Have you found the edge of the quarry?’ I couldn’t see more than a few inches ahead.

  ‘Yes. Stay where you are, Dorothy. Don’t move an inch. I’m going to take a look.’

  He sounded odd. I wanted to move to see what he was looking at, but he so seldom issued a direct order, I thought I’d better wait.

  He rustled through the bushes. I heard him pause for a moment before he returned.

  ‘I wish to blazes I knew exactly where we are,’ he said, pulling out his mobile.

  ‘What is it, Alan?’ I was suddenly cold.

  ‘There’s someone down in the quarry, and I’m very much afraid he’s dead.’

  It took a while for the police to get there. We had wandered farther to the south than we should have, and were on the edge of a different quarry than the one Alan had seen on the map, but Alan stayed on his phone until he could hear the Land Rover approaching, and then directed them as near to us as they could manage.