The Evil that Men Do

The Dorothy Martin Mysteries from Jeanne M. Dams

THE BODY IN THE TRANSEPT

TROUBLE IN THE TOWN HALL

HOLY TERROR IN THE HEBRIDES

MALICE IN MINIATURE

THE VICTIM IN VICTORIA STATION

KILLING CASSIDY

TO PERISH IN PENZANCE

SINS OUT OF SCHOOL

WINTER OF DISCONTENT

A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT *

THE EVIL THAT MEN DO *

* available from Severn House

A Dorothy Martin Mystery

Jeanne M. Dams

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

 

First world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2011 by Jeanne M Dams.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Dams, Jeanne M.

The evil that men do.

1. Martin, Dorothy (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

2. Women private investigators – England – Fiction.

3. Americans – England – Fiction. 4. Vacations – England –

Broadway– Fiction. 5. Farmers – Crimes against – England –

Cotswold Hills– Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

813.5´4-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-160-6     (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8090-1     (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-392-2     (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

To my dedicated readers, who are very dear to me

ONE

‘
W
ill you just
look
at that view!' I pulled my hat down a little farther to shade my eyes, and feasted on the scene before me. A foot or two from where I stood, the drystone wall bordering the footpath boasted flowers growing from every chink. I'm not good at identifying English flowers, but whatever these were, they were gorgeous. In lavish, luxuriant bloom, they ranged in colour from palest blush, through pink and magenta, to lilac and deep purple. The stones themselves, what could be seen of them through their extravagant blanket, were grey, except where they had been covered with lichens in gold and rust. The rich greens of the foliage blended with the paler greens and yellows of the gently rolling fields spread out below us: rye, oilseed and pastureland dotted with the fuzzy balls of sheep and lambs, as yet unshorn on this May day. In the middle distance the square tower of a fifteenth-century church rose serenely towards a misty sky, and in the valley a small river flowed languidly past a dozen or so houses and a pub – the quintessential Cotswold village.

‘Happy you came, then, love?' said Alan, reaching for my hand.

‘Happy! I'm  . . . it's  . . .' Seldom at a loss for words, I couldn't find any to describe my utter bliss.

‘It took me that way, too, the first time I saw the Cotswolds,' my husband said, tactfully turning away to look out over the hills, giving me time to blink away the foolish tears that had suddenly welled up. Supreme natural beauty, like perfect music, always makes me cry.

We had decided, some weeks ago in the dreary dregs of February, to take a walking tour come spring. It was something I'd long wanted to do, but had somehow never found the time. I had my eye on the Lake District, or the Yorkshire Dales, but my dear husband, a native Englishman (while I am a transplanted American) had walked those parts of the country before and suggested that for my first time, with my two artificial knees, I might be happier with a less rugged terrain.

He was right. This was our first day out, and I was doing quite well, but after a few hours of walking I realized how badly out of shape I was. Out of breath by the time we got to the top of this rise, I was glad the view gave us a good excuse to stop and pant. At least I panted. Alan is a little older than I, and neither of us is a spring chicken, but he had kept himself fit during his long career in the police force, and still took a lot of exercise even though he was retired.

‘Good thing you talked me out of the Lake District,' I said, grinning. ‘Next time, maybe. But truly, Alan, I can't imagine anything being more beautiful than this.'

‘Not more beautiful, but different. Wilder, perhaps, and more vast. When I visited your American West years ago, parts of it reminded me of the Lake District – such a lot of sky. Here everything is on a smaller scale.'

‘Cosier,' I suggested, using one of my favourite words.

‘If you like,' said Alan, chuckling. He glanced at his watch. ‘And speaking of cosy, it's getting on for teatime. If we hurry a little, and don't get lost, we can make it to Broadway in time for tea at the Lygon Arms.'

‘I've heard of the Lygon Arms,' I said, following him obediently down the path. ‘Isn't it sort of a fancy place? Will they look down their noses at us, in hiking gear and grubby?'

‘It's a bit posh, yes, but every hostelry in the Cotswolds is accustomed to hikers. We'll probably have time to go to our B-and-B and change, if you want.'

‘I want. My shoes are dusty, and I want to get rid of this pack.'

So we set a pretty good pace the last couple of miles, walking as fast as we thought safe. Two miles would be a long way to walk on a twisted ankle, and according to our Ordnance Survey map there were no roads near the footpath until we got to Broadway.

We made it safely to our B&B, the Holly Tree, and took the time for a quick shower before getting into clean clothes and heading to the Lygon Arms for our tea. As we walked up the High Street, I asked Alan about the history of Broadway.

‘The name has an odd sound, to an American. Conjures up images of Forty-Second Street and Times Square.'

‘Well, I expect your street and our village were given the name for the same reason. The way here – the High Street – is, as you can see, broad. There used to be two streams running right down the middle of the village, on either side of a narrow road. That got to be awkward—'

‘I can well imagine,' I said drily.

‘Yes, well, particularly as the village was an important coaching stop, being on the main road between London and Worcester. The street was quite narrow for coaches, so eventually the streams were covered and the High Street widened to a boulevard, with grass and trees down the middle. I read somewhere that dip holes were left, so that the villagers could still get water, as they were not on the mains. There are still some here who remember when the holes were filled in. And apparently, when there's a great deal of rain, the streams reclaim their rightful courses.'

‘Leading to a great mess. They should build an underground channel and have done with it.'

‘Ah, but you're in the Cotswolds, where things move at a leisurely pace. Doubtless the village authorities will get around to something of the kind, one of these centuries.'

Our leisurely stroll took us past houses, small shops, and  . . . ‘Alan, tell me that's not a horse farm, right in the middle of the village.'

‘Alas, like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie. That is indeed a horse farm. Fancy a ride, m'dear? I believe one can hire the horses.'

He looked at me blandly, knowing perfectly well that I admire horses only from a distance. The idea of getting on the back of one terrifies me. I was fifty years younger the last time I tried that and discovered how much higher and wider they are than they look. Never again.

‘No, thank you,' I said, my tone just as bland as his face. ‘I'll just tuck this away in my “There'll always be an England” file.'

‘No horse farms in the middle of villages when you were a girl?'

‘No villages, period. Small towns, yes, but nothing that in the least resembles an English village. Unless maybe on the east coast  . . . oh, my!' We had reached the centre of the village, and the building on my right, built of the golden Cotswold stone, looked like a royal palace, or a manor house at the very least. ‘
That
is the Lygon Arms?'

‘Indeed. Sixteenth-century coaching inn. Parts of it date to 1532, if I'm not mistaken.'

I drew a deep breath. ‘I'm
very
glad we changed clothes.'

We had a splendid tea, sandwiches and scones and all the rest, and when we'd finished I gave a satisfied sigh. ‘I feel much better. This is the first time in my life I've walked twelve miles in one day, and my feet are telling me about it.'

‘Tired, love? We could go back to the Holly Tree and have a nap.'

‘I'm not especially tired, oddly enough. I think the exercise did me good. And now that we're here and I've had my tea, I'd like to explore Broadway a bit. Everyone has told me it's one of the loveliest villages in the Cotswolds. Unless you'd rather rest for a while.'

‘Not I. Shall we stroll down to the bottom of the street, since we started at the top?'

The High Street is probably not a mile long from one end to the other. At the top, past our B&B, the street curved gently out of sight into the hills. From the centre of the village, down past the Lygon Arms and pubs and shops, it meandered past the village green, with intriguing little lanes on either side, and then headed between imposing houses, out past an Indian restaurant and into the country. We ambled along, exploring the byways and doing a lot of window shopping. The displays in Broadway's antique shops ranged from authentic, very beautiful and expensive furniture and
objets d'art
to reproduction kitsch, and everything in between. It was a good thing for our budget that the shops were closed by the time we reached them. A small modern shopping area provided a miniature supermarket, where we stopped to buy a bottle of my favourite sherry. One little lane wandered up to the church, where a nearby cottage boasted a splendid thatched roof, the only one I'd seen all day.

‘I thought the Cotswolds were supposed to have thatch all over the place.'

‘Not here, evidently. Tile and slate tone in better with the Cotswold stone, don't you think?'

‘I think it's all perfectly lovely. I also think I'm ravenous. Yes, I know I had a huge tea, but I've walked something like half the circumference of the earth today, and I need a pint, and a meal, and my woolly slippers, in that order.'

‘Your wish is my command, my dearest love. Can you walk a few more yards, as far as the Swan, do you think?'

‘Just about.'

The Swan was a busy pub, now blessedly free of the smoke that used to blind and smother me. Alan found us a table and went to the bar for our beer. ‘I ordered venison for both of us,' he said when he came back with brimming pints. ‘And a nice Cabernet to go with it. Will that do for you?'

The beer was excellent, and when our food arrived, it, too, was wonderful. The days when English food was a subject of derision for American tourists are long gone. Our meat was tender and succulent, and the vegetables served with it, both the root vegetables roasted with the venison and the steamed, fresh cauliflower and green peas and beans, were perfectly cooked.

We ate in a comfortable silence. I was very tired. The long day had finally caught up with me and I was happy to eat my meal and drink my wine, and think about what we might do tomorrow.