The Evil that Men Do (28 page)

‘But it made Paul and Sarah run away. You can't brush that off.'

‘Something made them run away. It was a dam' fool thing to do, but you can't take responsibility for other people's foolish actions. And my third point – and you're going to think me a hard man – my third point is that playing the blame game is not productive. We could trace blame back to Ben's parents, assuming he had them, and their folly in conceiving him in the first place. Or back to Adam, if it comes to that. None of it helps with our present agenda, which is deciding what we're going to do next.'

I had been sipping tea while I meekly listened to Alan's pep talk. It had cleared my brain a little. Not much. ‘I don't have any brilliant ideas, Alan. The only thing I can think of is to try once more to find that horse. I know we've done that, and not had any luck, but what other leads are there to follow up? And at least that's one place where we wouldn't be getting in the way of the real police. I mean, they don't have enough personnel to look all over Gloucestershire for a horse. Even if they wanted to, which I don't think they do, very much.'

‘I agree. We were tired yesterday when we decided to give up. We can start out again. And I'd also like to talk to that pharmacist in Cheltenham, and the clerk. They might just remember something they didn't tell the “real” police, as you put it, that would give us some ideas.'

‘But if we do that, we won't have a lot of time to go around to the farms,' I objected. ‘Cheltenham is busy, and congested. It could take half a day just to find the right drugstore, let alone talk to anybody.'

‘Hmm. You have a point. Well, you could drop me at the outskirts of Cheltenham, maybe at the racecourse, and then—'

‘Whoa. Stop right there. You know how much I enjoy driving in the wilds of rural England. I'd be lost before you crossed the street, and then there'd be one more missing person for everyone to be looking for.'

‘Well  . . . what do you suggest? I know I'm a skilled, trained policeman, but I never quite mastered being in two places at once.'

‘We hire a car and driver. That same nice driver who took us to church the other day, if we can get him. He can drive me around while you do your thing in the big city. And Alan, it would really work out better that way. He knows his way around all the farms, and the shortest way to get anywhere, and he might even know who keeps palominos. And you can look around outside Cheltenham, when you're finished at Boots.'

Alan looked at the teapot. ‘What did I put in there? I thought it was just tea, but there must have been a nice little extra something for inspiration. That's a very good idea, love. Brilliant, in fact. But you'll take Watson with you.'

‘Of course. Where is he, by the way?'

‘Right behind you, all fed and dancing with eagerness. I'll see if I can find the number of the driver, and if not, I can phone Pam at the Holly Tree. You get dressed. And don't forget to take your mobile, and leave it on in case I have to call you.'

Well, that caused a little flurry, because I didn't know my phone number and couldn't remember quite how to work the thing. Then I had to find the dog-biscuit treats we'd bought for Watson, in case he got hungry, or showed a tendency to run and had to be lured back. But in less than an hour the car was at our door, and after a quick kiss Alan went off and Watson and I were packed in the hire car. ‘Where we goin' then, luv?' asked the driver.

‘I don't actually know. I'm wanting to drive around to all the farms in the area that keep horses, especially palominos.' I wondered if I should offer some explanation, but apparently the fact that I was American was explanation enough. No telling what those foreigners will want to get up to.

‘You've got a nice day for it. Mind you, it'll rain later on.'

I could see no sign of rain, but he lived here, after all, and could presumably read the weather better than I. I thought about taking an umbrella, but decided against it. I'd be dry in the car.

‘Palominos, eh?' he went on. ‘Not so many of them about. Now that Ms Carter, she has one, a beauty, too, but I hear she's gone away.'

‘Yes, actually I saw hers yesterday. A neighbour is looking after it while Ms Carter is  . . . until she comes home.'

‘If you're looking to buy yourself a horse, I don't know as anyone's selling a palomino.'

Ah. So an explanation
was
in order. ‘Actually, I just want to look at a few of them. I have a cousin  . . .' And I launched glibly into the story I'd used yesterday. I certainly hoped it was a cousin, in case the driver compared notes with anyone. Oh, well, I was old enough I could always claim I'd simply used the wrong word. Goodness knows it happened often enough for real.

‘Hmm. Never noticed, myself, that it's a stupid horse. As horses go, that is. I've never met a horse yet that's as smart as a cat, or even a dog.'

Watson made a comment from the back seat. I supposed he was just responding to the word
dog
, but it certainly sounded like a protest about the judgement of relative feline and canine intelligence. We both laughed.

‘I've certainly had some smart cats in my lifetime, but Watson here is my first dog, and he isn't even really mine. He just turned up one day, and we're still looking for his owner.'

‘Nice animal.'

‘Yes, and to tell the truth I sort of hope we won't find the owner. He's such a nice dog, and Alan and I have grown very attached to him. But that's a very selfish attitude, so if you hear who might have lost him  . . . oof!'

We had turned into a rutted lane, and my head nearly hit the roof.

‘Sorry. All that rain the other day, you see, and this drive needs a tot of gravel.'

It would take more than a tot, I thought. The drive wasn't very wide, but it was long enough to use several loads of stone, and from the look of the farmhouse, there wasn't a lot of money to spare for such niceties. The place wasn't shabby, exactly. There were crisp white curtains at the windows and pots of geraniums here and there, but the woodwork needed fresh paint and the thatched roof had seen better days.

I knew the moment I saw the curtains and flowers that this wasn't the farm I was looking for, but I could hardly tell my driver that. Watson and I got out and rang the bell. It really was a bell, a very old one by the look of it, that hung by the door with a chain to pull it by. It set up a clamour that set Watson barking, and of course that set off the dogs in the house, a pack of Baskerville hounds by the sound of it. I was glad we hadn't tried a surreptitious approach.

The pleasant woman who came to the door hadn't heard of any missing dogs. Her own always stayed close to home, for a wander. (There were only two of them, after all, and they were smaller than Watson.)

A palomino? No, she'd had a stallion two or three years ago, but had sold him. ‘Can't really afford to keep horses these days, can I?' She looked around ruefully. ‘You see the state of things. Ever since  . . . now that I'm alone, it takes all my time just to keep things going. Sorry I can't help.'

I didn't ask until we got back to the car.

‘Lost her husband in Afghanistan. Helicopter crashed.'

I was very glad I hadn't raised the subject with the woman. She had to have recognized my accent, and many English blame the Americans for getting them into that war. I'm inclined to agree with them, actually.

We went on. Farm after farm. Horse after horse. When the owners were at home, I asked. When they weren't, I nosed around. There were only a couple of palominos, one of them geriatric and the other not even a year old, if my untutored eye could be trusted. Both of them lived at well-kept farms. Nothing looked at all promising. No one knew of a lost dog.

We had pretty much covered the area north of Broadway by lunchtime, skirting villages and hamlets with delectable names like Church Honeybourne and Cow Honeybourne (side by side), Mickleton and Aston Subedge, when occasional whines from Watson reminded me that he was hungry, and so was I. It seemed to me we were in the depths of the country, and I despaired of finding anything to eat, but our driver read my mind.

‘Nice little pub around the next corner,' he said. ‘Good beer, nice garden.'

‘Dogs?' I asked, and Watson's ears pricked up.

‘O' course.'

So we stopped. Watson and I shared a huge hamburger and a pint. I got most of the chips and all the beer; the proprietor kindly gave Watson a bowl of water and let me lead him discreetly around back. We were on our way, much refreshed, in less than an hour.

THIRTY

T
he southern part of the county was less familiar to me. We agreed that we would avoid the countryside immediately around Cheltenham, where Alan would have had ample time to explore. It was really too far away for my purposes, anyway, but again, I didn't want to confide that bit of information to my driver. But there were lots of farms between Broadway and Bourton-on-the-Water and Stow-on-the-Wold. (I never get tired of English place names.)

I don't even remember how many farms we visited. I got to the point of wishing I had taped my little speech so I could just hit ‘play'. Lots of horses. No farm that looked at all like what I wanted.

I was growing very tired indeed, and Watson was plainly getting tired of riding in a car, when we passed a field not far, according to my OS map, from our cottage. And lo, there were two horses, one some dark colour this side of black, and one a gorgeous golden palomino.

‘Look! Stop! Who do those belong to, do you know?' For there was no farmhouse in sight.

There was no place to pull off the road, but there was no traffic in sight, either, so the driver simply stopped in the middle of the narrow road. ‘No,' he said decisively. ‘Never seen those horses before. Must be boarding somewhere about.'

‘But we have to find out! I'm sure that horse is the one I  . . . I mean  . . .'

He turned and looked me full in the face. ‘What're you after, then? Load o' taradiddle you told me before, isn't it?'

‘I  . . . yes. I'm sorry. I can't tell you the real story, not yet, anyway. I'm looking for a particular horse, with a particular owner. I don't know his name or where he lives, except it can't be too far from Broadway. And I think this could be the one, but I really, really need to find out who owns this horse and where it's usually stabled.'

‘Would've saved some time if you'd told me that to start with.'

I was silent. I'd apologized once.

‘Pam tells me your man is a Scotland Yard tec.'

I sighed. So much for trying to keep anything confidential in a place like the Cotswolds. ‘Not quite. He was chief constable for Belleshire for a good many years, but he's now retired.'

‘But you're not.'

I opened my mouth and then shut it again. What on earth could I say to that? Had I stopped beating my wife?

The car was shaking oddly. I looked over and saw that my driver was convulsed with silent laughter.

After a moment I gave in and laughed myself. ‘All right. Throw discretion to the winds. Yes, I've helped my husband with his work, both when he was an official policeman and in his retirement. And if you want the whole truth, I've done quite a little poking around on my own, too. Now are you happy?'

‘Miss Marple, that's who you are!'

‘Mrs Marple, if you please. But honestly, it's no laughing matter. I still can't tell you exactly what I'm looking for, because it could be dangerous for everybody. But I can tell you that at least one person's life may be at stake here.'

That sobered him in a hurry. He sat quiet for orders.

‘Good. Now what can you tell me, or what can you guess, about the owner of these horses?'

‘If it's a guess you want, I'd say they're runaways. See that gap in the hedge down there?'

He pointed to a far corner of the field. I couldn't see the gap he mentioned, but I took his word for it and nodded.

‘I'll wager those horses got in through that gap. That's a field, not a pasture. Arable land?'

He sounded uncertain that this peculiar American knew the term. I nodded. ‘Yes, but not planted. I'd have thought it was a bit late to start a crop, though of course growing seasons are different where I come from.'

‘It won't be planted this year. That's because, far as I know, nobody's bought this farm. Owner moved to Spain two or three years ago, and hasn't been able to find a buyer.'

‘Then it is part of a farm? Where are the buildings?'

‘House is over the hill; can't see it from here. Stable's there, too. Barn's down the road.'

‘Fred,' I said, irrelevantly, ‘how long have you lived around here?'

‘All my life, and I'm not telling you how long that is.'

‘I can give a pretty good guess, though. You know this county like the back of your hand.'

‘Hereabouts. Not so much down Cheltenham way.'

He made it sound a thousand miles away.

He cleared his throat. ‘See, this farm is all bits and pieces, like. That's one reason it's been so hard to sell, I reckon. Besides bein' rundown, like. This field used to belong over yonder, but that bloke sold up.' He gestured with his head. ‘Some say there was some scheme to build holiday cottages on the land, but the builder went bust. Don't know myself. Anyway, the other chap bought it, few years back, said he needed some arable. Grew rapeseed for a while, but the ground wasn't suited for it, and it wasn't easy to harvest, the barn being so far away and all. So now it's all sitting empty, and the house needs repairin', and the fields're goin' to ruin. Shame, that is.'

I hadn't been listening closely to his narrative. The important part was, the field belonged to a distant farm which was sitting empty! What more ideal place to hold a captive? There were no other houses nearby, no one to see unexpected lights or activity. ‘Listen, Fred,' I said, interrupting him. ‘I need to take a good look at that house, and I'd rather not be seen. Is there a way to do that?'