The Evil that Men Do (4 page)

I was awakened by voices. Loud voices, in the hallway outside our room.

I sat up, muzzy and disoriented. ‘What time is it? What's happening?'

‘Getting on for seven, and my guess is, the word has spread.'

‘Word?' I still wasn't quite back on the scene.

‘About the body in the quarry. You might as well get up, love. It's nearly dinner time, and we can't sleep with all that hubbub.'

Hubbub was certainly the word. When I'd pulled myself together and opened the door, the two Irish ladies were still going at it, at full volume.

‘And they'll be finding out he did it, sure as the sun rises,' said one of them. I still hadn't figured out which was which.

‘I'm thinking you're right, Barbara,' said the other. ‘Or why would he run off like that, without a word to anybody? You always said he was up to no good.'

Alan and I exchanged a look, then I shrugged and opened the door.

Far from being embarrassed about being overheard, the taller of the two women pounced. ‘Ah, there you are. Mrs Martin, I believe? Mrs Littlewood was telling us you found the man in the quarry.'

‘My husband did,' I replied shortly. I really didn't want to talk about it, and tried to get past. The woman didn't move, but rounded on Alan. ‘Mr Martin, we haven't met. My name is Barbara McGath, and this is my friend Eileen O'Hanlon. Do tell us—'

‘I'm delighted to meet you, ladies, but my name is Nesbitt. And I fear I can tell you very little. Dorothy and I lost our way this afternoon and barely escaped falling into one of the disused quarries. Someone else was apparently not so fortunate.'

‘Oh, then you hadn't heard.' Mrs McGath lowered her voice to the register appropriate for imparting superbly dreadful news. ‘The man was murdered! And that Paul Jones, as he calls himself, has disappeared. Now what do you think of that?'

Alan grasped my arm firmly. ‘How very unfortunate,' he said mildly. ‘I know you won't mind if we don't talk about it. My wife is very sensitive to such matters. Good evening, ladies.'

And he piloted me down the stairs.

‘Alan!' I said as soon as we were out of the house and on our way down the High Street.

‘Yes. Quite upsetting.'

‘That poor boy! Surely he couldn't really  . . . could he?'

‘We have no data, love. We don't even know it really was murder. Those two silly women are just repeating gossip.'

‘And they don't like Paul, for some reason.'

‘He has a beard, and dresses casually, and has a Welsh name. That might be sufficient for a Barbara McGath.'

‘But if he's really disappeared  . . .'

‘We don't know that, either.' Alan sounded a trifle weary. ‘And may I remind you that we're on holiday? Whatever has happened, it's nothing to do with us. And I devoutly hope we can keep it that way.'

I sighed. ‘You're right, of course. I just wish  . . .'

‘Look.' Alan pointed. We were passing the horse farm, and the low evening sun shone across the pasture, gilding each blade of grass and giving each mane a halo. Somewhere a dove cooed softly.

I smiled at him and tucked my hand into his arm. It
was
beautiful.

All the same, I found myself humming the hymn tune as we sought our dinner, and I didn't seem to have much appetite when we found it.

I had a hard time getting to sleep that night. It was partly the quiet. Our home in Sherebury is right next to the Cathedral, and even at night there's a certain amount of coming and going. Then of course there are the bells. There was at one time a question of silencing the clock chimes during the small hours of the night. Some of the hotel-keepers claimed the noise kept their patrons awake. But a public outcry from the townspeople stopped the idea. I scarcely hear them any more, but I miss them when I'm away from their reassuring clamour.

And of course I'd had a long nap, which always leaves me wakeful at night. But the real problem was the boy. Paul Jones, or whatever his name was.

He'd been extremely upset when we saw him at lunchtime. Upset – and covered in blood. True, he had face and scalp wounds, and scalps, especially, bleed copiously. But was that enough to account for all the blood on his clothes?

What if he'd staged that accident with the motorbike? It seemed a little odd, now that I came to think about it. He said he'd slipped in a patch of mud. But Broadway's streets were kept clean, and anyway there'd been no rain for at least a week. Where had there been mud? And surely he'd have had to be going really fast to lose control like that.

Had there been blood on the body?

I had no idea. It had been too far away, down near the bottom of the quarry. I turned over and gave my pillow a vicious poke. I travel with my own, having learned that hotel pillows in England are quite variable, and I'm old enough to value my small comforts. Tonight, I couldn't get it moulded to my liking.

Alan grunted and turned over.

He was right, of course, I repeated to myself. It was none of our affair. I seemed to have been reminding myself of that a lot lately. Was I really turning into an unregenerate snoop? I should forget about it and enjoy this magical place.

And meanwhile, Paul Jones was on the run from something.

I got up, went to the bathroom, poured myself a glass of water, stubbed my toe on a suitcase that had no right to be in my way, bit back what I wanted to say, poured a little more water and took a sleeping pill, and crawled wearily back into bed.

Of course I was completely dopey in the morning. Alan turned on the kettle and made me a cup of instant coffee. Vile stuff, but the caffeine brought me to some semblance of responsiveness.

‘I'm hungry,' I said after a while.

‘Of course you are. You didn't eat your dinner. Get dressed, woman, and let's go down and have some breakfast and plan our day.'

We were the last down to the breakfast room. The Irish ladies, thank heaven, weren't there, nor were any of the other guests. I began to apologize to Pam Littlewood.

‘Don't worry, it's no trouble. The house wasn't quite so full last night, so things were easy this morning.'

‘Is it true, then, that Paul Jones has gone?'

‘Without a word. He left all his things, so he'll be back, but it's a bit worrying.'

‘I hope his bill is paid!' I didn't like any part of this, but I certainly couldn't see Paul as the kind who would skip out.

‘He paid in advance, for two weeks. That's not the problem. I suppose it's silly of me, but I'm worrying about him. He's such an intense boy. There's something on his mind.'

‘I'm sure you're right about that. We talked to him yesterday, briefly, but he wasn't very forthcoming.' For some reason I didn't want to tell her about the near-accident, the blood on his clothes, his manner of barely controlled panic. ‘I'm surprised he paid in advance. He doesn't look as though he has much money.'

‘No. But that's the way kids look these days, you know. He's been properly brought up, I'd swear. Holds the door for one, that sort of thing. And he's so good with Zulu! She misses him already.'

‘Zulu?' asked Alan.

‘The dog. She's not allowed in here, or I'd introduce you.'

‘What sort of dog?' I asked with some trepidation. I like some dogs, but not large rambunctious ones. I've lived with cats too long to want to be jumped on and licked.

‘She's a German shepherd. She's very gentle and sweet, and she fell in love with Paul the first time he walked through the door. She's been looking for him since yesterday. Now, what would you like for your breakfasts?'

We ate our enormous, cholesterol-laden breakfasts without a qualm, or at least with very few. We never ate like this at home, so surely we could have a few days off the leash. Besides, filling my stomach could sometimes keep my mind off unwanted thoughts. Like where Paul had gone. And why.

Alan had brought the maps down so we could spread them out in the lounge. ‘We could walk to Chipping Campden,' he said, pointing. ‘It's only about five miles. Less, if we follow the road instead of taking the footpath.'

‘Hmm.' I studied the map and its contour lines. ‘A lot of it looks like it's straight up.'

‘There's a bit of that at first,' he admitted. ‘Then it levels off. And Chipping Campden is one of the beauty spots of the Cotswolds.'

‘What's in the other direction?' I got out the big road atlas we took everywhere.

‘There's Cheltenham. It's too far to walk, about twenty-five miles, but we could probably get a bus.'

‘What's in Cheltenham? Is it a pretty village?'

Alan chortled. ‘It isn't a village at all, but a bustling city, built around a spa.'

‘Like Bath?'

‘Very like Bath in some ways. Both were always tourist attractions, because of the spas. Bath is very much older, of course. Cheltenham doesn't have the Roman history, but like Bath, it's almost entirely Regency in style. Lots of museums and churches, at least one with windows by Burne-Jones or some of that lot, if I remember correctly. Lots of gardens. A famous racecourse. Lashings of shops, if you're in the mood for shopping.'

‘Actually I'm not, if you can believe it, and I'm never in the mood for a horse race. I'm in the mood for sightseeing.'

‘And it's a beautiful day. I'll go find Pam and ask her for a bus schedule.'

‘Was it stupid not to bring the car?'

‘Not unless you think so. You can see a good deal more of the country from a little local bus. And a lot more local colour; you're fond of that sort of thing, my dear.'

I was. Even after living in England for years, I would never think of myself as English. I was too old, too many years an American to be really assimilated. But I adored the people of my adopted country, and delighted in every opportunity to get acquainted with more of them. A local bus sounded just the ticket.

I remembered the first time I'd ridden one, many years ago in Scotland. I was by myself for some reason I'd now forgotten. My first husband, Frank, had been off on some ploy of his own. So I decided to visit Kirkcudbright, a village made famous by a Dorothy Sayers novel. I could no longer recall the details of the journey, not even the route, but I would never forget the brief delay in some tiny village along the way, while the bus driver waited for a magnificent white Persian cat to decide to get up from its nap in the middle of the road. All the passengers knew the name of the cat, and where she lived, and freely expressed their opinions about whether she should be home nursing her sixth or seventh litter of kittens.

Alan came back with Pam and a large, dignified dog. ‘This is Zulu,' said our hostess. ‘Zulu, say hello to our guests.'

Zulu nodded her head gravely in our direction, then gave each of us a paw to be shaken. I was enchanted.

‘What a lovely dog! She's beautiful, and so well-behaved.'

‘She's a good girl,' said Pam in that foolish, fond tone dog owners use for their darlings. ‘Now, I've brought you a bus schedule, but you might also want to think about the train.'

‘I thought Broadway didn't have rail service any longer,' said Alan, confused.

‘We don't, not regular service. That's been gone since, oh, the sixties, I suppose. But we're very excited about the new steam line. Well, it's an old line, really. The GWR – that's the Gloucestershire Warwickshire Railway – used to run from Oxford to Cheltenham, and they've been rebuilding the line for pleasure trips. And just this spring they finished the Broadway station. It's great fun, the trip from here to Cheltenham. Here, I've brought a brochure.'

Alan and I love old, traditional places and events. We took one look at the brochure, with its glossy pictures of shiny locomotives and flower-bedecked Victorian stations and sweeping vistas, and were sold. ‘Let's see – how long does it take?'

‘Ages,' said Pam, laughing. ‘Steam trains are not about getting places, but it's such a pleasant journey. I think you've just time to get to the station, if you hurry. Or no, look, I can run you there, if you'd like. I have to go out anyway. That'll give you ten minutes to get organized.'

We didn't need to think twice. While I brushed my teeth, Alan pulled out a backpack and put in a few things. ‘What's that all about?' I asked through a mouthful of toothpaste.

‘In case we decide to stay the night. Here, love, rinse off that toothbrush and toss it in.'

On the way to the station, Alan asked Pam to hold our room. ‘If it works out that way, we might spend the night in Cheltenham. Would that be a problem?'

‘Not at all. It's only a worry when someone doesn't tell me.'

Someone like Paul. None of us said his name, but he was in everyone's mind.

The day was straight out of a Visit England brochure. Blue skies, balmy air; more like June than May. Our charming little train chugged along through a landscape I wanted to clasp to my heart. Oilseed, rye, oilseed again, a little wood here and there. Pastures dotted with fluffy white balls, big ones and small, frolicking ones. Farmhouses. More pastureland, with cows, this time, lovely big black and white cows. Every now and then the train would utter a cheerful whistle.

‘I half expect to look out and see a farmer walking behind a horse and plough,' I said to Alan. ‘We've stepped right into the nineteenth century.'

Alan's reply was a contented murmur.

We visited dollhouse stations, bright with fresh paint and hanging baskets of flowers, bought coffee and postcards at miniature cafés, and finally arrived at the last station, Cheltenham Racecourse.

‘We're not going to a race, are we?' I asked in some dismay, looking at the milling crowds.

‘Not if you don't want to. This is the station for Cheltenham. The steam trains don't go into the main rail station. Different gauge, you see.'