The Evil that Men Do (2 page)

When I had satisfied my hunger, I looked around at my fellow diners. The pub was noisy, but our particular corner of it was set apart a little from the main room. There were only three other tables, all occupied. The one nearest us held a middle-aged couple, prosperous-looking, running a little to fat (as one tends to do, I thought, wondering guiltily if I should have eaten that last potato). The two young people with them were presumably a son and daughter-in-law, or the reverse. They were having a good time.

I nudged Alan. ‘Who's he, do you think?' I said in a lowvoice, beginning one of our favourite games. ‘I think he's the lord mayor. He looks important. Shiny, sort of, and certainly well-to-do.'

‘A village of this size probably wouldn't have a lord mayor,' Alan objected. ‘I say he's the local MP, paying his duty visit to his constituency.'

‘No, he's much too nice to be a politician. And his wife's nice, too. A lawyer, maybe. Solicitor, I mean. A professional man, anyway.'

Just then a large, jovial-looking man came in and stopped at their table. ‘George!' he said heartily. ‘I hoped I'd run into you.'

‘The vicar,' I whispered. ‘Going to ask him about a contribution to the Church Roof Fund.'

‘How's that mare coming along? My wife's birthday's next week, remember, and I promised her a nice surprise.'

‘In splendid form, Sam. As nice a ride for a lady as anyone could want. If you'll come around Sunday morning, I can let you have a look at her.'

Alan and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.

We took our time walking home. I was developing some blisters, I thought, but it had been a lovely day, a perfect day. As we passed the horse farm Alan gave me a look.

‘Solicitor, eh?'

‘And the vicar. As a character analyst I make a good schoolmistress.'

‘Hmm. And speaking of mistresses  . . .'

The end of the day was very pleasant, too.

TWO

O
ne might gather, from looking at me, that I enjoy my food. One would be correct. I tucked into our splendid breakfast next morning with an appetite undiminished by two large meals the day before.

‘Mrs Littlewood, you're a marvellous cook,' I said as our hostess stopped by our table. ‘Do you bake like this every morning?' She had made three different varieties of breakfast bread to go with our eggs and bacon and sausage and potatoes and grilled mushrooms and tomatoes and juice and toast and marmalade, and there was cereal and porridge on offer, as well as fruit smoothies for the health-conscious.

‘I love to bake,' she said with a brilliant smile. ‘And do call me Pam. We're not formal here. You're staying several days in Broadway, I believe?'

‘Yes, and we're so glad we booked in here. But if I eat like this every morning you'll have to roll me out.'

‘We'll walk it off, my dear,' Alan said.

‘Do you know Broadway at all, then?' Pam asked Alan.

‘Not to say know it. I visited once or twice, many years ago, but it's changed a good deal.'

Pam sighed. ‘Much more commercial, isn't it? It's all good for business, but I'm not sure I like what it's done to the village.'

‘You seem to have a full house,' I said, glancing around the room. The tables were beginning to empty, but they had all been occupied a few minutes ago. ‘Are any of your other guests staying long?'

‘Oh, yes. The two Irish ladies in the corner, Mrs O'Hanlon and Mrs McGath, are here for three weeks. I'm sure they'd love to meet you. And the young man who just went out – I don't know if you noticed him – has been here for a week, and plans to stay for several more days.'

‘The one with the scruffy beard?' I asked, my voice lowered. ‘He seems an odd type for a B-and-B. More the youth hostel sort. If they still have youth hostels. Goodness, I'm dating myself. Maybe those went out with the end of the hippy era.'

Pam laughed. ‘Oh, no, they still exist. Every summer they swarm with earnest German students carrying huge rucksacks. This boy is English, though. Well, I say boy. He's probably in his twenties, but he seems very young. A trifle unkempt, perhaps, but he has very nice manners.' She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, dear, I must fly. So nice to talk to you!'

‘What a dear,' I said when she'd whisked herself back to the kitchen.

‘And a beauty, too,' said my loving husband with what he fondly imagined to be a leer.

I ignored him. ‘I'm going to introduce myself to the Irish ladies. Would that be proper, do you think?' I've lived in England for years now, but I'm still unsure of myself in some situations. The rules are different here, and I haven't absorbed all the subtleties.

Alan was amused. ‘Perfectly proper, love. Though I can't imagine why you're bothered. You do rather make your own rules, don't you?'

I made a face at him and went to the table in the corner, where the Irish ladies were just getting ready to leave. ‘Good morning,' I said in my cheeriest tones. ‘I don't mean to intrude, but our hostess happened to mention that you're staying here for a couple of weeks, and my husband and I will be here for a while, too, so I thought I'd introduce myself. My name is Dorothy Martin, and—'

‘Yes, well, we were just going, weren't we, Eileen?' said the younger of the two women. Her accent was the lovely soft lilt of the Irish, but there was nothing lovely or soft about her manner. ‘We'll not be spending our time here. We've come to walk. Good morning.'

‘Well, you called that one wrong,' I said, sliding back into my chair, my face burning. ‘They obviously thought I was being rude and intrusive. What an unpleasant start to the day!'

‘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.'