The Evil that Men Do (22 page)

We sorted that out, and then Alan got out his car keys. ‘Want to come with me for that collar and lead?'

We took the dog with us, of course, and dutifully asked everyone we saw in Upper Pinnock if they knew anyone who had lost a dog. The English do love their dogs, and everyone was very sympathetic, but no one could help. At Alan's suggestion (reluctant, but resigned), we stopped into a vet's office to enquire. They obligingly took a picture of the dog, who revelled in the attention, and promised to post it on their website and make a few copies to show around. ‘Lovely dog,' said the receptionist, patting him fondly. ‘His owner will soon turn up, I'm sure.'

‘Thank you,' said Alan morosely, and we went back to the cottage.

‘Very well, my dear,' he said on the way. ‘Broadway first, or the farms near the cottage?'

‘The rain's stopped, and Buster and I both need some exercise. What is there within walking distance?'

‘I left the OS map in the cottage. We'll take a look.'

It turned out there were only three farms near enough to walk, or near enough for me, anyway. Alan insisted I take the mobile with me. ‘But what if you need it?' I asked with a frown.

‘I shall be here in safety, with a landline and a car in case of emergency. You will be out hunting a murderer, armed with a walking stick.'

‘And a dog. Don't forget the dog.'

‘A dog that greets everyone with joy and wants to lick their hands. He'd be about as much use against an attacker as  . . . as Emmy.'

Emmy, Esmeralda really, is our elder cat. She is a large grey beast whose idea of hostility is twitching her tail while watching the birds outside the kitchen window.

‘Oh, well, all right. I'll take the phone. But I don't expect to meet anyone more dangerous than another dog.'

‘Dorothy, you don't know anything about this animal. He could turn mean if another dog came along. They could fight  . . . I do wish you'd rethink this.'

‘I'm not sure if you're more concerned about me or the dog. Stop fretting. I'll be fine. And I'm taking the phone, I promise.'

I made some sandwiches, enough for me and the dog if we were out that long, packed them and a couple of other necessities in my backpack, and set out, OS map in hand and Buster on the lead.

It became obvious after about five minutes that (a) Buster wasn't accustomed to restraint, and (b) I couldn't manage him, the map, and my stick. I stopped and looked at him. He sat, panting and smiling at me.

‘You are a considerable nuisance, you know.' My tone was indulgent enough that his smile never altered. ‘If I take you off the leash, will you stay with me, or run away? Alan would never forgive me if you ran away. He's decided you're his dog, no matter what he says.'

I looked down the footpath. A stile loomed ahead, and beyond it a pasture full of sheep. Oh, dear.

The dog looked at me, still smiling.

‘Very well, I have to either risk it or turn around and go back. Off the lead until we negotiate the stile, and then I'll have to buckle you up again, because if you chased the sheep, the farmer would probably shoot both of us, and with good reason.'

Fearfully, I unhooked the lead. The dog shook himself, explored a couple of bushes, anointed one in the traditional fashion, and then trotted happily down the footpath, looking back every now and then to make sure I was following. Maybe this would work, after all.

He made short work of the stile, flattening himself to slip under it. It took me quite a while longer. The steps were awfully far apart, and hard for my knees, especially with no one to help. I was terrified that the dog might charge into the flock of sheep, but he was apparently well-trained and waited patiently for me to join him. He even put up with being re-leashed.

‘You know,' I said, studying him thoughtfully, ‘if I'm not careful I'll begin to think you're our dog, too. And obviously you belong to someone. I must
not
get attached to you.'

He grinned at me, wagged his tail, and trotted obediently by my side across the pasture. The sheep ran away, of course. They always do, silly animals. But the dog paid no attention to them beyond a casual glance now and then. Definitely well-trained.

The stile on the other side wasn't quite as steep, and when I'd got over it I found myself in a barnyard, a couple of bantam hens and one absurdly pompous little rooster hopping about. The dog paid no attention to them, either.

A woman in blue jeans and a plaid shirt was working in one of the outbuildings. I got near enough to see that she was grooming a pretty little black mare.

‘Hello!' I called. ‘May I come in?'

She glanced up, pushing back her floppy straw hat. ‘Is your dog well-behaved?'

‘He's not my dog. That's why I'm here, looking for his owner. But he's been very good so far.'

‘Come on in, then. But keep him on the lead. Coco here spooks easily.'

The pony stood quietly enough, however, when we came nearer. The two animals eyed each other with mild interest, then the dog sat down and began to worry at a spot somewhere in the middle of his back.

‘I take it he isn't yours, then,' I said, stating the obvious. ‘My husband and I have taken a holiday cottage nearby for a few days, and yesterday this fellow turned up in the middle of the rainstorm.'

‘He looks a nice dog, but no, he's not mine, and I don't know of anyone around here who's lost a dog.'

‘Of course it's only been a day. I suppose the word might not have got around yet.'

‘Have you advertised?'

‘Not yet. I wasn't sure how or where.' I allowed my accent to become slightly more Transatlantic. ‘Back home, we'd tack posters up on utility poles, but I don't know if you do that here.'

‘Ah, you're American. Or Canadian?'

‘American, but I've lived in England long enough I ought to have lost the accent.' This was getting me nowhere. How was I going to bring the conversation around from lost dogs to lost women? ‘Beautiful animal,' I said lamely, nodding at the pony.

‘Welsh mountain pony,' she said proudly. ‘I'm training her to the saddle. She's very clever, but very naughty.'

‘You have children, then?'

‘One child.' Her face closed, and she turned back to the pony.

Any sensitive person would have read the ‘no-trespassing' sign and changed the subject, or ended the conversation. But I was beginning to get the glimmer of an idea, and I couldn't afford to be sensitive. This might be the lead I was looking for. ‘Oh?' I said brightly. ‘Boy or girl?'

‘Girl. She's ten,' the woman added reluctantly.

‘Oh, my, at that age they're horse-mad, aren't they? I never had any children of my own, but I taught them for many years. We lived in a smallish town in southern Indiana, and every little girl who didn't have a pony envied the ones who did.'

The woman nodded. Her lower lip trembled. I hated myself for persisting, but there was tension here, and where there is tension and trouble, there might be some information.

‘There was an organization I thought did good work, called Reins of Life,' I went on, feeling my way. ‘They trained ponies to work with children who had various disabilities, especially autism. They did wonderful work. I saw several children begin to come out of their lonely worlds and learn to love.'

The woman said nothing. She twisted the pony's black mane in her fingers.

‘Is there something like that in this country?' I went on, doggedly.

‘Look, who are you, and what are you doing here?' She was angry at last.

The dog stood and whined. I tightened my hold on the leash. ‘My name is Dorothy Martin, and I'm sorry if I've disturbed you.' I held my hand out. She ignored it. ‘I have a special interest in children in trouble, you see. The disabled, the abandoned, the abused  . . . I can't see them without wanting to do something.' Well, that was true enough, especially just now. ‘But I can see you'd rather not talk about it, so I'll be on my way.'

‘How did you know?' Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Who told you?'

‘That you have a child with  . . . problems? I didn't know. I guessed, from your manner. But as you were about to tell me, it's none of my business, so  . . .'

‘No. Don't go. I  . . . I suppose it would really be rather a relief to talk about it. Would you like a cup of tea?'

The sun had come out and was beating down fiercely on the wet earth, raising clouds of humidity. My clothes were sticking to me. There was nothing I wanted less than a cup of hot tea. ‘I'd love one, thank you.' I followed her across the farmyard, the bantams scurrying out of the way. ‘May I bring Buster in with me?'

‘Buster? Is that his name?'

‘Well, he doesn't have a name, really, not that I know, anyway. It's just that I have to call him something, for now, until we can find out who he belongs to.'

‘Well, bring him in, anyway.'

‘You daughter won't be afraid of him?' I wasn't sure I should ask.

‘She's not here just now. Sit down, Mrs Martin. Oh, my name's Helen. Helen Hoster.' She pulled off her hat and wiped her brow. ‘Look, would you rather have some lemonade?'

‘Much rather, thank you.'

While she went to the kitchen, I looked around with interest. The house was furnished casually, with squashy, comfortable chairs and rag rugs, but it was exquisitely, almost painfully tidy. Nothing was out of place by so much as an inch. No books or magazines lay on the tables, no flowers were in evidence. There was no evidence that a child lived here, no evidence, indeed, that anyone lived here. It might have been a stage set. English Farmhouse, Scene One, before the prop man put in the little touches that made it seem real.

Somebody, I thought, has some serious control issues. The dog seemed a little uneasy in the room. He whined once or twice and looked questioningly at me before settling down beside my chair.

My hostess brought in two glasses of lemonade on a tray with a pitcher, napkins, and coasters. My glass even had ice in it. I looked at it and smiled at her. ‘Catering to an American's peculiar tastes? Thank you.'

She set the tray down in the exact centre of the low table, placed coasters so precisely I wondered if she'd made measurements earlier, and handed me my glass and a napkin. I carefully wrapped the napkin around it so it wouldn't drip, and drank gratefully.

‘Mrs Martin.' Mrs Hoster put her glass on its coaster, untouched. ‘You said you have a special interest in  . . . troubled children. Did you teach special children, then?'

‘No. At least, not exclusively. Back then, in a small Indiana town, all the children were lumped together, no matter what their problems, so in forty years I did deal with my share of unhappy stories.' I kept an eye on her as I told my story. ‘There were the ones who were just a little slow, and the ones who couldn't learn at all, poor things. The others picked on them, though I did my best to stop it. Then there were the simpler problems, poverty, mostly. Ours was a caring community. We could usually see the parents through the worst times, and help the kids with food and clothes. Of course the kids who had more picked on the poorer ones. I think it's universal: the ones who are different are outcasts.'

I had seen no important reaction so far. I sipped my lemonade. Mrs Hoster said nothing, but she was watching me as closely as I was watching her.

‘The really tough cases were the abused children.' She looked away from me, down at her hands. Bingo. ‘We didn't always even know,' I went on, ‘unless the abuse was obviously physical, and even then there was little we could do. Laws were somewhat primitive then, and unless a family member was willing to file a formal complaint, we couldn't interfere. It used to break my heart.' I put my glass down. ‘I tried to give them all the love I could, but if the abuse was bad enough, they often seemed beyond my reach, beyond anyone's reach. Perhaps one or two of them were autistic, rather than abused. Even now, it can be hard to tell.'

By now Mrs Hoster had tears coursing down her cheeks.

‘My dear woman  . . . I didn't mean  . . .' I was truly appalled. I'd gone way too far. Had my detective enthusiasm led to this, to outright cruelty? Should I leave now, abandoning the damage I'd done, or stay and make things even worse?

‘That's the thing, you see,' said the poor woman. ‘We don't know if Gillie is autistic, or if it's just her background. She's adopted; we couldn't have any of our own. We knew she came from an abusive home, but we thought  . . . with lots of love  . . .' She couldn't go on.

I looked around for a box of tissues, but seeing none, pulled a wad out of my pocket. ‘Go ahead,' I said. ‘They're crumpled, but they're clean. And if you'll excuse me for a moment, I think my dog needs some water.'

At least I could give her a bit of privacy. I went to the kitchen and rummaged a bit, finding a bowl that was probably meant for cereal. I filled it from the tap, looked at the gleaming floor, and put the water outside the back door. ‘Don't you bother that nice pony, now,' I said, and went back into the house.

Mrs Hoster had regained control of herself and was sipping at her lemonade. I still felt like a monster. To what purpose had I brought this poor woman to tears?

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I don't usually  . . .' She made an ambiguous gesture.

‘I'm the one who should apologize. I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself. I had no right to come in here and pry.'

‘It doesn't matter. I told you I was relieved to talk about it. We don't see many people, living out here away from town. My husband works in Cheltenham, so he isn't home a lot, and I can't really get out much, what with Gillie and the animals.'

‘You said Gillie was away just now?'

‘Her therapist thought an outing might be good for her, so she's gone to see the pictures in Broadway. Gillie loves art. She's always drawing.'