The Evil that Men Do (3 page)

That, I thought, could explain quite a lot. If he'd been legally adopted, Jones was in fact his real name, but apparently he didn't lay claim to it. A troubled family? Abandoned at some point?
I can fend for myself
, he'd said. The defensive attitude, the penniless appearance  . . . but I still couldn't figure out why he was staying at the Holly Tree. Was there a way I could find out, without prying?

Well, no, not really. And it was, I told myself for the third or fourth time, none of my business.

I am involved in mankind
, said John Donne in my head. And there was something about this boy  . . .

Our meals arrived just then, so for a little while we were occupied with crusty bread and creamy, tangy cheese, and chutney, and salad, and I confined myself to comments about the food. Paul responded only with the occasional nod. He was picking at his food, when I'd expected him to have the hearty appetite of the young. Ah, well, he was upset, and of course he'd partaken of, or at least had been offered, the same enormous breakfast we'd had ourselves.

When I had popped the last pickled onion into my mouth, and taken a last swallow of beer, I began, ‘Are you enjoying the Holly Tree, Paul? We think it's the nicest B-and-B we've ever stayed in.'

‘It's great, yeah. And I'd better get back there and change, and then see what I can do about the bike. Look, this'll pay for part of my lunch, anyway. Thanks a lot.' He pulled a fistful of change out of his pocket, plunked it on the table, and was gone.

‘What is eating that child?' I demanded when he was out of earshot. ‘I'll swear it's more than just embarrassment about the accident.'

‘I don't know,' said Alan, running his hand down the back of his head in the familiar gesture that meant he was thinking furiously. ‘I agree, it's more than just embarrassment. He couldn't wait to get away from us.'

‘And why? We were being nice to him. We fed him, didn't fuss about him nearly running me down, doctored his injuries. I tried to draw him out, but he wasn't talking. Pam Littlewood is right; there's nothing really wrong with his manners, but his
manner
is peculiar.'

‘That's just the thing. His manner. You realize we've spent an hour or so with the boy, and we know nothing whatever about him except his name – and he told us himself that it isn't really his.'

‘I usually manage to do better than that with new acquaintances.'

‘Indeed. Inside of fifteen minutes you know their name, address, occupation, favourite brand of tea, and number and breed of pets. If the police had you on staff, they wouldn't need a database.'

‘So why wouldn't Paul talk to me?'

‘I think the answer to that question might prove very interesting.'

THREE

W
hen we got back to the Holly Tree there was no sign of Paul Jones, or whatever his name was. I considered asking Pam if he was registered under that name, but she was nowhere to be found, and anyway I hated to bother the poor woman. With her house so full, she must be run off her feet, even with her husband and a small staff to help.

‘Let's stick to the original plan, shall we?' said Alan. ‘I've never seen the Broadway Tower, and it's only a short walk.'

‘Uphill all the way,' I said, a little dubiously.

‘Ah, but then it's downhill all the way back. Come on, love. Onward and upward.'

I found my stick, with the nice sharp point for negotiating slippery slopes, and we set out.

I was panting and lagging at the end of ten minutes. ‘Alan, exactly how far away is this thing?'

‘Mile and a quarter, according to the little village map.'

‘And how far
up
?'

He had to get out the OS map for that one, and when he'd unfolded the thing to the proper panel I got a look at the contour lines, which were very, very close together in the direction we were going. I let out a little squeak. ‘For Pete's sake, how high is this thing? Nosebleed territory? Are we going to need oxygen?'

‘Not according to my Sherpa guide,' he said. ‘It's only about three hundred metres.'

‘And we were starting from what?'

‘A hundred, roughly. And we've already climbed forty or thereabouts.' He consulted the map again. ‘So a hundred and sixty to go, perhaps. I do believe it will be worth it.'

‘One hundred sixty metres,' I said grimly. ‘That's  . . . let's see  . . . Alan, that's almost five hundred feet!'

‘Yes, dear.' And he forged ahead.

It took us an hour to walk that mile and a quarter, and at the end of it I would have wanted to do nothing but throw myself down on the grass and lie there for another hour, except  . . .

‘The view, Alan! I've never seen anything  . . . those are mountains over there!'

‘The mountains of Wales,' he said in that deprecatory, throwaway tone the English use when they're extraordinarily proud of something. ‘It's a trifle misty today, but on a truly clear day I'm told one can see ten counties.'

One would have thought he'd invented the view himself.

‘OK.' I grinned and held out a hand. ‘You were right. It was worth it. But I flatly refuse to climb any stairs to the top of the tower. The view is just fine from right here. And do you suppose we can find a different way down, that's not quite so steep? Because down is still harder than up for me, even with the nice new knees.'

‘Hmm.' He unfolded the map, which he had put away. ‘Well,' he said after studying it for a little, ‘there are other footpaths. They're a bit out of our way, but they take the grade rather more gradually. I don't know how well they'll be marked.'

‘How far wrong can we go? My stick has the compass, and as long as we keep heading downhill, we're bound to end up in Broadway somewhere.'

That probably falls into the category of ‘Famous Last Words'. When we were rested, and sated with the view, we started down. The footpath set off to the south at first, away from Broadway for perhaps a quarter of a mile, almost on the level, and then turned more or less west and sharply downhill.

At least that's what it did on the map. We were all right until it came to the point where we should head west. This was not one of the named paths like the Cotswold Way, but simply a track used for the last several centuries by countrymen and women who wanted to get from here to there and had no horse or wheeled conveyance. And although landowners are supposed to keep the paths cleared and open, either this landowner had abandoned the responsibility, or we had missed the turn. We headed out confidently, walked a few steps and realized this couldn't be the path, doubled back, tried another promising lead, and in five minutes were hopelessly lost in a steep, wooded area with rocks. Lots of rocks.

I tripped over one and would have fallen without Alan's sustaining arm. ‘This is ridiculous!' I said angrily. ‘How can we be lost, so close to Broadway and just a few hundred feet from a landmark like the Tower?' I was tired and hot and cross, and I wanted my tea.

‘We're not exactly lost,' said Alan, with a calm equanimity that made me want to spit. ‘We've simply strayed from the path. It's broad daylight in a civilized, well-populated part of the country, and all we need do is make our way downhill, as you said earlier. We'll have to watch our step, though. The trees make it hard to see very far ahead, and the map says there are abandoned quarries hereabouts. I shouldn't like either of us to fall in.'

‘No?' I meant it to be sarcastic, but it came out sounding a bit forlorn.

‘Buck up, old girl. You'll have your tea in no time. Meanwhile, I planned ahead.' He pulled a bar of dark chocolate out of his pocket. It was soft from the heat of the sun and of Alan, and the paper stuck to it, but it tasted wonderful.

I smiled shamefacedly. ‘Prescription for chasing the nasties away, right? It works. Let's find the way home.'

‘That's my girl. Here, take my arm. That blasted yellow Cotswold stone makes beautiful buildings, but it's foul underfoot.'

Inch by inch, it seemed, we made our way through the dense wood. It was, I suppose, lovely, but I was in no mood to appreciate it. There were clouds of tiny flies, for one thing, not the sort that bite, but the sort that get in your face and hair. I was afraid to open my mouth, afraid almost to breathe lest I inhale them. There were gorse bushes, heavy with blossom and scratchy with briars. There were other bushes that would, presumably, be thick with blackberries later in the season, but now were thick only with blossoms and thorns sharp as tiny knives. I clung tightly to Alan's arm and tried to avoid the treacherous rocks that seemed to be everywhere.

The undergrowth became so dense and the path, if path it was, so narrow I was forced to step behind Alan and follow him. We were moving at the pace of a couple of elderly, arthritic turtles, but I still bumped into him when he stopped abruptly. ‘What? Have you found the edge of the quarry?' I couldn't see more than a few inches ahead.

‘Yes. Stay where you are, Dorothy. Don't move an inch. I'm going to take a look.'

He sounded odd. I wanted to move to see what he was looking at, but he so seldom issued a direct order, I thought I'd better wait.

He rustled through the bushes. I heard him pause for a moment before he returned.

‘I wish to blazes I knew exactly where we are,' he said, pulling out his mobile.

‘What is it, Alan?' I was suddenly cold.

‘There's someone down in the quarry, and I'm very much afraid he's dead.'

It took a while for the police to get there. We had wandered farther to the south than we should have, and were on the edge of a different quarry than the one Alan had seen on the map, but Alan stayed on his phone until he could hear the Land Rover approaching, and then directed them as near to us as they could manage.

While we waited, Alan allowed me to lean against a tree, but said not to move more than a few inches from where he had stopped me. ‘I've already contaminated the scene by moving to the edge, but I had to make sure of what I saw. I wish I could let you sit down, but I don't want to mess anything up further.'

‘I understand. And it's almost impossible to get up from sitting on the ground, anyway. I'll be all right. I don't suppose you have any more chocolate?'

‘Alas.' He turned his pockets out, but there was nothing more interesting than the slightly stale pack of gum he kept for clearing our ears when we fly. I turned that down and shifted my weight to the other foot.

Once the scene of crime officers arrived, we were questioned thoroughly, but very politely. Alan didn't know any of the police authorities in this part of the country, but they knew his name and reputation, and were careful to step on no toes. A chief constable, even though retired, was to be treated with respect and deference. After they had examined the rim of the quarry, they put paper bootees on both of us and allowed us, one at a time, to peer over the edge at what lay below.

It lay about halfway down, on a ledge created by the quarrying. The exposed rock, the ubiquitous yellow Cotswold stone, looked well-weathered. I supposed the quarry had been in disuse for a very long time.

The body was identifiable as human only by the clothes. It was clad in dark trousers and a dark shirt, with a scarf or something around the neck. When asked if I recognized the person, I could make no intelligent reply. To me, it seemed impossible at this distance even to tell if it was a man or a woman.

At last we were allowed to go on our way. One of the policemen showed us the quickest way back to Broadway, by way of a narrow lane. We found it in minutes and were sitting down to our tea half an hour later in the pleasant garden at Tisanes Tea Shop.

‘Poor soul,' I said when I'd finished my first cup of hot, strong tea with lots of milk and sugar. ‘I suppose he – she – whoever, stumbled over the edge and couldn't get a handhold to keep from falling.'

‘Maybe,' said Alan, his hand once more moving down his neck, ‘but there was no sign of scuff marks in the weeds on the edge. It was quite clean.'

‘Yes, but if one tripped over a rock, one could go flying headlong. I nearly did exactly that back there. Would have, if you hadn't been there to catch me.' I poured more tea for both of us. ‘You're suggesting suicide, aren't you?'

‘I don't know. Probably not. Just an accident, I suppose. There ought to be a fence just there. It's a sheer drop.'

I laid my hand on his. ‘Don't go making mysteries, Alan. You're retired, and on holiday, and the weather is perfect for once. Drink your tea and count your blessings.'

‘Yes, Mummy.' He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs, and smiled at me.

I wasn't fooled. He wouldn't be happy until he was certain that the person in the quarry had got there accidentally.

FOUR

W
e took the walk back to the Holly Tree slowly. We were both tired and occupied with troubling thoughts. ‘I hope it really was an accident,' I said as we neared our temporary home. ‘I hate to think of the pain that would drive someone to suicide. In a beautiful place like this, on a beautiful day  . . .'

‘“Though every prospect pleases, and only man is vile”.'

‘I've never liked that verse. For that matter, I've never much liked the hymn. Since when did missionaries trek over Greenland's icy mountains? Who do you suppose it was?'

Alan knew I was no longer talking about the hymn. ‘The police will find out. May already know, if the victim carried identification.'

‘And how long dead, do you think?'

‘My dear, I don't know. And it's no longer any of my business, thank God.'

Which was a not so subtle hint that it wasn't my business, either.

We were utterly exhausted by the time we'd climbed the stairs to our room, or at least I was. I fell on the bed, pausing only to take my shoes off, and was asleep in minutes.