The Evil that Men Do (32 page)

‘But the real hero of the day,' I said, to change the subject, ‘is Watson here. If he hadn't managed to get away when Ben caught Fred, and raised such an unholy ruckus later, Alan might not have been in time.'

The dog raised his head at the sound of his name, smiled at us, burped gently, and went back to sleep.

‘It's going to break my heart to give him back now, if we ever do find out who his real owner is.'

‘I can tell you that,' said Fred unexpectedly.

We all turned to him.

‘Didn't want to say before. Wanted to be sure you'd be good to him.'

‘Fred! He isn't yours, is he?'

‘Nah. I've never had but Alsatians, and after old Bess died, I'd not got the heart for another dog. No, this dog belonged to Bill Symonds. He ran away when his master didn't come home. I reckernized him the minute I saw him. Reckon he was running over the hills, looking for a home. Reckon he's found one now.'

Alan and I looked at each other. ‘I don't know what Sam and Emmy are going to say,' I said.

Alan smiled fondly at Watson. ‘Sam and Emmy,' he said firmly, ‘are going to have to lump it. Watson's a member of the family now.'

That seemed to be the last word. The party broke up, and Alan and I didn't try to detain them. We all needed a good, long night's sleep. The last one out the door was Penny. ‘How long are you going to be in town, Dorothy?' she asked.

‘Oh, we probably won't leave until tomorrow afternoon. I want to sleep late.'

‘Good. I'm stopping by around noon, and I'll have a kit with me. You
really
need that manicure now!'

AUTHOR'S NOTE

R
eaders who know the lovely Cotswold village of Broadway will recognize the liberties I have taken with some of its geography. In general, the pleasant places and beautiful views I have described are real; the unpleasant ones are the product of my disordered imagination. The Holly Tree, though modelled very closely on an actual, charming guest house in Broadway, has been fictionalized to spare the delightful proprietors any embarrassment at the behaviour of some of their guests. The Arts Festival, on the other hand, is (except in timing and certain details) very much like the inaugural event I was fortunate enough to happen across some time ago.

The town of Upper Pinnock is entirely fictional. There was, in medieval times, a village called Pinnock, a few miles south of Broadway, but almost nothing now remains of it. My Upper Pinnock is in a slightly different location and endowed with a river, a large church, and a railway station, among other amenities.

I have anticipated, by months or years, the rebuilding of the Broadway railway station. The GWR is indeed planning to extend the Honeybourne line to Broadway, but the effort requires an enormous amount of money. If you are a steam train enthusiast and would like to contribute to the appeal, visit the line's website at
www.gwsr.com
.