Alan grinned. We both adore the Harry Potter books.
Getting into town looked to be a bit of a hassle. We could have walked, of course, but the traffic made the prospect unappealing. All the cars seemed to be coming to the track, and none of them seemed to be taxis. We finally found a minicab willing to take us to the city centre, at an exorbitant price. I must have looked shocked, because Alan shrugged and said, ‘We’re on holiday. Blow the expense.’
So we squeezed in. Alan is a bit tall and bulky for a small back seat, but I pulled my feet out of the way, and we managed. ‘Where to, guv?’ asked the driver.
‘I really don’t know. Where would you recommend we start a tour of Cheltenham?’
The driver guffawed. ‘The racecourse. That’s where I’d be if it wasn’t for earnin’ me keep. D’you want shoppin’, or churches and that, or what?’
I opted for ‘churches and that’, and our driver headed off at a brisk pace.
Too brisk. I was watching the passing scene when I was thrown violently against Alan. Alan cried out, the brakes screeched, the car slewed sideways and stopped up against the kerb.
‘Bloody hell!’ screamed the driver. ‘Did you see that? The bastard never looked. I could have killed him!’
‘What happened?’ I asked, once my breathing was back in order.
‘Idiot crossed the road right in front of me!’ The driver was still shaking with shock and fury. ‘Never even looked, just steps right out, a foot away from my tyres. And then walked off, cool as you please! He’s lucky he’s alive. And what about my tyre?’
The car was certainly listing, now that I noticed. I supposed the accident had caused the tyre to blow out. The driver got out to look, swearing under his breath.
We had nearly reached the centre of town. A small crowd had gathered to gawk, and a policeman approached. As the driver began to tell his story, with excited gestures, Alan turned to me. ‘All right, love?’
‘I’m fine. I was just shaken up a little.’
‘Then why don’t we walk from here? It’s not far, and this chap’s going to be tied up for a bit.’
‘Fine with me.’
We got out, with difficulty, and Alan caught the driver’s attention long enough to pay him.
‘Here, mate! I never got you where you was goin’!’
‘It’s all right. Not your fault.’
‘Straight ahead, then, and the first big church is on your right, about half a mile.’
Alan tucked my arm through his. I was actually a little unsteady, and glad of the support. ‘Did you see what happened?’ I asked. ‘I was looking at the houses and never saw a thing.’
‘I saw,’ he said.
‘What? You sound peculiar.’
‘Do I? I was just contemplating our young friend’s capacity for trouble.’
I stopped and looked at him.
‘The pedestrian who behaved so thoughtlessly back there was Paul Jones.’
FIVE
Alan, are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. His face is distinctive, with that beard. And I recognized his walk.’
‘He was on foot, then. Not with his motorbike, I mean.’
‘On foot. I doubt he’d have had time to get the bike repaired. And Dorothy . . .’ He paused.
I waited, with the feeling I didn’t want to hear what he was about to say.
‘He recognized me, too. I think that was why he ran.’
‘To talk to us, before we got too far away?’
‘No.’
I looked up to see if a cloud had come over the sun. There was no cloud in the sky. Why did the day suddenly seem so dark?
‘He really is on the run, then,’ I said drearily.
‘It looks that way.’
We walked on in silence.
‘Why would he come here, though? And how did he get here? It’s too far to walk.’
‘Not for a young man in good physical condition. Or he could have hitched a ride, though that would be risky. Someone might remember him, and tell the police. As for why he came to Cheltenham, perhaps because it’s the nearest mainline rail station. From here he could get to London easily enough, and London is the best place in the world to get lost.’
‘Won’t the police be watching the stations?’
‘If Paul really is suspected of involvement in the murder. If it really was a murder. But even given those conditions, Paddington is an enormous station, and the police can’t be everywhere at once. He could probably slip through.’
‘Then why hasn’t he?’ I stopped in the middle of the pavement, causing annoyed pedestrians to jostle around us. ‘If he left yesterday after lunch, that’s nearly twenty-four hours he’s had to get here and get on a train to London. Plenty of time. So why is he still here?’
Alan propelled me into the doorway of a shop, out of the stream of traffic. ‘Dorothy, we don’t know. We don’t know anything. And yes, I can understand your concern. I rather like the boy, too, and I agree it’s frustrating not to be able to help him.’
‘You could find out about the case. They’d tell you, of all people, whether it was murder, and whether they suspect Paul – all that.’
‘Perhaps. But don’t you see our position? Or mine, at any rate? I have no right to go poking about in a case that would be well out of my jurisdiction even if I had any authority anywhere, which I no longer do. The police are jealous of their prerogatives, Dorothy, and they don’t like superannuated bigwigs trying to throw their weight around.’
‘But . . .’ But what? But he’s only a child? That was no argument. Paul was plainly in his early twenties, and however childlike that might appear to me, he was an adult. But he was in trouble. That didn’t need saying.
I could understand what Alan was saying, and why he felt he couldn’t get involved. We had gone a-sleuthing together several times, most recently at a country house where we were spending a long weekend. But that was different. We were isolated by an epic storm, and there had been no other police presence to look into the strange things that were happening.
This time there were plenty of official toes to be stepped on.
I took a deep breath. ‘Alan, I do understand. But is there any reason why I shouldn’t do a little nosing around? Strictly unofficially, and without your trying to get any information from anybody?’
He looked at me and shook his head, but with affection. ‘And can I stop you, my dear? I’ve never known you to see another human being in distress and not try to do something about it. All I ask is that you leave me out of it.’
‘But we can talk about it, can’t we? Of course we can. Reason things out together. I go off at tangents, you know, and I need you to do a reality check for me now and then.’
He hugged my shoulders. It was as overt a demonstration as he would allow himself in a public place, and it made me feel warm all over. ‘Nor have I ever been able to stop you talking. Hold off the fire in your eyes, woman! I suggest we defer any talk until we are in a place where we can hear ourselves think. Meantime, shall we enjoy the beauties of Cheltenham?’
I’m afraid I remember very little of the beauties of Cheltenham, though I’ve seen pictures since, and regretted what I missed. Alan tells me we saw a good deal of Regency architecture, walked through some lovely gardens, saw buskers advertising the performing arts festival being held in the city.
It was mid-afternoon when we walked, weary and footsore, into the cool and quiet oasis of a church.
‘This is the famous All Saints’, with the Burne-Jones windows,’ said Alan, looking not at the windows but at me.
‘Oh. Oh! Yes, they’re lovely,’ I said, glancing at a window presumably by Burne-Jones.
‘Dorothy.’ Alan’s tone drew my attention. ‘My dear, you don’t like the Pre-Raphaelites.’
Well, no, I didn’t like them much. They were a group of English painters and decorative artists – Edward Burne-Jones, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Morris, others I’d forgotten – in the mid-1800s who belie
ved that painting was at its best and highest level before the time of the painter Raphael, and went about working in a consciously archaic style. They accomplished some outstanding art, granted, especially the William Morris designs for wallpaper and the like, but also an awful lot of what I considered mediocre, and for the most part I didn’t like their style.
‘You don’t care much for fake classical artefacts, either,’ Alan went on, ‘but you’ve been putting up with those ghastly caryatids all day.’
‘Caryatids?’ I said vaguely, thinking for some reason of katydids.
‘Those imitation Greek things all over the shopping area. Inappropriately dressed women carrying the weight of the world on their squared-off heads.’
‘Oh, those. I’d forgotten what they were called. No, I’ve never liked them, even in Greece. In pictures, I mean. I’ve never been to Greece . . .’ I tailed off.
‘You’re still worried about Paul, aren’t you?’
It wasn’t really a question. I sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Alan. I haven’t been exactly “with it” for a while, I realize. I guess I’m just not in the mood for sightseeing, after all. I keep thinking about him, and seeing that poor man in the quarry. I suppose it was a man. I never got a good enough look to know for sure.’
‘I watched the news for a bit this morning, while you were still asleep. It was a man. A local farmer.’
‘And it really was murder?’
‘I’m sorry, love. It really was murder.’
I waited.
Alan shook his head. ‘There were no details given, Dorothy. Naturally not. You know we always try to give the media no more than they need to know. “Foul play” was all they said.’
‘So – no idea whether there was a lot . . . whether he was shot, or . . .?’
‘No, to what you’re really asking. We don’t know – I don’t know whether there was any blood at all. And no pictures of the body, thank God.’
‘I’ve never understood how they can do that to the family. How horrible to see your murdered husband or father or brother in living colour . . . or rather . . .’
Alan didn’t laugh, bless him. ‘Indeed. The sensitivity of the media often leaves something to be desired.’
‘Alan, do you honestly think that boy could have had anything to do with it?’
‘Speaking as a human being, I hope not. I rather liked him. Speaking as a policeman, and knowing virtually nothing about the evidence, I have to say there seems to be reason enough to ask him some questions.’
‘I like him too. Well, you already figured that out. But . . .’ I spread one hand and began to tick off points on my fingers. ‘One, he was bleeding quite a lot when he almost ran into me. Or at any rate, there was blood all over the place.’
‘Scalp wounds bleed profusely,’ Alan observed, slipping into the role of devil’s advocate.
‘But all that fresh blood could easily cover up some that was a little older. Did the TV report give any idea of when the man died?’
‘Certainly not. That’s one piece of information we like to keep to ourselves.’
We, I noted. He’d used the word more than once. Alan could say as much as he liked about not being a policeman any more, but he still considered himself part of the force, whether he realized it consciously or not. I passed on to the next point. ‘Two. He was extremely upset when we made him have lunch with us. He couldn’t wait to get away.’
‘Not feeling well after the accident,’ Alan offered half-heartedly. ‘Worried about his friend’s motorbike.’
‘I don’t buy that for a moment, and neither do you. There was something serious wrong, something . . . some crisis.’
‘You don’t know the boy well enough to make that judgement.’
‘I don’t know him at all,’ I retorted. ‘But I knew enough boys in forty years of teaching to be able to read emotions pretty well. Paul Jones was . . . was afraid, Alan. Afraid, that’s it! He was terrified, even.’
‘You could be right,’ Alan admitted. ‘That would explain—’
‘Excuse me.’ A woman had come up the aisle to where we were sitting. ‘Do forgive me for interrupting, but I overheard you talking about someone named Paul Jones.’
Uh-oh! I had meant to keep my voice down, but I suppose stress had lifted it. Was this a policewoman, tracking him down? She was squarely built, stocky, a no-nonsense, middle-aged person with a shock of short, untidy grey hair, who looked quite a lot like my neighbour, Jane Langland. Or to put it another way, like Winston Churchill.
While I tried to think what to say, the woman went on, ‘It’s a common name, of course, but as it happens I’m trying to find someone by that name, whom I expected to meet today. My name is Jo Carter. I’m . . . connected with his family, and a bit annoyed that he hasn’t turned up. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?’
SIX
I was still struck dumb, unable to make up my mind about this woman. Alan picked up the conversation so smoothly I’m not sure the woman even noticed my hesitation.
‘No, as a matter of fact we were rather wondering about him ourselves. Not that we know the lad, really. We happened to run into him in Broadway yesterday, and exchanged a few words.’
I had opened my mouth to chime in, but I choked on the ‘run into him’ line. ‘Au contraire,’ I whispered to Alan, who frowned at me.
‘In Broadway?’ the woman asked sharply.
‘Yes, we’re staying there for a few days,’ I said, in as broad an American accent as I could muster. After living in England for years, I sometimes find it hard to produce Midwestern vowels, but some instinct told me a spot of disguise might not hurt anything. ‘A beautiful little town, isn’t it? I’m just wild about it.’
A husbandly elbow to my ribs told me I was laying it on a bit thick. He clasped my hand in a firm ‘keep still’ grip and said, ‘Yes, we’re finding it most restful.’
‘Indeed,’ said Jo Carter drily. ‘You haven’t heard, then, about yesterday’s murder?’
‘I . . . we . . .’ Alan’s grasp became almost painful and effectively shut me up.
‘Would that be the man found in the quarry?’ Alan asked, allowing the tiniest tremor of unease into his voice.
‘Yes.’ Jo Carter was watching him carefully.
‘Oh, dear. Murder, you say?’
‘Yes.’ The single monosyllable again.
‘But that’s most . . . distressing. You see, I was actually the one who found the poor man.’
‘Really.’ The woman’s voice was drier than ever. ‘I understood that discovery was made by a police officer.’
Alan took a deep breath and released my hand. I rubbed it to restore the circulation.
‘I am a police officer, Ms Carter. Or I was. Alan Nesbitt, Chief Constable of Belleshire, retired. This is my wife, Dorothy Martin. As I see you know something of the matter, we can stop playing games. Do you work with the police here in Cheltenham?’
‘How do you do, Mr Nesbitt, Ms Martin. I do in fact work with the police, quite closely, but I am not employed by them. I work with social services. And I would very much like to know more about your connection with Paul Jones.’
I finally stood up and spoke. ‘Why?’ I asked bluntly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Why do you want to know about Paul?’
She looked me up and down, a searching look that made me feel as if I were being X-rayed. I stood my ground, giving her much the same look, the look I used, years ago, to quell a roomful of fourth-graders.
‘Why do you object to telling me?’ she finally asked, in a much milder tone.
‘Because I like the boy. Oh, young man, I suppose, but he’s a boy to me. I think he’s in some sort of trouble, and I’d like to help him. But if telling you anything at all about him is going to . . . to betray him in some way, I have nothing to say.’
Slowly she smiled. You know, sometimes the clichés are true. It really was like watching the sun come out after a storm. Her face, which had been ste
rn, almost sullen, relaxed into kindness and good humour. ‘You speak your mind, Ms Martin.’
‘It’s Mrs Martin, please. And yes, I suppose I do, at least when I feel strongly about something. Or someone.’
The choir began to practise. I wondered why on earth they were working on Handel’s Messiah in May. It was beautiful, but the organ was extremely loud.
‘It looks,’ said Alan, ‘as though we’re going to continue this conversation. Might I suggest we repair to someplace where we will not have to conduct it in competition with “Hallelujah”?’
‘You sound exactly like Peter Wimsey,’ I said. ‘Or Jeeves. Come off it.’
‘As you wish, madam. To put it another way, shall we go down the pub?’
‘Now you’re talkin’!’
Ms Carter (who told me that was her preferred form of address) knew a nice quiet pub just around the corner. When we were seated with our pints, and Alan had ordered sandwiches for the two of us by way of a very belated lunch, she began to tell us a little of her story, choosing her words carefully.
‘I’ve been a friend of Paul’s family for a very long time,’ she said. ‘I’ve watched him grow up. His path . . . has not always been smooth.’
‘That could be said of most people, I suspect,’ said Alan. ‘Especially young people today. There are so many pitfalls.’
‘Some of their own choosing, of course,’ Ms Carter agreed. ‘At any rate, Paul has settled down quite nicely of recent years, quite nicely indeed. He has a good job.’ She smiled, glanced at both of us, and went on. ‘He’s doing very well for himself. I’m pleased.’
I looked at Alan. He shrugged. ‘That wasn’t quite the impression we’d formed. In fact, we . . . well, we treated him to lunch yesterday because we thought he looked hard up.’
‘He does dress casually,’ said Ms Carter, ‘but I assure you he can buy his own meals.’
‘He’s driving a borrowed motorcycle,’ I said. ‘And he damaged it pretty badly yesterday, and looked worried about it.’
‘I see.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘How did he do that?’
‘Nearly running my wife down,’ said Alan calmly.
The Evil that Men Do Page 4