The Evil that Men Do

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,”’ began Alan, and of course I chimed in. We recited as much as we could remember, which was shamefully little, and I suddenly felt my eyes stinging.

  Alan took my hand and questioned me with a tilted head.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, brushing away the single tear that had rolled down my cheek. ‘It’s just that the “Elegy” was one of my father’s favourites. The first time I ever visited England was with my parents, and we saw that country churchyard. My father could recite almost the whole poem.’

  ‘Happy tears, then.’

  ‘Happy memories. Another of the blessings of old age.’

  We walked along hand in hand, each with our own thoughts.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ said Alan as we walked up Broadway High Street.

  I dragged my mind back from my childhood. ‘Not particularly. That was an incredible tea.’

  ‘Why don’t we see if we can find some snacks, then, and stay in tonight?’

  Some of the shops were still open, so we bought some cheese and biscuits and a bottle of wine and took them back to the Holly Tree.

  We found a mindless comedy on the small television in our room, and stretched out on the bed, heads propped up with pillows, drinking wine out of coffee cups and spilling crumbs on the bedspread and giggling at the silly jokes.

  ‘I feel like a kid,’ I said when we finally turned off the TV and called it a night. ‘I haven’t done anything like that in years.’

  ‘Nor have I. Ridiculous programme, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Idiotic. My face hurts from laughing.’

  ‘Must be the wine. Goodnight, darling.’

  ‘Goodnight. I love you.’

  EIGHT

  We both slept late next morning, so late we missed breakfast. ‘I think I’m finally in holiday mode,’ I said as I ran my fingers through my hair, yawning. ‘I can’t seem to get moving.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. There’s nothing we need do today.’

  ‘I suppose not. But . . . you’re not going to believe this, I’m starving.’ I leaned over, looking for my slippers.

  ‘You’re spoiled, that’s what you are.’ He gave me a swat on the backside I was so obligingly presenting. ‘Get moving, woman, and we’ll go out in search of some coffee and pastries.’

  I took my time over my shower, but it still wasn’t too long before we were out in the High Street. I didn’t bother with a hat. My hair was still damp, and it was going to be too warm for one, anyway.

  ‘Lots of activity this morning,’ Alan commented.

  ‘Mmm. Where do you suppose we can get that coffee?’ I am not at my best and brightest until I’ve ingested some caffeine.

  ‘Take my arm, and I’ll be your leader dog.’

  ‘It’s not fair. You’ve had coffee.’

  I felt a good deal better once we were seated in a little bakery, with the scents of coffee and yeast and cinnamon all around us, and better still when the scents materialized in front of us and I had that first lovely hot, fragrant swallow.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said when I had downed the first cup and was putting sugar into the second, ‘who it was who first figured out that those red berries from the coffee plant could be processed six ways from Sunday and end up as this magical fluid, but here’s to whoever it was.’

  Alan raised his cup to mine and smiled. ‘Good morning, my dear. You seem to be with us again.’

  I just grinned and looked around. ‘Goodness, it’s crowded.’

  ‘Yes, dear. I believe I said something like that a while ago, when you were still semi-conscious. It must be the arts festival, don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course! How stupid of me. Senility setting in, I expect. What are we going to do about it? The festival, I mean.’

  Alan sipped his coffee. ‘My vote is, we wait until tomorrow to do anything much. If we spend today getting the feel of the festival, what’s worth seeing and what isn’t, then tomorrow we can make better choices.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. Won’t the crowds be even worse?’

  ‘Possibly. But opening day often draws the real aficionados, the ones who will linger. Tomorrow’s crowd might be the thirty-seconds-per-picture sort. In any case, if tomorrow won’t do, we can wait for another day. The festival runs through next week.’

  He was leaving something unsaid. I waited.

  ‘Oh, very well, I don’t want you going back to that gallery until whatever it is has died down. Don’t glare at me! You know quite well you have a talent amounting to genius for getting into trouble . . .’ He held his hand up. ‘Through no fault of your own, granted. Usually.’

  ‘And you feel obliged to defend your honour as an English gentleman and protect me.’ I sighed. It was an old issue between us. I often fought for my independence, but today I was feeling relaxed and peaceable. ‘Very well. I will bow to your wishes with my usual sweet docility and wait until tomorrow to pose as an art lover. Today . . . I know! Today I’ll go shopping!’

  It was said with malice aforethought, I admit. Alan hates to shop. It’s not usually my favourite occupation, either, but on a beautiful day in an enchanting village, it seemed like a good idea. And it was a mild assertion of my right to choose my own activities.

  My husband sighed elaborately, then grinned. ‘A draw, I believe. Very well. You do your shopping, my dear. Do try to remember that Bill Gates has not yet given us that grant.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. And what are you going to do, meanwhile?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. Perhaps I’ll gamble away what pittance you leave me, at the Cheltenham racecourse.’

  ‘You go right ahead. Who knows, you might win, and then I could shop some more.’ Alan had been known to place a small wager on a political contest from time to time. He had never, in the years I’d known him, bet on a horse. I had no idea how he planned to spend the day, but my attitude, unlike his about me, was that he was in no need of supervision. Alan is tall, broad-shouldered, and fit, despite his seventy years. He is also both intelligent and sensible. He could look after himself. As, I firmly told myself, could I. ‘Back at Tisanes for tea?’

  We amiably went our separate ways. I had very little cash with me, but a visit to the nearest ATM soon remedied that. Anyway, in today’s society cash is almost unnecessary. Almost. If I decided to hop a bus for Chipping Campden, I’d need some actual money.

  I didn’t think I’d do that, though. That was the sort of excursion that would be more fun with Alan. No, I would confine myself to Broadway. Certainly it had enough shops to keep me busy as long as I could stand it.

  My first stop was the Edinburgh Woollen Mills. Some people, I know, shun the chain outlets. Not me. Their clothes are inexpensive and very often to my taste, and there’s always something on sale. This time they were offering very attractive tee shirts, decorated with embroidery and lace and other delectable trimmings, at an excellent price. I bought three, left, and went back and bought three more, a little guiltily. It wasn’t the price, but the bulk. We were travelling on foot, and backpacks will hold only so much. We could always ship them home, though, and I liked the way I looked in them.

  After browsing in a couple of antique shops and finding much of interest, but nothing I wanted to buy, I was in need of a place to sit and a little sustenance. I’d had a pretty skimpy breakfast, after all. I had wandered freely and wasn’t sure of my bearings, so I looked around for a sustenance provider.

  I couldn’t see anything that looked like a tea shop, but a small and attractive pub stood on one corner. I could get a cup of coffee there, and perhaps a snack, and I could sit. One hates to admit it, but as age creeps up, sitting becomes more and more desirable.

  There was only one other patron inside, though a few people were drinking beer under attractive umbrellas in the garden. I got my coffee and one of those odd buns the English call doughnuts, and found a comfortably padded chair in front of the fireplace. It was unlit on this bright, warm day, but its warmth might be we
lcome when night fell.

  The other man in the room looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think where I’d seen him until he was joined by another man, also striking a chord in my memory. Then they began to talk, and I recognized the horse farmer I’d mistaken the other night for the lord mayor, and his eager customer.

  ‘Sam,’ said the farmer, nodding on his way to the bar.

  ‘George,’ responded the other. The typical effusive greeting between two Englishmen. I smiled into my coffee.

  They said no more until George had settled down with his pint. At (I looked at my watch) 11:15 in the morning. Ah, well.

  ‘Lucy’s in splendid form, Sam,’ said George after he’d taken a healthy swig. ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘The mare you’re thinking of for your wife.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, yes. Well, the fact is, George, Mavis isn’t feeling so well. She can’t seem to shake that last bout of the flu.’

  ‘Oh? I hadn’t known she was ill. Matter of fact, I’ve never met the lady. I hope she’s better by next week.’

  ‘Next week? Well, I’m not so sure. She’s had a bad go.’

  ‘What a pity if she’s ill on her birthday.’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I’m thinking of taking her abroad. Spain, south of France, someplace warm.’

  ‘I see.’ George was not pleased. His sale of an expensive horse had just evaporated. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I hope when you’re ready to consider a horse for Mrs Smith, I’ll have as nice a mount as Lucy.’

  Sam frowned. ‘I’d hoped you could keep Lucy for me. For Mavis, that is. It shouldn’t be more than a few weeks.’

  ‘Can’t do it, Sam. I have another buyer for her. Of course you had first refusal, since you spoke to me first, but the other gentleman will be delighted to get her. His daughter’s just out of university, a fine horsewoman, and wants to show Lucy. Good morning, sir.’

  With a brisk nod, he was gone, leaving Sam open-mouthed at the table. After a moment he gulped down his beer, scraped his chair back, and left without a word.

  ‘Well,’ said the barman. ‘Gentleman in a hurry, it would seem. A bit hot for that, I’d say, myself.’

  Have you ever noticed that when an unusual word or phrase comes to your attention, you seem to hear and see it over and over again in the next few days? Someone will mention Tuscaloosa, Alabama, for instance, and you don’t even know exactly where it is, but everywhere you turn for a week, someone’s talking about Tuscaloosa, or it’s in the library book you check out, or in an old note you unearth in your desk.

  I had the same feeling as I continued my shopping spree. Everywhere I went, there was Sam, the man from the pub. He was leaving a gift shop as I entered it to find a gift for my godson. He was sitting on the green as I approached it, watching people pass by with an attention that seemed entirely out of proportion to the interest of the scene. I love to people-watch, myself, but he seemed to be getting no enjoyment out of it, judging by his fixed frown.

  I walked down to the bottom of the High Street, bent on getting some Indian takeout for my lunch. Sam was just entering the restaurant as I neared it. I turned away and settled for a rather dry sandwich from a grocery store. I looked in the window of one of the art galleries to decide whether I wanted to go inside tomorrow, and there was his reflection, coming up behind me.

  I did finally manage to lose him when I went in a shop to look at handbags. I needed a new one, and found several attractive ones at bargain prices, but I lost my heart to a beautifully crafted bag in green leather. It would, I knew, not go with a single outfit I owned. Nevertheless, I walked out of the shop with it on my arm, idiotically pleased with my purchase.

  Weary and footsore, I found myself near the church, St Michael and All Angels, and went in seeking peace and quiet.

  I had forgotten they were to have a flower festival starting tomorrow. The church was swarming with ladies, and a few men, moving great tubs of flowers around, arranging them in various nooks and crannies, discussing details (arguing would be perhaps too strong a word). And there in the middle of it all was the man called Sam Smith, trying to talk to the poor distracted rector.

  ‘No, really, I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I don’t know the woman. Never seen her here. We contribute to the shelter, of course, but . . . no, I’ve never visited it. I do assure you . . . yes, if I see her, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her, but . . . oh. Very well.’

  A small woman in a very wet apron approached apologetically. ‘Mr Venables, I’m sorry, but we can’t find the small altar vases anywhere. Could you just . . .?’

  ‘Sir, you see I really must attend to matters here. If I see the woman I’ll try to let you know. Well, yes, check back if you wish, but I’m quite frightfully busy at the moment . . . yes, Mrs Freebody, I believe I know where they are. Excuse me, Mr . . . oh, dear.’ The man was gone, and the rector scurried off to find the missing vases.

  I gave up. I staggered with my purchases back to the High Street and Tisanes, where Alan and a generous tea awaited me.

  NINE

  You seem to have been remarkably restrained in your shopping,’ he said as he helped me stow my parcels around our table in the garden. ‘It seems I will not, after all, have to declare bankruptcy, unless you dropped off some of the booty at the Holly Tree.’

  ‘No, this is all, unless you count the bespoke ball gown for the Royal Wedding, and the two cases of Dom Pérignon; they’re being shipped. Ahhh!’ The tea was almost too hot to drink, but it was marvellously refreshing.

  ‘The Royal Wedding was almost a month ago.’

  ‘Oh, dear, then they must have forgotten our invitation. I’ll have to cancel that order. Actually it works out to several summer tops, a few gifts – I bought Nigel Peter a lovely stuffed airplane, see? – and the new handbag. Isn’t it gorgeous?’

  He duly admired it, in his male fashion, having no idea why it was so special, but content that I should be happy with it. I devoured a couple of sandwiches. ‘Of course, had I been fitted for a gown and splurged on champagne, it would have been in expectation of your winnings on the ponies,’ I added when I had swallowed a scone and more tea. ‘What did you do all day?’

  He was looking at the flowers. ‘Just look at those peonies, will you? They should have bloomed and gone by now, but they’re still spectacular.’

  ‘Mmm. Did you spend the whole day in town?’

  His knee jogged the table, which was a bit teetery on the flagstones. The plate of jam tarts skidded dangerously close to the edge. He caught it, but at the expense of soaking his sleeve in his tea.

  ‘Alan.’

  He looked at me just a trifle sheepishly.

  ‘You’re not usually clumsy. What have you been up to?’

  He removed his jacket, dabbed at the sleeve, gave it up as a bad job, and hung it over an extra chair. I waited.

  ‘I’ve been talking to the police.’

  ‘Alan Nesbitt! And without me!’

  He looked both guilty and relieved. ‘I thought you were going to scold me for betraying all those high-flown principles I’ve been spouting.’

  ‘Yes, yes, take that as read. What made you decide to go, after all?’

  ‘I didn’t like that little scene at the gallery yesterday, Dorothy.’ He was serious again. ‘I didn’t like it at all. On the surface it couldn’t have anything to do with the body in the quarry. I do wish that didn’t sound so much like the title of a thriller,’ he said in an irritated aside. ‘But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered. You know our favourite theory is that when a good many odd things are happening in the same place at the same time, they’re likely to have something to do with each other.’

  Well, it was my theory, and not even mine originally, but cribbed from some of the mysteries I read constantly. But never mind. I nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, you can say I thought it was dangerous not to know a little more. Or you can say my curiosity got the better of me. I do
miss being in the thick of things, you know.’

  ‘Of course you do. Go on, before my curiosity gets the better of me. What did you find out?’

  ‘That’s the worst of it, Dorothy. I learned almost nothing, except that there’s almost nothing to learn.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re at a dead end, Dorothy. They know the name of the man who was killed. William Symonds, farmer. In his sixties. Stone deaf, poor man. Lived alone with two dogs and a good many cats. Paid his bills on time. Sidesman at St Michael’s, Buckland. No family, never married. Lived comfortably but not lavishly. Owned nothing worth stealing, and in fact his person was not robbed, nor was his house apparently entered. Full stop.’

  ‘In short,’ I said bitterly, ‘that rare being: a man with no enemies and no earthly reason to get himself killed.’

  ‘Exactly. Which means the police have no place to look.’

  ‘Who inherits his farm?’

  ‘The Crown, presumably. He died intestate.’

  I took another jam tart. ‘There must be something. Weapon? How did he die?’

  ‘He died,’ said Alan precisely, ‘as a result of a fall of some forty feet on to a stone ledge. A large bruise on his back suggests that he was pushed, as does the fact that there are no signs of his trying to save himself.’

  ‘I thought bruises took a little while to develop, while the person is still alive, I mean.’

  ‘They do, normally. Mr Symonds had very thin skin, however, and bruised easily and quickly, according to his doctor.’

  ‘Still, though . . . oh, dear! That poor man couldn’t have died instantly, then. Imagine lying there in pain, helpless . . .’

  ‘Don’t give yourself nightmares, love. He was unconscious from the moment of impact. The doctor’s certain of that. Yes, he might have lived an hour or two, but he felt nothing.’

  ‘So the time of death was . . .?’

  ‘You know they’re never willing to pin themselves down about that. He was last seen about eight thirty in the morning, heading out to look for a strayed calf. We found him at three thirty-seven, and the police got there about half an hour later. The best guess is he died between three and six hours before that. They’ll know more when they’ve done a full autopsy.’