The Evil that Men Do (11 page)

‘Terrible thing that was, poor Bill Symonds getting killed the other day,' said the sidesman, now certainly serious. ‘You'll have heard about that, I expect?'

Alan took my arm and pinched me, rather hard. ‘We did hear something about it, yes. Did you know him?'

‘Sixty years and more. Went to school together, been sidesmen here long as I can remember. I stood up at his wedding.'

‘I thought—' I began, and Alan's pinch grew stronger.

‘He was married, then?' he said mildly.

‘Widower. His wife died years ago, trying to have their baby. He's lived alone all these years, but for his friends.' The man took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose fiercely. ‘A good man, he was, and coped wonderful well, for all he was deaf as a post. You'd never have known it, talking to him. He could read lips as well as you and I can read a book.' He paused, and then said, with a dark intensity more convincing than a shout, ‘Whoever did that to him is a devil from hell, and if I find out who he is, that's where he's going.'

‘Why didn't you want to talk about it?' I asked Alan as we got back into the car. ‘And did you need to pinch quite so hard? I'll be black and blue.'

‘Sorry, love.' He pulled me over to him and kissed the spot. ‘There. That'll make it better. And in answer to your question, I don't quite know. Old policeman's habit, I suppose. Ask more than you tell. It probably wouldn't have mattered at all, and I'm truly sorry I hurt you.'

‘I'll mend. But goodness, he was upset, wasn't he?'

Alan ran his hand down the back of his neck. ‘The man Symonds was well-loved, they told me in Broadway. Of course everybody knows everybody in a place like this. It's unusual, when someone has died, to find no one with an axe to grind, but in this case all the clichés seem to hold true.'

‘Not even some ill-natured gossip at the Post Office about goings-on with the widow next door, or a deal gone wrong over pigs, or anything?'

‘Not a thing. They'll be proposing him for canonization any day now.'

‘Oh, dear.' Like all policemen, Alan hated cases that were not only unsolved, but apparently incapable of solution. This looked like being one of those, and even though it wasn't his, he was going to brood about it.

It was nearly lunchtime when we got to Winchcombe, so we found a pleasant pub and treated our driver to lunch before sending him on his way with thanks.

‘Now, where shall we go?' We had reclaimed our car from the station car park, and Alan was at the wheel.

‘How about back to Broadway? Then maybe we can figure out a way to walk to Chipping Campden without climbing too many hills.'

The old saying about the best-laid plans is irritatingly true. We had reached the Holly Tree and found a place to park just up the street when the rain started. I found a rain hat in the back of the car and put it on, but it wasn't even real rain at first, just mizzle. Then the drops got bigger, and came faster, and we were really wet by the time we got in the door.

‘Alan.'

‘Yes? Would you mind not shaking your hat quite so fervently? It's showering me like a wet dog.'

I shook it in the other direction. ‘Is this rain what you meant back awhile when you said “Hmm”?'

‘Hmm?'

There was still plenty of water left on the hat.

I have quite a lot in common with cats. I possess a lively curiosity, and I love my comfort. One of my favourite precepts is: ‘When in doubt, nap.' So after we got out of our wet clothes, it seemed only natural to crawl under the covers and get warm. And I didn't wake until teatime.

‘You know,' I said with a yawn, ‘other than eating and drinking and spending money, there isn't actually an awful lot to
do
in Broadway.'

‘Lots of pictures.'

‘I think the galleries are all closed by now. Anyway, I'm getting sort of tired of pictures. And  . . .'

‘And they're getting tired of us. At least there's one gallery where I feel we might not be welcomed back with great hosannas.'

I made a face. ‘I wish I knew what was eating that woman. We really were just trying to help.'

‘Perhaps she doesn't like our faces.'

‘Or my hats. Alan, is it still raining?'

He peered out of the window. ‘Looks like it's settled in for the night. Not hard, but steady and determined.'

‘Too bad to drive?'

‘Where did you have in mind?'

‘Just Cheltenham. I want to see another play, and there are lots of good ones on. Shaw, and Shakespeare, and I think I saw that somebody was doing some Gilbert and Sullivan.'

‘Lead on, Macduff.'

‘And no, I do
not
want to see
Macbeth
, thank you very much.'

So we went to Cheltenham and had our tea, and then found a rollicking performance of
HMS Pinafore
, and then a late supper, and so back to Broadway and to bed.

But I woke up in the middle of the night wondering, again, what was so badly wrong with Sarah Robinson.

TWELVE

I
n the morning, at breakfast, all the guests were still bubbling over the revelation that a celebrity had stayed in our midst.

Well, perhaps
bubbling
isn't quite the word. The English don't bubble a whole lot. I was reminded of a joke going around a while back among my American friends, about the contrast between the English and American ‘security alert' levels, in which the highest English level was reported to be ‘really rather cross'.

So the English guests were really rather pleased, in a quiet way, though I suspected they, like Alan and me, would have been somewhat more enthusiastic had Paul turned out to be a minor royal, or a Shakespearean actor. Most of us were a bit too old to go into raptures over rock stars.

The Irish ladies were more effusive. ‘I knew he was something out of the ordinary,' said Mrs McGath to Mrs O'Hanlon, but at a volume that included the whole room. ‘I was telling you, wasn't I? That boy will go far, I said.'

I choked on a bit of bacon. ‘Easy, love,' said Alan in an undertone. ‘I know, but we can't talk about it here.'

‘She never uttered one good word about Paul until she found out he was famous!' I fumed when we were back in our room. ‘Now she acts like she invented him!'

‘Yes, dear. By evening she'll believe she really did think and say what she claims. Her type used to be the bane of my existence. She doesn't lie deliberately. She is simply sure that whatever she wants to believe is true. As a witness, the family cat was more reliable.'

I nodded. ‘I've known some like that, too. If they possess a memory at all, it's infinitely malleable to the shape they want. Alan, let's get out of here. If I have to stay in the same house with that woman much longer, I'm going to say something I'll regret.'

‘It's time we moved on, in any case. New worlds to conquer.'

‘Or something.'

We packed quickly. Having the car made everything much easier. ‘No more walking tours, don't you think? Day trips, there and back. And if we want to go farther afield, we can take the car.'

‘What happened to your new-found love of the earth, walking the paths trod for hundreds, nay thousands of years?'

‘I think it got rained out. Where shall we go?'

‘I've been looking at the map. There's a town called Upper Pinnock just about in the middle of where we intended to walk, roughly equidistant from here, Winchcombe, Bourton-on-the-Water, and Moreton-in-Marsh. And there's a highly recommended holiday cottage just outside the town, within easy walking distance of two stately homes you'll love, Sezincote and Stanway. Shall I see if we can book it? Oh, I should warn you, it's self-catering.'

‘That means I cook.'

‘That means we cook. Or eat out.'

‘Show me.' I leaned over the map as Alan unfolded it on the bed.

‘See? Here's Sezincote – you'll love that, it's incredible, quite a lot like Brighton Pavilion – and here's Stanway. And right at this crossroads is the cottage.'

I looked at the many inches between the indicated crossroads and the two little symbols that meant stately homes. ‘That's easy walking distance?'

‘Less than four miles to either. You're forgetting the scale of the map. The whole map, both sides, covers only about a twenty by twenty-five mile area. A good walker could cover the whole perimeter in less than a week.'

‘Well, I don't propose to find out. But, yes, see if the cottage is available. It sounds ideal.'

We said goodbye to Pam with real regret, and to the Irish ladies with considerable relief, which I hope we managed to disguise, and headed out. We stopped at one of Broadway's excellent shops to pick up a hamper and a selection of delicacies to fill it, and then concentrated on finding our way down roads charitably described on the map as ‘generally less than 4m wide'. In some cases, considerably less. Blind corners abounded, and the rain didn't help. If I'd been driving I would have been reduced to a quivering jelly in about ten minutes – just as we encountered the first flock of sheep.

Alan, however, is used to this sort of thing, and managed to keep the car on the road and off the sheep, and found our destination with no more than a few words we wouldn't have wanted our clergy friends to hear.

The owner, Mrs Bostock, was waiting for us. ‘So sorry about the rain,' she said, as we stood in the front hallway dripping. ‘Don't worry at all about tracking in. It can't be helped, and the rugs are all washable. I've turned the heaters on, to take the chill off, and there's plenty of wood for a fire if you'd like one later. The larder's stocked with the basics, and you'll find milk and eggs in the fridge. All right?'

‘Splendid,' said Alan. ‘And the key?'

‘Oh, we never bother about keys, I'm afraid. The area isn't teeming with desperadoes. If you really want one, I could ask my husband. He might know what we've done with it.'

‘Oh  . . . well  . . . I wouldn't want you to go to the trouble. It's your house, after all, and if you're comfortable leaving it unlocked  . . .' I left the sentence unfinished, and she nodded briskly.

‘The doors do bolt from the inside if you'll feel safer locked in at night. Actually it might be a good idea, because we do have the occasional marauder.'

‘I thought you said  . . .' Alan began.

Mrs Bostock grinned. ‘Not your usual thieves. Goats. We try to keep them penned up, but they're clever rascals, and curious as cats. And of course they'll eat anything. So  . . .'

She smiled, and we laughed. ‘We'll keep a sharp eye out for criminally minded goats,' Alan assured her.

‘I'll leave you to get settled, then. If you need anything at all, we're just down the lane, and our phone number's posted in the kitchen. Enjoy yourselves, and I do hope the rain stops for you.'

‘Why do the English keep apologizing for the weather?' I asked idly as I found tea things and turned on the kettle.

‘Don't Americans?' asked Alan in surprise.

‘I don't think so.' I tried to remember. ‘I think we complain about it, constantly. Or brag about it, in a sort of reverse snobbery. “You think this is bad. You should have seen the Blizzard of Seventy-Eight!” That sort of thing. And actually, American weather can be far worse than English. Tornadoes, hurricanes, blistering heat, frigid cold, not to mention earthquakes. A little summer rain is nothing.'

‘Then shall we go for a nice walk before lunch?' he said wickedly, looking out the window at the rain splashing in the puddles.

‘Certainly. As far as the car.'

We had our tea, and then unpacked. The cottage was roomy and pleasantly appointed, with all the necessities of life for a few days. Big bathroom, fluffy towels. Comfortable bed. Dishes and glassware and cutlery, and a modest selection of pots and pans – and the all-important dishwasher. Tea, coffee, sugar, milk, eggs, breakfast cereal, bread, butter, biscuits. The basics, as Mrs Bostock had said. We'd brought ham, various cheeses, smoked salmon, marmalade, and salad makings, along with fruit and an utterly sinful and delectable chocolate cake I could not leave in the shop.

We did in fact take a stroll before lunch, just to get our bearings. The rain wasn't overpowering, though it was deceptively wet, making its way into any possible gap in one's rain gear. We could see well enough, though, and the view almost made up for the rain.

We were situated on the top of a hill, the land before us rolling in typical Cotswold fashion. It's a gentle sort of country, content with the quiet beauty of fields and woods, streams and hedges, crops and sheep and cattle.

My native country is huge, with so many different kinds of scenery that it's impossible to pick one and say ‘This is America.' But for me, growing up in the Midwest, Indiana cornfields were America. England, on its much smaller scale, is also quite varied. At that moment, looking out over the Cotswold hills, I was quite sure this was the essence of England.

Our home from home was just outside the town of Upper Pinnock, which stretched out below us. ‘Upper', Alan explained, referred not so much to the elevation, but to the fact that the town lay upstream from, and was also much more important than, the companion Pinnock.

‘So where is Pinnock?'

‘Vanished completely. It was a medieval village, over more or less that way, I think. All that's left of it is a few depressions in the earth where houses and barns used to be.'

‘Good grief, what happened to it?' Visions of fire, of plague and pestilence, of internecine warfare flashed across my brain.

‘I have no idea. You're free to use your lurid imagination.'

‘And what's in Upper Pinnock?'

‘Again, no idea. It's good-sized on the map, looks to be nearly the size of Cheltenham, so presumably there will be all the amenities of a Cotswold market town.'