The Evil that Men Do (9 page)

‘They'd like to know more about him. Anyone who disappears immediately after a crime attracts police interest. But since nobody has any apparent reason to have killed poor Symonds, and they have no evidence pointing in Paul's direction, or anyone else's, I doubt he's first on their list to be questioned.'

I picked up my tea cup and took a sip. ‘Well, he is on mine,' I said when I could speak. ‘I want to know all about that young man, and I know where to find out. As soon as I can track her down, I intend to have a good long talk with Jo Carter.'

Alan smiled. ‘And where do you intend to start? Seeing as we don't know where she works, or where she lives, or anything about her, really?'

‘I'm going to start with that woman at the art gallery. What was her name  . . . Robinson? Goodness, we do seem to be running into a lot of people with conventional names. Jones, Robinson, Smith  . . . we need a Brown to complete the list.'

‘Smith? Who's named Smith?'

‘That man who wanted the horse. Only now he doesn't.'

Alan looked completely confused, so I explained. ‘I nearly forgot to tell you, actually. It was almost funny, in the end. I just couldn't get rid of the man.'

‘You mean he followed you?'

‘No, actually it was more as if I was following him. I don't think he ever even noticed me.'

‘Only because you aren't wearing one of your noticeable hats.'

‘I have been neglecting them lately, haven't I?' Alan knew very well that a backpack doesn't have a lot of room for hats. Not my kind of hats, anyway. ‘But back to Ms Robinson. We know where to find her, and I'm sure we can find out about Ms Carter from her. Now.' I looked at the last crumb of salmon sandwich on my plate and decided with some regret to leave it. ‘I don't know about you, but I'm more than ready for my nap.'

Saturday dawned bright, sunny, and warm, another perfect day in the Cotswolds. ‘Surely this weather can't last, Alan,' I said as we dressed. I took some care with my appearance and even donned a hat. If we were going to be Art Patrons today, I wanted to look the part. ‘I don't think I've ever seen such a long dry spell in this part of the world. Back home, we would have been well overdue for a rip-roaring thunderstorm by now.'

‘You're quite right. If it doesn't rain soon, some of the crops and a great deal of wildlife will be facing serious trouble. It's lovely weather for a holiday, but I hope we're not in for another drought.'

‘Maybe it'll rain tomorrow, and we'll have a good excuse for staying in. I think I'm just about ready for a day or two as a couch potato. There's a lovely fireplace in the lounge, and a decanter of sherry we haven't sampled yet.'

‘Indeed. Ready, my dear?'

I was very good at breakfast, passing up the bacon and sausage in favour of scrambled eggs and toast, and nothing else except coffee. Alan raised his eyebrows at my order. ‘Slimming, darling?'

‘Sort of. The fact is, this skirt is very nearly too small for me. If I stuff too much food in, the button's going to pop.'

‘I prescribe another shopping trip. I do like you just the way you are, you know. Never did care for Twiggy.'

I chuckled, nearly choking on my coffee. If I lost fifty pounds I still wouldn't approach the emaciated look of the waif-like model so popular in the sixties. ‘Whatever happened to her, anyway, I wonder?'

‘I believe she's involved with one of those American “reality” shows on television. Eat up, love. We'll find you another skirt.'

So I changed my mind about bacon and mushrooms and tomatoes, and got up, panting slightly, to brush my teeth before we sallied forth to appreciate Art. I stepped out of Pam's way as she darted out of the kitchen.

‘Oh, by the way,' she said, ‘I meant to tell both of you, but I've been busy. Paul turned up yesterday. I know you've been wondering about him.'

I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘Turned up! Here?'

‘Yes, just briefly, to get some of his things and let me know he'll be gone for a few days, but back early next week. I thought you'd be relieved.'

‘Relieved! Of course, but where in the world has he been? Why did he go off like that, without a word to anybody?'

‘I don't know. He didn't say. But he did tell me a secret. I promised not to say anything to anybody, but  . . . well, I can tell you tomorrow. If you don't already know by then.'

She was gone with a flourish of her apron strings and Alan and I were left staring at each other.

‘So much for our runaway,' he said. ‘Seems he can take care of himself.'

‘Ye-es. Maybe. But in that case, why was Jo Carter so worried about him?'

I still wanted to talk to Jo. There were too many unanswered questions about Paul, and about that strange little episode in the gallery. But it was going to be a while before I could get my questions asked.

We had vastly underestimated the numbers of people who might want to come to a beautiful village on a beautiful day to look at art. It wasn't easy to walk down the street, much less get into the galleries.

I stepped aside, out of the stream of chattering tourists, and pulled my festival brochure out of my pocket. ‘Look, Alan. It says there's a tour of Broadway, featuring places where the artists and writers and composers lived and worked. It starts every day at  . . . let's see  . . . at ten thirty, from Trinity Gallery. And it's nearly that now. Let's do that first, and go to the galleries later when they're not so crowded.'

Alan looked across the street to the crowd gathering in front of the big gallery. ‘You go, love. I'm not fond of being herded, and I do actually know some of the sites. I'll just wander on my own, and perhaps join you later.'

He kissed me on the nose and walked away, and I crossed the street.

The tour was interesting, and informative. The guide was an artist himself, and knew so much about the Broadway artists, past and present, that he soon lost me. A few of the names were familiar, but many more were not, so I trailed along, happy just to see the houses and gardens and watch the other people on the tour. They were a mixed lot: young, old, and from several different countries. The Japanese family was unmistakable, even though their English was very good. I sometimes think Japanese boys, in particular, are born with cameras hanging round their necks. There were quite a few English, of course, a good many Americans, and a handful of Canadians just recognizable by their accents.

I looked more closely at one of the Canadian women. ‘Penny!' I cried. ‘It is you, isn't it? What on earth are you doing here?' Penny Brannigan was a delightful woman I'd met on a quick trip to Wales, when a friend insisted I needed a manicure and steered me to Penny's recently opened spa.

‘Same as you, I expect,' she said, ‘playing tourist. Wales isn't all that far away, and I've always enjoyed British arts festivals. You never know what you're going to find, and I thought I might pick up something for my new cottage, but the prices!'

I nodded sympathetically. ‘You must have champagne taste and a beer budget, just like Alan and me.'

‘That about sums it up. So I decided to do the tour of Broadway. I've never been here before. What a gorgeous place!'

‘Isn't it? I do love English villages.'

‘Then you must visit more of Wales. The villages there are different, but just as charming. Plus, we have the hills and valleys. Now tell me, have you managed to get yourself mixed up in another crime?'

‘Well  . . . not exactly.' For some reason I didn't feel like telling her about the body we'd found.

‘You're holding out on me, Mrs Martin. You're up to something. Just try to keep out of trouble, will you? And,' as she glanced at my hands, ‘try to schedule a manicure one of these days, OK?' With a friendly wave, she turned to follow the guide and, cheered by the encounter but beginning to flag, I looked around for a place to sit and spotted Alan. ‘Learn anything, darling?' he asked as he slipped my arm through his.

‘Lots. Too much to digest all at once.'

‘Were you nearly finished?'

‘I am entirely finished. I'm hot, and this hat isn't doing much to keep the sun off.' Alan suppressed a grin at my hat, a large floppy straw with one huge pink rose. ‘I think the tour is finished, too, or almost. Where are we? I've been down so many lanes and through so many gates I've lost my sense of direction.'

Alan kindly did not remark that I'd never really had one. ‘We're nearly at the end of town. How about lunch at the Indian place?'

He didn't need to ask twice. I'd been hankering for Indian food ever since we'd first seen the restaurant.

There may be better aromas than the warm, spicy smell of Indian food, but I couldn't think of too many. My mouth was watering before we sat down, and Alan was quick to order cold lagers for both of us and a basket of garlic naan bread before we decided on anything else.

‘So you know how I spent my morning, absorbing culture. What did you do with yours?'

‘I thought I'd smooth your path a bit, so I went looking for Jo Carter.'

‘Oh, well done! Any luck?'

‘Not in Broadway. She's likely to work out of Cheltenham, I suppose, though she was here just yesterday. But I learned something interesting.'

‘What's that?' I swallowed a chunk of the lovely flatbread and washed it down with beer.

‘Someone else is looking for her, too. In three or four of the places where I asked, someone had been there before me. And no one so much as admitted knowing who she was.'

‘Alan, that's downright peculiar! First, it's odd that in a village, even a largish one like Broadway, she can be unknown to everybody. And it's certainly odd that more than one person is looking for her. Who on earth is she?'

‘Ah! Our food. Tuck in, love, and when we've satisfied the inner man, we'll go and try to find out.'

TEN

W
e had lunched early, so when we got back to the cluster of galleries on the High Street, the crowd had thinned considerably, most of them apparently seeking out food. We had no trouble getting into the gallery where Ms Robinson worked.

And we were lucky. There were only a few customers inside, there to look at the special displays or, possibly, to buy some of the works that were for sale. My eyes swerved immediately to the large, central wall that had been bare before. And there, sure enough, was a large, beautiful painting, but not the one I'd been expecting. It was a full-length portrait of a lovely woman whose name I did not recognize.

‘Exquisite, isn't it?' The voice was behind us, and I turned around to see Ms Robinson. She recognized me, too, and stepped back, her hand at her throat in the classic gesture of dismay or fear.

Alan was right behind her; she trod on his foot and stumbled. ‘Oh, I'm  . . . forgive me, I  . . .'

‘We startled you,' said Alan. ‘But in fact we wanted to talk to you, Ms Robinson, if you have a moment.'

The woman at the desk by the corner, in pearls and possessing that indefinable air of wealth, could only be the gallery owner. ‘Goodness, Sarah,' she said, ‘it's well past time for your lunch. Do go with your friends, and don't hurry back. You've worked like a demon these past couple of weeks. I can manage until Jack gets back, and I think the big rush may be over for the day.'

‘But  . . .'

Ms Robinson might well have protested that we were not her friends, that she barely knew us, and that she wasn't eager to pursue the acquaintance. All of that trembled on her lips, but a couple came in just then, obviously old and valued customers, for the owner cooed at them and exchanged air-kisses.

‘Colin! Lesley! How lovely to see you! You came in at just the right time. One can move about at the moment. Now you must see  . . .'

She had no attention to spare for her assistant. Ms Robinson said, ‘I really don't need lunch just now. And I'm quite busy, so  . . .'

‘Ms Robinson,' said Alan quietly, ‘I realize you know nothing about us, but we wish only a moment or two of your time. If you prefer not to leave the shop, is there a quiet corner somewhere?'

‘Nonsense,' I said briskly. ‘The woman needs tea. Goodness, Ms Robinson, you're so tired your face is grey. Alan, do you still carry your identification?'

Without a word he pulled out the card that identified him as a very senior member of the police indeed.

‘Retired,' he added.

‘Yes, so this is nothing official,' I said. ‘I just wanted you to be sure we weren't white slavers or Bonnie and Clyde or whatever you seem to be so afraid of. Now, will you come with us and have a cup of tea and something to eat?'

‘I  . . . oh, very well. But I can't imagine why you need to talk to me, or think you do.'

‘That's all right,' I said meaninglessly, as we went out the door.

‘Where?' asked Alan. It was a reasonable question. Any tea shop or café or restaurant or pub would be full, with a line of people waiting.

‘Well – if you're not particular, Ms Robinson, we could give you tea at our B-and-B. I don't think there's anything in particular to eat except some biscuits  . . .'

‘Cheese,' said Alan. ‘We've quite a lot of that left. And a little wine.'

Ms Robinson obviously didn't care one way or the other. She sighed and followed us.

When we got to the Holly Tree, though, she hesitated at the door.

‘Look, what is it?' I asked, trying to sound patient. ‘We really are not planning to do you any harm.'

‘No. No, of course not. It's just  . . . never mind.'

We went in and up to our room. It was a bit cramped for three, but I preferred that this conversation be private. Alan busied himself making tea and setting out our comestibles, such as they were, while I pulled off my hat and tried to think how to begin.