The Evil that Men Do

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘All right, Mum. I won’t go into all the gory details. But they have to know part of it. She was pregnant by that time, and he hit her. Hard. She fell, and . . .’

  Sarah took a deep breath. ‘I almost lost that baby. I would have left, then, but there was no place to go. You don’t want to know all of it. Believe me, you don’t. But I put up with it for five more years. An eternity. Then . . .’ She couldn’t go on.

  ‘Mum caught him . . . messing around with Jemima. She was only five. He would have killed Mum then, I think, but I . . . I stopped him.’

  ‘You were how old?’ Alan asked, very quietly.

  ‘Thirteen. He was big, but soft, and very drunk. And I had a knife.’ He and Sarah both looked as if they might be sick.

  Alan gestured a ‘go on’.

  ‘My son barely scratched him!’ Sarah said fiercely. ‘Ben fell, trying to get away from Paul, and hit his head on the Aga. Oh, yes, we had an Aga. We had a beautiful house. Everyone had beautiful clothes. The neighbours all thought we had a beautiful life.’ Sarah shuddered and took several deep breaths. ‘I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but I was afraid he was alive. I got his car keys and some money out of his pocket, threw a few clothes into a suitcase, packed up the kids, and left.’

  ‘Did you go to the police?’

  ‘No. I didn’t dare. Paul had stabbed him, and I had stolen the car and quite a lot of money. And he could be so charming and plausible. I knew he’d twist everything around, make it all my fault, and Paul’s. I just drove till I was so tired I thought I couldn’t drive any farther, but I had to hide the car. That was the first thing he would do, tell the police the car was stolen and send them looking for it. I knew of a little wood near Winchcombe, where I was born, so I drove there. It was night, and the roads kept turning out wrong, and I thought I’d never find it, but eventually I did. We slept in the car that night. At least the kids did. I woke at every sound, terrified he’d find us.’

  She sipped her cooling tea, and Paul took up the story. ‘You don’t need to know all about the next few days. They were bad. But Mum finally found a church in Cheltenham where they told her about the shelter. You seem to know about that.’

  ‘A little,’ said Alan.

  ‘Well, we went there. I don’t know if Mum expected much. I didn’t, just maybe beds for a night or two before we had to go on the run again. But Jo . . . sir, you’ve got to find her! You’ve got to. She saved our lives, and if she’s in trouble now, it’s because of us!’ He had risen and was pacing the room.

  ‘Because she’s trying to protect you?’ Alan asked, sure of the answer.

  ‘No! Well, not exactly. Because he’s after her!’

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Alan and I said it simultaneously. It was to me that Sarah turned, her face wiped clean of all emotion.

  ‘Besides my family, Jo Carter is the only human being on this earth who knows that Sarah Robinson of Broadway is Susan Browne of Winchcombe. We thought we were safe here, the girls and I. But Paul saw my ex-husband in Broadway, just a few days ago. He’s still trying to find us, and he knows that Jo was my counsellor. He’ll know she knows where we are.’

  Whole floods of light were pouring into the dim recesses of my mind. Of course! That explained so many things! The terrible fear we had seen in both Paul and Sarah. Jo’s worry. And . . .

  ‘Where did you see him, Paul?’ Alan’s voice was very quiet, very controlled.

  Paul looked at his mother, licked his lips, and swallowed. ‘On the street. He didn’t see me. He wouldn’t know what I look like now, anyway. I was a kid when he saw us last, and I’ve had a little plastic surgery. We all did. But I’ve been trying and trying to get Mum to move away from here, with the girls. If he’s around, it isn’t safe any more. She won’t listen, she says—’

  ‘But that isn’t the only place you saw him, is it?’ Alan’s voice was still quiet, but it was as pointed as steel.

  ‘He . . . I . . .’

  ‘You might as well tell him, lamb. I think he knows, anyway.’

  Paul looked from Alan to Sarah, like an animal trying to escape a trap.

  ‘Shall I tell you?’ asked Alan. ‘You saw him push someone into the quarry.’

  Paul’s face was sufficient answer.

  ‘I won’t ask you why you didn’t go to the police at once,’ said Alan. ‘But you must do so now, you know.’

  ‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t just that I was afraid,’ said Paul, very subdued now. ‘I was afraid. I still am. You’ve heard the story. You know why. But it wasn’t just that. The thing is, I know nothing about him, not even his name or where he lives, unless he’s still at the big beautiful house, but somehow I doubt it. It was probably never even his, really.’

  ‘His name?’ I finally felt free to pose a question. ‘But surely . . .’

  ‘No.’ Sarah had had just about all she could take. ‘I knew him as Ben Elliot, but I found out, or rather Jo found out, when she was working with us, that he had married me under an assumed name. He was already married. So, although I call him my ex-husband, he’s really nothing of the kind. I was never legally married to him. And I don’t know his real name. Jo thought it better that I not know.’

  ‘And Jo is missing,’ I said bleakly.

  ‘Records at the shelter . . .?’ Alan suggested a little hopelessly.

  ‘They’re destroyed soon after clients leave.’

  ‘You’re quite sure, Sarah?’ Mrs Bryant had told us that, but I’d hoped she’d been exaggerating.

  ‘Quite sure. Before they started doing that, someone lied, got access to the records, found out where his girlfriend was . . . and killed her.’ She made a little face at my involuntary gasp. ‘Mine is not an unusual story, Mrs . . . I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Martin, but Dorothy will be just fine. I do understand.’

  ‘Appearance, then,’ said Alan. ‘What does this man look like?’

  Paul looked a little helpless. ‘I’m not good at things like that. He’s big, soft. He looks like a drunk, red face and all that. He looks . . . he looks sort of like Falstaff. We did Shakespeare in school,’ he added in response to my astonished look.

  ‘Now, this is extremely important, Paul.’ Alan leaned forward and looked at Paul intently. ‘Are you absolutely positive that the man you saw at the quarry was the man you knew as your stepfather?’

  He hesitated. ‘No. I mean, I’m sure, in my own mind, but I suppose I couldn’t swear to it. I saw him first in the street, and I was sure then. That was Ben, all right, or whatever his name is. I swear to you, I nearly died of fright until I realized he hadn’t even noticed me. And then later . . . well, I never saw his face, and I wasn’t all that close. But it was him,’ he finished, stubbornly.

  ‘What exactly did you see? Or no, first, what were you doing there?’

  ‘I saw Jo. See, this was the same morning that I saw . . . him. And he saw Jo, too. I watched it, and there was nothing I could do. He saw her, but they were both in crowds of people, and by the time he got to where she was, she’d gone away. But I heard her tell somebody she was taking a little time off work, and was going up to the Tower later. And . . . I was pretty sure he heard her, too. So I had to follow.’ He leaned forward, too, his hands nearly touching Alan’s. ‘Do you understand, sir? This woman is like a second mother to me. She saved my life, saved all our lives, because he would have killed us all. I couldn’t stand by and wait for her to be killed!’

  ‘I understand. Go on.’

  ‘I followed. I had a motorcycle. Well, you know about that.’ He had the grace to blush. ‘I really am sorry about that, ma’am.’

  Sarah looked mystified, and Paul rushed on.

  ‘I have a car, of course, but it’s red and . . . well, pretty conspicuous. And I didn’t want anyone to notice me while I was in Broadway, so I borrowed the bike from a friend. And . . . oh lord, I still haven’t had it repaired. Anyway, I rode up the hill as far as there w
as a track, and then shoved it into some bushes and went the rest of the way on foot.

  ‘When I got to the Tower, I couldn’t see either of them. So I thought maybe I’d got there too early, and I waited around. There was quite a crowd of people, and I had the beard and all, to make me look really different, but I was still pretty nervous about him showing up and maybe recognizing me.

  ‘So after I’d waited a while, I thought maybe they’d both already been there and left, or maybe Jo had changed her mind about coming. And, oh God, I thought maybe he’d found her down in the village. So I started back. And I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going, because I was lost in minutes.’

  ‘I can relate,’ I said, but very quietly.

  ‘Well, so pretty soon I found myself in a sort of wood. I don’t know much about the country. There were brambles, and flies, and it was miserable. I was hot, and scared. And then I saw him.’

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Somebody who looked like him, anyway. He was quite a long way away, on the edge of the wood. I only saw his back, and his hands. He was . . . doing things with his hands.’ Paul made a gesture of clenching and unclenching his fists. It was extraordinarily menacing.

  ‘He looked just like he used to when he lived with us and was getting ready to blow,’ he went on. ‘So I was scared worse than ever, and I thought I’d better follow him. I didn’t really want to, because I didn’t like the idea of what he might do if he saw me, and we were all alone out there. But I really had no choice.’

  ‘No,’ said Alan. A single word, but Paul looked grateful.

  ‘Well, I kept well back. I thought for a while I’d lost him, as well as the path, and then I was scared silly that he would come up behind me . . . well, what with the midges and one thing and another, I was pretty well out of my mind when I heard him call to someone.’

  ‘Call to someone! To whom?’

  ‘I don’t know. The flies were buzzing around, and there are odd echoes up there, from the quarries, I suppose. I wasn’t close enough to see, but he sounded furious. I thought I heard him say “Stop”, and then he swore at whoever it was.’

  ‘Did the person answer at all?’

  ‘Not that I heard. But I was getting worried, because I was afraid he’d found Jo. So I moved a little closer, and that’s when I saw it.’

  Alan waited. When the pause became extended, he said gently, ‘You can’t stop now, you know.’

  ‘I know. I just . . . well. I saw someone walking near the edge of the quarry, looking down. I saw . . . him . . . shout again, but the person never looked up. And then he started to run, and I’m not sure if he tried to grab the person, or pushed him, but the person fell, and he started to swear, worse than I’ve ever heard him before, and then he left.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Paul looked at his feet. ‘I went back in the bushes, and was sick.’ He looked up to see if anyone was going to laugh at him. He was, I thought, still very young, poor boy.

  ‘And then I ran hell-for-leather to find my bike, and roared down into town, and ran into you, Mrs . . . Dorothy.’

  ‘And all you could think of was finding Jo, or your mother, and we coerced you into having lunch with us,’ I said. ‘No wonder you were a nervous wreck.’

  ‘I didn’t want to be rude,’ he said, betraying once more his extreme youth, ‘but I had to talk to Jo, and to Mum, and I was afraid he would see me. And then Mum wasn’t home, of course, and I couldn’t talk to her in the gallery, and I couldn’t find Jo, and I couldn’t think what to do. I was about half-crazy, I think. So I hitched a ride to Cheltenham, hoping I could find Jo.’

  ‘Did you phone her to make an appointment?’

  ‘Yes, but I only got her voicemail. And then I saw you near the racecourse, and I was afraid you were chasing me, or something, so I went back to Broadway and got my things and took off for Birmingham. There was the concert, and then this morning we were supposed to do a taping, but I tried calling Jo again and suddenly I couldn’t stand it any more. So I rang up Mum and told her about Ben, and came here.’

  ‘And we know the rest.’ Alan frowned and started to go on.

  ‘But Paul, you don’t know the rest. We went to your . . . is “agents” the right term?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Well, everyone there was in a tizzy because no one knew where to find you, so we – well, I actually, dreamt up a scheme that would have the whole world looking for you. Or for Peter James, not quite the same thing. It was to be publicized everywhere, and the first person to find you was to get a prize of lunch with you.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what you meant . . . but that could be . . .’

  ‘Yes, it could be quite dreadful if this horrible man figures out who you are. I had no idea of course, but . . .’ I trailed off. I felt as though I had lit a very long fuse to a very large cache of dynamite.

  ‘You’ll have to go into hiding, I’m afraid,’ said Alan, ‘all of you.’

  ‘My daughters are quite safe, Mr Nesbitt. I would rather leave them where they are and not frighten them. They think I’ve simply given them an illicit holiday from school, and they’re thrilled to be with Nancy.’

  ‘I’ll need their address, please. As for the two of you . . . have you any ideas?’

  Sarah’s sigh came from deep within her. ‘I hate to say it, Paul, but I think we’re going to have to go back to the shelter.’

  ‘I’m not a child, Mum. They won’t take me. And Jo . . .’ he struggled for a moment to regain his control ‘ . . . Jo isn’t there to speak up for us. I have a better idea.’

  So it was that Alan and I found ourselves, a couple of hours later, driving up to London with two passengers, elderly grey-haired ladies in charity-shop dresses. And if one of them had a slight five-o’clock shadow by the time we arrived at the Ritz, nobody appeared to pay any attention. The doorman had probably dealt with more unusual guests than this pair, and was as suave and unflappable as I had expected.

  We saw them up to their suite, which was the last word in luxurious elegance.

  ‘Now you won’t go out at all, right?’ I said nervously. ‘You can have all your meals served in your rooms, and if you need anything, just call the concierge and he’ll arrange to get it. I do feel terrible about putting you in this position.’

  Sarah was pale, but holding up. ‘We’re just lucky that my remarkable son can afford this sort of thing. When I think back . . .’

  ‘Well, Mum, just hope it doesn’t go on for too long. I’m not quite as rich as the Queen.’

  ‘One last time,’ said Alan. ‘I hate to go on about it, but as I’ve asked at least twenty times already, can either of you think of any possible reason why your nemesis should have wanted to kill a perfectly harmless Gloucestershire farmer?’

  ‘He’s mad, I think,’ said Sarah. ‘I always thought he was near the edge. Now he seems to have gone over.’

  Alan shook his head. ‘Even the mad live by logic, their own insane logic, but they do things for a reason. Well, if you think of anything, you know how to reach us. Day or night, remember.’

  I gave Sarah a hug and Paul an impulsive kiss. ‘You’re perfectly safe here,’ I said, which must be one of the oddest tributes ever made to the impeccable luxury that is the Ritz. ‘And it’s sure to be over soon. Try to get some rest.’

  Alan stopped at the concierge’s desk to give careful instructions about telephone calls. ‘No one except me, and I do mean no one. I’ll identify myself with a number.’ He wrote it down. ‘I’m trusting you with the lives of those two people.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. We do quite often have very important guests, sir.’

  Since the hotel had, in its many years of operation, probably housed enough celebrities to populate Texas, that was one of those wonderful British understatements that I cherish so.

  We set out for home.

  TWENTY-THREE

  We were greeted by our next-door neighbour Jane and her bulldogs, and two sleepy cats. Th
e dogs were voluble with welcome, sniffing ecstatically to learn all they could about where we’d been. Sam and Emmy woke briefly from their nap. Sam stretched, poking Emmy in the stomach with two stiff Siamese legs. Emmy reacted with some half-hearted feline profanity, and they both went back to sleep.

  ‘The silent treatment,’ observed Jane. ‘Been abandoned. Won’t warm up for a while.’

  ‘Abandoned, my foot! I’m sure you spoiled them rotten.’

  ‘Hate to see animals hungry,’ said Jane gruffly, and changed the subject. ‘Didn’t expect you home for another week, or did I get the dates wrong?’

  ‘No,’ said Alan wearily, ‘you’re right. And we’re not really home.’

  Jane cocked one shaggy eyebrow.

  ‘We were in London this afternoon, and this was so much closer than driving back to the Cotswolds,’ I explained. ‘But we’re off again after a night’s sleep. That’s if you don’t mind?’

  She just looked at us. Jane is a woman of few words. She is also the best friend and neighbour anyone could hope to have, and she adores pet-sitting our cats.

  She didn’t ask why we had been in London, or why we’d chosen to drive many miles in the wrong direction, if we were planning to resume our holiday. She simply cocked her head towards her own home next door. ‘Didn’t get any food in for you yet. I’ve ham and salad and fresh bread. Could you do with a meal?’

  It was bliss to sit in Jane’s kitchen, stone-floored and cosy, with bulldogs nuzzling our feet and good, plain food in front of us. Jane poured some wine, and we talked about things other than fear and murder and madness. We waxed enthusiastic about the beauty of the Cotswolds, the charming villages, Sezincote House, and John Singer Sargent. Jane kept her peace, knowing we were talking too much about trivialities, willing to wait until we wanted to talk about the important things.

  We were staggering with weariness when we finally got to bed, after the longest day I could ever remember. The cats decided, provisionally, to forgive us for our absence, and settled themselves comfortably on the bed, leaving barely room for us. It was heaven.