Free The Evil that Men Do by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

pleased.’
    â€˜Lucy?’
    â€˜The mare you’re thinking of for your wife.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Next week? Well, I’m not so sure. She’s had a bad go.’
    â€˜What a pity if she’s ill on her birthday.’
    â€˜Yes. That’s why I’m thinking of taking her abroad. Spain, south of France, someplace warm.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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,