‘From abroad?’
That’s right. Although her friend was English.
‘Ar. Don’t look foreign, him.’
‘No. English,’ she replied, finding that her sentences were becoming almost as short as his were. They nodded at each other, Flavia trying to think of a way to open up the conversation a little, the barman waiting for an opportunity to end it so he could go and polish his glasses down the other end of the bar.
‘Get a lot of foreigners round here,’ he said after a while, so she wouldn’t think him too rude.
‘Oh yes?’ she replied brightly.
‘Ar,’ he said, evidently thinking this wasn’t, after all, so interesting a line of discussion that it deserved pursuing.
Flavia sipped her beer, which she found an unusual brew, to say the least, and wished Argyll would hurry up.
‘We’re visiting a friend,’ she said.
‘Ar,’ he said, with real fascination.
‘At least we think we are. Jonathan – that’s my friend – knew him years and years ago. We just hope he’s still alive. It’s a surprise visit.’
The barman didn’t seem to approve of surprise visits.
‘Perhaps you know him,’ she went on doggedly. It seemed fair enough to try. There weren’t that many people living around here.
‘Richards is his name.’
‘Is that Henry Richards?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Doctor Richards, that is?’
‘Very possibly.’
‘Turville Manor Farm?’
‘Yes,’ she said, with growing excitement. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Dead,’ he said with a tone of finality.
‘Oh, no,’ she said with real disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Carried the coffin at the funeral.’
‘Oh, that’s awful. Poor man. What happened?’
‘’E died,’ replied the barman.
She was obviously upset by his information, so he felt he couldn’t just forsake her, no matter how much he wanted to polish his glasses.
‘Surprised you knew him, considering.’
‘Why? Considering what?’
‘Oh,’e must have died – when was it, now? – oh, at least twelve years ago. Family friend, was he?’
‘Sort of,’ she said, also losing interest in the conversation now.
‘His wife’s still alive. You might visit ’er. An odd one, she is. Doesn’t get too many visitors, that I know.’
‘What do you mean, odd?’
The barman shrugged, put down his glass-polishing towel and came back towards her end of the bar. She offered him a drink to lock him in place.
‘What they call a recluse,’ he said. ‘Don’t go out. Nice enough lady, but an invalid. And she’s never been right since he died. Devoted, they were.’
‘What a shame. Were they married long?’
‘Ar. Long time.’Course, she was much younger than he was.’
‘Oh.’
‘They say they met in the hospital. I think they got married, let me see now, just after the war, if I remember.’
‘She nursed him, did she?’
‘Her? No. He was her doctor, so I’m told. Beautiful, she was. Never knew what was wrong with her, but in constant pain. Didn’t improve her looks.’
‘Her husband was in the forces, wasn’t he? During the war, I mean.’
Flavia’s question was more for form’s sake than anything else. Her heart, in truth, wasn’t in this conversation so much anymore. It was clear that, whatever they’d hoped from this trip, their wishes were not going to be satisfied. Richards, the one tangible lead they had, was dead. And that was that. They’d have to go and see this old invalid, just in case. But whatever he’d known about Hartung, his secrets had probably died with him. If they hadn’t married until later, the chances of her knowing much weren’t that great.
‘Him? Lor’ no. Whatever made you think that?’
‘Just something I was told.’
‘Oh, no, miss. Maybe you’ve got the wrong person. No, he were a doctor. A surgeon. A what-d’-you-call-it. The ones that put people back together.’
They searched their respective vocabularies for the right word.
‘A plastic surgeon?’ she suggested after various other strands of the profession had been eliminated from their enquiries.
‘That’s the one. He started working on burn victims in the war. You know, soldiers. People like that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes. I remember that very well.’
‘So how old was he?’
‘When he died? Oh, ever so old, he was. A bachelor, most of his life. Everyone was so surprised when he married her. Pleased, of course; but surprised as well.’
Flavia’s conversation with the barman put both of them off their meal which, considering the price, was something of a waste.
‘But we can’t have made that much of a mistake, surely?’ Argyll asked as he pushed his food around the plate with a fork. ‘Was this man certain there were no children?’
‘Absolutely. Once he finally opened up, he seemed to know the life-histories of everybody within thirty miles of here. He was very definite. Richards was a pioneering plastic surgeon. He set up a specialized burns unit in Wales during the war and worked there straight through. He was also in his late forties then. He only married once, and to this woman after the war. No children.’
‘Not, in other words, the sort of person to be found working with the Resistance in Paris in 1943.’
‘No.’
‘Which leaves cousins, nephews, brothers and things like that.’
‘I suppose so. But the barman didn’t mention any.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ he said as cheerily as possible. ‘If he was the one we were after, then he’d be dead and that would be that. As he probably wasn’t, there’s still a faint chance we might get somewhere.’
‘Do you really think that?’ she asked sceptically.
He shrugged. ‘Might as well, for want of anything better to think. Where is this Manor Farm place? Did you find out?’
She had. It was about two miles to the west of the village. She had the directions. Argyll suggested they go out there. There was nothing else to do, after all.
16
Before they set out, they did their best to ring in advance to give warning of their arrival. But, as the barman pointed out, it was not so easy as Mrs Richards had no telephone. She had a permanent nurse and an odd-job man who kept the house running. Apart from those two, she saw and talked to virtually no one. He was not convinced she was going to welcome their visit. But if they were friends of her husband’s – he made no attempt to disguise the fact that he found this a little unlikely – she might agree to see them.
Having little alternative, they piled in their car and drove the two miles or so to Turville Manor Farm. It was a much grander establishment than Flavia had expected from the narrow gap in the hedge and the muddy, neglected track that led away from the small road to the house. Nor was it a farm, as far as she could tell; at least, there was no sign of anything remotely agricultural.
However attractive it might have been – Argyll, who knew about this sort of thing, guessed the builders had been at work on it round about the time that Jean Floret was putting the finishing touches to his painting of Socrates – the handsomely proportioned house was not looking its best. Somebody, at some time, had begun painting a few of the dozen windows in the main façade, but had apparently given up after three of them; on the rest the paint was peeling, the wood was rotting and several panes of glass were broken. A creeper had gone wildly out of control along one side of the building. Rather than adorning the house, it showed signs of taking over entirely; another couple of windows had vanished completely under the foliage. The lawn in front was a complete wreck, with weeds and wild flowers spreading luxuriantly over what had once been a gravel driveway. If they hadn’t been told the place was inhabited,
both of them would have assumed it was abandoned.
‘Not the do-it-yourself type,’ Argyll observed. ‘Nice house, though.’
‘Personally I find it thoroughly depressing,’ Flavia said as she got out and slammed the door. ‘It’s confirming my already strong feeling that this is a waste of time.’
Privately Argyll agreed, but felt it would be too discouraging to say so. Instead he stood, hands in pockets, a frown on his face, and examined the building.
‘There’s no sign of life at all,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over with.’
And he led the way up the crumbling, moss-covered steps to the main door and rang the bell. Then, realizing it didn’t work, he knocked, first gently, then more firmly, on the door.
Nothing. ‘Now what?’ he asked, turning to look at her.
Flavia stepped forward, thumped the door far more aggressively than he had and, when there was again no response, turned the handle.
‘I’m not going all the way back just because someone can’t be bothered to answer,’ she said grimly as she went in.
Then, standing in the hallway, she shouted, ‘Hello? Anybody home?’ and waited while the faint echo died away.
Many years ago it had been an attractively furnished house. No wonderful hidden treasures, certainly, but good solid furniture entirely in keeping with the architecture. Even a good dust and clean would work wonders, Argyll thought as he turned and looked around him. But at the moment the atmosphere of gloom and dereliction was overpowering.
It was also cold. Even though it was about as warm outside as an English autumn could ever get, the house had an air of dampness and decay that only long neglect can produce.
‘I’m starting to hope there isn’t anyone here,’ he said. ‘Then we can get out of this place fast.’
‘Shh,’ she replied. ‘I think I can hear something.’
‘Pity,’ he said.
There was a scraping noise coming from up the dark and heavily carved staircase; now that he stopped and listened, Argyll knew she was right. It was not at all clear what it was, though; certainly not a person walking.
They looked at each other uncertainly for a moment. ‘Hello?’ Argyll said again.
‘There’s no point in standing down there shouting,’ came a thin, querulous voice from the landing. ‘I can’t come down. Come up here if you have any serious business.’
It was not just an old voice, but also a sick one. Quiet but not gentle, unattractive and even unpleasant in tone, as though the speaker could barely be bothered to open her mouth. Odd accent as well.
Argyll and Flavia looked at each other uncertainly. Then she gestured for him to go ahead and he led the way up the stairs. The woman stood half-way along a dimly lit corridor. She was clad in a thick, dark green dressing-gown and her hair hung in long, thin strands around her face. Her legs were encased in thick socks, her hands in woollen mittens. She was clutching on to a tubular steel walking-frame, and it was this, painfully inching its way along the wooden floor, which made the noise they’d heard.
The old woman herself – they assumed this must be the reclusive Mrs Richards – was breathing hard, making a rasping noise as she sucked the air in, as though the effort of walking what appeared to have been only about fifteen feet was more than she could manage.
‘Mrs Richards?’ Flavia gently asked the apparition, elbowing her way past Argyll as they approached.
The woman turned and cocked her head as Flavia approached. Then she narrowed her eyes slightly and nodded.
‘My name is Flavia di Stefano. I’m a member of the Rome police force. From Italy. I’m most dreadfully sorry to disturb you, but I wondered if we could ask you some questions.’
Still the woman looked thoughtful, making no response at all, either by sign or speech.
‘It’s extremely important, and we think you may be the only person who can help.’
The woman nodded slowly once more, then looked in the direction of Argyll, standing in the background. ‘Who’s this?
Flavia introduced him.
‘Don’t know where Lucy is,’ she said suddenly.
‘Who?’
‘My nurse. It’s difficult for me to move without her. Would your friend get me back to bed?’
So Argyll came forward while Flavia took away the frame. She was astonished by how gentle he was with the woman; normally he was hopeless in this sort of situation; but now he just lifted her off her feet, walked back down the corridor and softly laid her back into the bed, pulling the bedclothes up around her and assuring himself that she was comfortable.
It was like a furnace in the bedroom; the air was thick with heat and the overpowering odour that goes with sickness and old age. Flavia longed to open the window, to let in some oxygen, to pull back the musty curtains and let in some light. Surely it would make the old lady feel better as well, having some cool, clean air blowing through the room?
‘Come here,’ Mrs Richards commanded, leaning back on the thick pile of pillows which kept her partly upright. Flavia approached and the woman studied her carefully, then ran her fingers over Flavia’s face. It was hard to avoid flinching from the touch.
‘Such a beautiful young woman,’ she said softly. ‘How old are you?’
Flavia told her and she nodded. ‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘Very lucky. I looked like you once. A long time ago. There’s a picture of me on the dressing-table. When I was your age.’
‘This one?’ Argyll said, picking up a photograph in a silver frame. It was a picture of a woman in her twenties, her face half turned towards the camera, laughing as though someone had just told a joke. It was a face full of spring and happiness, with not a line of care or worry on it.
‘Yes. Hard to credit, you’re thinking. Such a long time ago.’
Both of the statements were sadly true. There seemed no resemblance, not a shred, between the happy girl in the photograph and the old, lined face lying on the pillow. And in this unkempt, run-down, dirty room, it seemed like a memento from another age.
‘Why are you here? What do you want?’ she asked, switching her attention back to Flavia.
‘It’s about Dr Richards. His experiences in the war.’
She looked puzzled. ‘Harry? You mean about the burns unit? He was a surgeon, you know.’
‘Yes, we know that. It was his other activities we’re interested in.’
‘He didn’t have any, as far as I know.’
‘His work in France. With Pilot, I mean.’
Whatever the woman might say next, Flavia was instantly certain that she knew exactly what Pilot was. And yet her reaction was odd. There was no startled look, or fumbled, amateurish attempt to pretend not to know. Rather there was a certain hooded demeanor, of almost relaxed caution. She seemed suddenly to be back on territory where she felt secure. Almost as though someone had asked her this before.
‘What makes you think that my husband knew anything about this Pilot, then?’
‘Apparently he gave some sort of evidence after the war to a tribunal in Paris. It’s documented.’
‘He gave evidence?’
‘His name’s in the file.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Henry Richards?’
‘Something like that. With this address.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is anything the matter?’
‘I was wondering why all of a sudden anybody is interested in my husband. He’s been dead for years.’
She turned again towards Flavia, considering carefully before she spoke. ‘And now you mention Pilot. You’re from Italy?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re interested in Pilot. Why, might I ask?’
‘Because people are being killed.’
‘Who is being killed?’
‘A man called Muller, and another called Ellman. Both murdered in Rome last week.’
The woman’s head had sagged forward as Flavia spoke and the Italian was half
afraid she’d fallen asleep. But now she lifted her head up, her expression thoughtful and cautious.
‘And so you came here.’
‘We thought your husband might be alive. There’s a possibility that anyone who knows something about Pilot might be at risk.’
The woman smiled weakly. ‘And what risk is that?’ she said half mockingly.
‘Of being murdered.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not a risk. That’s an opportunity.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I am the person you are looking for.’
‘Why you?’
‘I was the one who gave that evidence. And signed it. My name is Henriette Richards.’
‘You?’
‘And I’m in a condition where the only thing I feel for this Muller and Ellman is envy.’
‘But will you help us?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because everybody’s dead now. Myself included. There’s no point. It’s something I’ve spent the past half-century trying to forget. I succeeded, until you arrived. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But please, there’s so much at stake …’
‘My dear, you are young and you are beautiful. Take my advice. This is the stuff of corpses. You will find nothing but pain. It’s an old story and it’s better forgotten. Much better. Nobody will benefit, and I will suffer. Please, leave me in peace. Everybody’s dead.’
‘It’s not true,’ Argyll said quietly from his vantage-point at the window. ‘There’s one person left. If Flavia doesn’t find out what’s going on, there may well be another murder.’
‘What other person?’ she said scornfully. ‘There’s no one.’
‘There’s someone called Rouxel,’ he said. ‘Jean Rouxel. We don’t know why, but he is a candidate for attack as well.’
The statement had a profound effect. Mrs Richards bowed her head once more, but this time when she lifted it her eyes were full of tears.
Flavia felt dreadful. She had no idea what was going on in the woman’s mind, but whatever it was, it was giving her emotional pain; enough, temporarily, to blot out the physical suffering which she endured.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘The last thing we want is to cause you any distress. If it weren’t important, we wouldn’t be here. But if you really feel you can’t tell us, we’ll leave you in peace.’