The Last Judgement

In the two hours before the next boat-train left for England from the Gare du Nord, Argyll’s opinion of Flavia underwent a major revolution. He’d known her for years, after all, and tended to think of her as one of those upright citizens who keep on the right side of the law. Especially as, in most cases, she was its appointed embodiment and defender. She was, after all, someone who paid her taxes — most of them, at least — and didn’t leave her car in no-parking zones unless there was really nowhere else to put it.

However, as Flavia pointed out, it was not her fault she was on the run from a bunch of lunatics. Or that Paris seemed a little too dangerous for them to contemplate with equanimity the prospect of remaining there. Or that this case very inconsiderately scattered its witnesses the length and breadth of Europe.

True enough, but she did seem to take to her new role with more relish than was seemly.

There was, for example, the problem of tickets, it being unreasonable to expect that both of them could get all the way to London without being asked to produce one at some stage. To buy a ticket you need money, and between them they had about thirty-five francs left. Argyll would have just whipped out his Visa card, but Flavia pointed out that the sign at the ticket-office clearly said that all tickets for the nine o’clock departure were sold.

So she stole them. Argyll was appalled, and quite lost his power of speech when she turned up after a ten-minute absence with two tickets in her hand and a smug look on her face.

‘You picked someone’s pocket?’ he squeaked as she explained with a slight giggle.

‘It’s very easy,’ she said imperturbably. ‘You just sit down in the café—’

‘But—’

‘Don’t worry. He was very affluent-looking. He can afford to buy new ones. I also relieved him of a couple of hundred francs.’

‘Flavia!’

‘It’s OK. It’s in a good cause. I’m sure he had plenty left. Besides, I took his entire wallet; if you insist I can send him a refund when we get back to Rome. I mean, if you want to give your ticket back and wait for our friends to turn up...’

Argyll had a tough time with his conscience, but ultimately agreed that, now the deed was done, there was no point in thinking about it too much. So Flavia led the way to the train, they found themselves seats and sat, both nervously hoping that the train would pull out of the station before anyone came looking for them.

It did, although the wait was one of the most anxious either of them had ever spent. Both kept on fabricating reasons for getting up and popping their heads out of the door, scanning the platform with wary eyes just in case a familiar face hove into view. Both fidgeted mercilessly, to the point of provoking irritated looks from the more placid characters ranged alongside them. Both heaved an enormous sigh of relief as the train, with familiar screeching of wheels and jerking movements, lurched forward and slowly gathered speed.

‘Now what do we do?’ Argyll asked as the bleak northern suburbs of Paris began to rattle past.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going to eat. I’m starving.’

They trooped off to the restaurant car and grabbed themselves an early seat. By this time Argyll was beginning to enter into the spirit of things as well: considering what they had been going through in the past few days, rude letters from credit-card managers seemed minor stuff. He ordered two champagne cocktails to start off. Flavia had not only stolen tickets, she’d even managed to steal first-class ones.

‘Did that card give an address?’ Argyll asked as Flavia’s account drew to a close and they launched into supplementary questions.

‘Yes. But it’s about forty years old. I mean, the chances of this Richards man being still alive are a bit small. The address is in Gloucestershire. Where is Gloucestershire?’

Argyll explained.

‘Have you really only got seven francs left? I have twenty. Plus the two hundred I...’

Argyll converted it into lire. ‘We’re going to have fun in London with that. What do you fancy, a bus ride and a glass of water? Flavia? Flavia?’ he prompted again.

‘Hmm? I’m sorry. What was that?’

‘Nothing. I was just prattling. What were you thinking about?’

‘Janet, mainly. I’m very upset. He was Bottando’s closest colleague. Still, it’s not my fault. What were you up to?’

‘Me?’ he said lightly. ‘Just making a major advance in this business, that’s all. Just catching Rouxel in an enormous lie. Nothing serious really, I suppose...’

She gave him the sort of look his complacency merited.

‘I read through old newspapers, back in 1945 and 1946. It took hours.’

‘About Hartung?’

‘Yup. His return, arrest, and suicide. It caused quite a stink, the whole business, even if it’s mainly forgotten now. Fascinating stuff; I was quite engrossed when I finally latched on to it. But the main thing is that it made clear something we already knew.’

‘And that is?’ she asked patiently.

‘And that is Rouxel worked for some war-crimes commission early in his career.’

‘I know. He told you that.’