The Last Judgement

But eventually the jam eased a little, and Argyll’s conversational powers ebbed. It was a long time since he’d driven in his own country, and it frightened the life out of him. The expense of making a mistake with Byrnes’s car made him even more nervous. The fact of being on what he now regarded as the wrong side of the road, combined with a wildly different national style of driving, caused him to grip the steering-wheel with white-knuckled hands, grit his teeth and exert all his mental faculties to resist a Roman-style flourish in his conduct that would undoubtedly have caused a major pile-up. By the time they left the motorway at Oxford he was sweating less obviously and as they drove along the road west — still in heavy traffic, but at a more genteel pace — he almost began to enjoy himself. Not at all like Italy, he thought, but with a rolling charm all of its own. Tranquil and safe. Apart from these damned cars all over the place.

But even these last remaining commuters were left behind eventually as they turned off to head north, Flavia navigating as best she could, Argyll beginning to remember bits and pieces of scenery from his youth.

‘Six miles and we’re there. All we have to do is find a pub.’

Even that proved surprisingly easy. There is nothing like a little money — especially someone else’s — to bring out the best in a quiet part of the English countryside; the next village along had a good but enormously expensive hotel; the sort of thing that Argyll’s own income would not have managed. But as Flavia had a penchant for comfort and they were both tired, it did quite nicely. It even had a restaurant where the food was edible and a bar which Flavia, a sucker for local colour, immediately visited while Argyll fretted about parking Byrnes’s car.

As it was the sort of thing she thought she ought to do in English pubs, she perched herself on a stool by the counter, surveyed the scene with approval, ordered a pint in her best English, and beamed at the taciturn man who served her.

‘On ’oliday, are yer, miss?’ he asked, for want of anything better to do rather than because he felt like conversation. The tourist season was nearly over. Rotten year this year, anyway.

That was correct, she said. They were driving around, just visiting places. Yes, she thought it was very beautiful.

Thus satisfied, the barman became positively loquacious.

‘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?’