The Last Judgement

‘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.’