Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

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.’

It was murderously hard to say it, of course; like it or not, this frail old invalid was their last hope of working out what had been happening in the past week or so, and it was formidably difficult to give up any possibility of a solution. But as Flavia uttered the words, she meant them. If the woman had said, OK then, go away, she would have stood up and left. Then they could have gone back to Rome and confessed their failure. Argyll, at least, would be pleased about that.

Fortunately her offer was not accepted. Mrs Richards wiped her eyes, and slowly the mournful sobbing ebbed away and then stopped.

‘Jean?’ she asked. ‘You know this?’ You’re certain?’

Flavia nodded. ‘It seems so.’

‘If he’s in danger, you must save him.’

‘We can’t do much if we don’t know what’s going on.’

She shook her head.

‘If I help you’ll promise?’

‘Very well.’

‘Tell me about these others first. This — what are they called? Ellman? Muller? Who are they? And what is their connection to Jean?’

‘Ellman is a German who apparently changed his name from Schmidt. Muller also changed his name; he was originally called Hartung.’

If mentioning Rouxel had been like hitting Mrs Richards, the name of Hartung had a similar effect. She stared at Flavia silently for a few seconds, then shook her head.