Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘It was a mistake. It was the meeting, I think, that Hartung heard about. How he knew I never discovered. But he got hold of something: a photograph, a diary, whatever. He began treating me strangely, and so we came up with this idea, Schmidt and I. Solve all our problems in one go. We concocted a scheme in which Hartung would be told about an operation, it would go wrong and I could place the blame on him.

‘Just as everything was ready, he came to my office and accused me to my face of being a traitor. Of course, I denied it, but he must have guessed something.’

‘Was he ever alone there?’

Rouxel shrugged, co-operative, even helpful now. ‘Perhaps yes. Maybe that was when he concealed his evidence. Next day he fled, and the Germans missed him. I don’t know how he got away, but he did. They caught everyone else.

‘After the war he came back. That was easy. I was working for the commission, so it was simple to have him arrested and to prepare the case. My own testimony, that of his wife. Watertight. But when I visited him in jail to interrogate him, he said he was looking forward to the trial. Then he would produce his evidence.

‘Did he have some? I didn’t know, but he seemed confident. I had no choice again, you see. I couldn’t let him make a statement in court. So he was found hanged. It was the same with Schmidt; I couldn’t allow him to be tried either. So when I heard the Germans were looking for him, I tipped him off, and helped him get a new identity. He started blackmailing me properly about ten years ago. Said his son was expensive. Of course I paid.

‘And now it comes to this. I discover I had a son, and that my own granddaughter had him murdered. I can think of no more severe punishment you could mete out.’

Then he lapsed into total silence, and everybody looked around wondering what to do next.

‘I think we ought to have a little talk,’ Janet said. ‘I’m sure you realize this creates problems far beyond a mere murder, however serious that might be. Montaillou here can take Madame Armand away to the police station for further questioning. And you, Flavia, I would like to talk over a few matters with you.’

She thought quickly and looked at Rouxel. If there had ever been any doubt in her mind, the sight of him dispelled it. He was a broken man. All his defences and protests had crumbled into nothing when Jeanne Armand began to talk. He was a man whose life had come to an end. There was not much danger of his running away. And what would it matter, really, if he did? So she nodded.

‘Fine. Shall we go outside?’

And while a very deflated Montaillou led the woman away, Janet and Flavia, with Argyll in attendance, stood in the hallway and talked quietly.

‘Firstly,’ the Frenchman said, ‘I hope you’ll accept my apologies. I really had little choice.’

‘Don’t worry. Bottando’s feathers are a bit ruffled, but I’m sure that won’t last long.’

‘Good. Now, the question is, what do we do now? I don’t know about you, but I think that proper tests might well indicate that Madame Armand is mentally unbalanced.’

‘Which means you want to put her in a hospital?’

‘Yes. I think that would be best.’

‘No trial? No publicity?’

He nodded.

‘Part one of a cover-up? What’s part two?’

He shifted uneasily on his feet. ‘What else can we do?’

‘Bring charges against Rouxel?’

‘Too long ago. No matter what evidence is in that painting, it’s all far too long ago. Besides, can you really imagine the government sanctioning charges against a man they themselves nominated for this prize? When there’s a danger it will come out that they knew about him all along? How damning is this evidence?’

She shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see. I doubt if it would be so good now. Backed up by the testimony of others it might have been enough to acquit Hartung fifty years ago, but now...’

‘So there’s probably no solid evidence? No proof? Almost nothing for anyone even to build a rumour on?’

She shook her head. ‘I doubt it. But you know it’s the truth, though. So does he in there.’ She gestured towards the door leading into Rouxel’s study.

‘What we know and what we can prove are different.’

‘True.’

‘Shall we go back in again?’

She nodded, and opened the door. ‘I think it’s time,’ she said quietly.

She heard Janet’s gasp as it swung open to reveal the scene inside. Rouxel was dying, tormented by agony but bearing the pain with dignity. On the floor beside him was a phial that had dropped from his hand. It took little intelligence to realize it had contained poison: the insect-killer he had been using on his plants when Flavia and Argyll had arrived. His skin was pale and his hand, clenched into a fist, hung loosely towards the ground.

It was his face, though, that grabbed the attention. The eyes were open and glazed, but it had a dignity and tranquillity. It was the face of someone who knew he would be mourned.

Janet stood still to take in the scene, then swung round on Flavia with sudden anguish. ‘You knew,’ he yelled at her. ‘Damn you. You knew he would do this.’

She shrugged indifferently.

‘I had no proof,’ she said.

Then turned to go.

‘Dear me,’ said Bottando. ‘What a mess. What was this evidence after all that?’

‘A couple of photographs and some notes slipped between the canvas and the lining. Hartung must have suspected so he had Rouxel followed. The man witnessed and noted down Rouxel’s movements. Including a late-night visit to a German army headquarters and a meeting in a café with Schmidt.’

‘And you let Rouxel kill himself? That, if I may say so, was unusually callous. Are you becoming an angel of vengeance in your old age?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t know he’d do that. Really, I didn’t. But I can’t say I was so upset. It was the best thing that could have happened. In a way Hartung was heroic. He knew Muller was not his son; his reference in that letter to the foster-parents suggests that. But he stuck by his wife in 1940 when he could have escaped. And he continued to encourage Rouxel despite the affair.’

‘I don’t know whether to congratulate you or not,’ he said.

‘Frankly, I’d rather you didn’t,’ she said. ‘This has been a nightmare from beginning to end. All I want to do is forget it.’

‘Difficult. The reverberations will go on for some time, I’m afraid. On the one hand we’re now exceedingly unpopular with Intelligence. Relations with poor old Janet will take some considerable time to repair themselves. And, of course, Fabriano will never talk to you again.’

‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’

‘Still, I feel sorry for him. He’s not going to get much credit for this, even though we will have to keep our nose out. More to the point, it’s been such a nasty case we’re not going to get a great deal of applause either. And I’m sure this has been simply awful for Janet as well. You saw the papers?’

She nodded. ‘I gather they’re going to go the whole hog. A massive funeral. President of the Republic in attendance. Medals on the coffin. I can’t say that I could bring myself to read it.’

‘I suppose not. So, my dear. Back to work? Shall we try to pretend again that you take orders from me?’

She smiled at him. ‘Not today. I’m taking the afternoon off. Domestic crisis. And first I’ve got to write a letter. Which I’m not looking forward to.’

It was surprisingly easy to write it, once she’d got started. But deciding what line to take took nearly an hour of beginning, crossing out, starting again and staring out of the window indecisively.

Then she just emptied her mind and wrote.