Its 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. Whos this?
Flavia introduced him.
Dont know where Lucy is, she said suddenly.
Who?
My nurse. Its 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 Flavias 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. Youre lucky, she said. Very lucky. I looked like you once. A long time ago. Theres 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, youre 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.
Its 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 were interested in.
He didnt 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. Its documented.
He gave evidence?
His names 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. Hes been dead for years.
She turned again towards Flavia, considering carefully before she spoke. And now you mention Pilot. Youre from Italy?
Yes.
And youre 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 womans head had sagged forward as Flavia spoke and the Italian was half afraid shed 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. Theres 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. Thats not a risk. Thats 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 Im 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 everybodys dead now. Myself included. Theres no point. Its something Ive spent the past half-century trying to forget. I succeeded, until you arrived. I dont want to talk about it.
But please, theres 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. Its an old story and its better forgotten. Much better. Nobody will benefit, and I will suffer. Please, leave me in peace. Everybodys dead.
Its not true, Argyll said quietly from his vantage-point at the window. Theres one person left. If Flavia doesnt find out whats going on, there may well be another murder.
What other person? she said scornfully. Theres no one.
Theres someone called Rouxel, he said. Jean Rouxel. We dont 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 womans 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 werent important, we wouldnt be here. But if you really feel you cant tell us, well 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? Youre certain?
Flavia nodded. It seems so.
If hes in danger, you must save him.
We cant do much if we dont know whats going on.
She shook her head.
If I help youll promise?
Very well.
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.
Arthur? she whispered. Did you say Arthur was dead?
Yes. He was tortured, then shot. We now think by this Ellman man. For a painting stolen from Rouxel, as far as we can tell. Why well, thats what we were hoping you could tell us. How did you know his name was Arthur?
He was my son, she said simply.
Both Flavia and Argyll were stopped in their tracks by this one; neither had the slightest idea of what to say. And so they said nothing at all. Fortunately, Mrs Richards wasnt listening anyway; she was off on her own path now.
I ended up in England by accident, I suppose you could say. When the Allies liberated Paris, they found me, and evacuated me, to England for treatment. They did that for some people. I was in hospital for several years, and met Harry there. He treated me, did his best to put me back together again. As you see, he didnt have much to work on. But eventually he asked me to marry him. I had no ties anymore to France, and he was good to me. Kind. So I agreed, and he brought me here.
I didnt love him; I couldnt. He knew that and accepted it. As I say, he was a good man, much better than I deserved. He tried to help me bury the past, and instead let me bury myself in the countryside.
She looked at them and gave them a little smile, a sad little effort with no amusement behind it. And here Ive stayed, with death eluding me. Everybody Ive ever cared for had died first, and they deserved it much less than I did. Ive earned it. Except for Jean, and he should live. Even poor Arthur is dead. That goes against nature, dont you think? Sons should outlive their mothers.
But
Harry was my second husband. My first was Jules Hartung.
But I was told you were dead, Flavia said a little tactlessly.
I know. I should be. You seem confused.
You could say that.
Ill start at the beginning then, shall I? I dont suppose youll find it at all interesting, but if theres anything that can help Jean, youll be welcome to it. You will help him, wont you?
If he needs it.
Good. As I say, my first husband was Jules Hartung. We married in 1938, and I was lucky to have him. Or at least, thats what I was told. I was born into a family that lost everything in the Depression. Wed had a good life servants, holidays, a large apartment on the Boulevard St-Germain but with the collapse, it all began to disappear. My father was used to high society and gave it up unwillingly; his expenses always exceeded his income, and progressively we got poorer. The servants went, to be replaced by lodgers. Even my father ultimately saw the need to get a job, although he waited until my mother had got one first.
Eventually I met Jules, who seemed to fall in love with me. Or at least, he thought I would be a suitable wife and mother. He proposed to my parents, not to me, and they accepted. That was that. He was nearly thirty years older than I was. It was a marriage without any passion or tenderness; very formal we used to call each other vous and were always very respectful. I dont mean that he was a bad man, far from it. At least to me, he was always correct, courteous and, I suppose, even devoted in his way. You see I am telling you my story without the benefit of hindsight.