But there was no road-sign ... he frowned and peered into the overgrown verges, and saw no indication that this was Duntisbury Royal at last. And yet it must be Duntisbury Royal, because it could be nothing else—there was nothing else for it to be.
The church came into view, back from the road in its churchyard full of gravestones, some of them upright and some canted over; and further on, separated from the churchyard wall by a square of gravel, a low building with roof coming down to the ground floor, little bigger than an ordinary house but with a hanging sign on one gable-end which bore a representation of bells—eight bells, Benedikt guessed.
He pulled into the empty square of gravel, alongside a tall stone cross, which had a sword in high relief superimposed on it, on a plinth beside the churchyard entrance.
Benedikt stepped out of the car. There were words engraved on the plinth, cut deep, as the English always did cut their inscriptions, but he didn’t need to read them, for he had read them on other similar crosses already.
Lest we forget. . . and somewhere, round the other sides, cut just as deep, would be 1914-18 and 1939-45, each with its list of names dummy1
even in this tiny place, which was so peaceful and far-removed from the quarrels of the great and powerful.
For the real Thomas Wiesehöfer it might have been a bad omen, he thought, closing the car door without locking it. But for the real Benedikt Schneider there could be no bad thoughts here: if they didn’t want to forget, there was half of Benedikt Schneider which had a right to remember with them, as Mother had once reminded him, for his dead uncles and great-uncles on her side, who would anyway and at this length of time be unlikely to hold anything against his other dead uncles and great-uncles, who had been their enemies.
And, besides, who was he here for now, if not for their Elizabeth Regina, D.G., Fid. Def.?
He chose the Saloon Bar, because that was the bar Thomas Wiesehöfer would have chosen.
It was a dark little room, all the colder for its big empty fireplace, smelling of furniture polish and slightly of damp, and quite empty.
Eventually someone came to the bar, which was partly in this room, and partly in the adjoining Public Bar, which (so far as he could see through) looked lighter and more friendly.
The someone was a tall, slightly-built young man, who brought the Public Bar’s friendly look with him.
“Please ... do you have rooms, with bed-and-breakfast?” It took an effort to emphasise each s, and to roll each r gutturally, as he would ordinarily have prided himself in not doing, so as to be able to surprise the landlord later.
dummy1
“Oh, no—I’m sorry—” the young man sounded quite genuinely sorry, too “—we don’t have guests ... we don’t really have room—
I’m sorry.”
“Ach—so!” Benedikt pretended disappointment. It ought to have been real disappointment, but suddenly he was glad that he wasn’t going to be trapped in Duntisbury Royal, or Duntisbury Chase, tonight. And although his orders prompted him to mention now that a large ugly man who had omitted to give his name had sent him to the Eight Bells, those orders were not absolutely precise and instinct had just cancelled them.
“The nearest place, if you’re looking for a bed, is the Golden Cross at Fyfield St John, on the main road . . .” The landlord’s face indicated some doubts about the Golden Cross’s beds. “Or, you could go back to Salisbury—if you’ve come from Salisbury, that is ... there are lots of hotels there. It’s not far, really.”
Benedikt nodded. The landlord was assuming from his speech, and perhaps from the big car outside, that he was a foreigner who had strayed off the beaten track. But, although there was no room at the inn, that was something which needed contradicting.
“Thank you.” He nodded again. “But this is ... Duntisbury Royal—
yes?”
“Yes—” The landlord began to polish an already well-polished glass “—that’s right.”
“And . . . there is here a Rrroman villa? The Duntisbury Rrroman villa?”
“Yes.” The landlord stopped polishing the glass. “It’s just behind dummy1
the church, down towards the stream.” He blinked at Benedikt suddenly. “But. . . it’s on private land ... I mean . . . they’re not excavating it at the moment—they were in the middle of excavating it, but they’ve stopped for the time being.”
Benedikt nodded. “The Wessex Archaeological Society—yes, I know. But I may look at it from the churchyard, perhaps?”
“Yes . . .” Mention of the Wessex Archaeological Society threw the landlord for a moment, and they both knew that churchyards were public land, in practice if not in law.
“So!” Benedikt nodded again. Nodding was standard practice for foreigners. Then, as though he had just remembered, he felt in his breast-pocket and produced his bit of paper. He adjusted his spectacles, which made the words difficult to read. “Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith—” he looked up at the landlord “—it is Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith, of the Duntisbury Manor, Duntisbury Royal, to whom I am addressed. Could you direct me to her, please?”
If he had asked to be directed to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, D.
G., Fid. Def., at Buckingham Palace, he could hardly have disconcerted the young landlord more. Or ... perhaps if he had asked for David Audley—?
“Yes.” Now the landlord was nodding. “Miss Becky . . . but she may not be in. I could phone her from here, if you like?”
“That would be most kind.” If he nodded again, his head would fall off. But he must remember where he was. “I may have a drink, meanwhile?” He looked over the range of bottles behind the bar, dummy1
and then at the beer pump-handles. “Lowenbrau—a halfpint, please.”
As he watched the landlord draw the beer he realised suddenly what it was that Audley had won from Cecil. “You will join me, please?” He put a £5 note on the bar.
“Thank you, but no.” The landlord set the glass down. “It’s only just gone twelve—too early for me. I’ll go and phone for you, though.”
Benedikt drank some of the beer. He realised that Audley had been right—this was Low-en-brow, not Lowenbrau.
A very pretty girl appeared from a door behind the bar, and smiled at him. “Are you being served?” she inquired.
Benedikt lifted his Low-en-brow. “Thank you, yes. Do you serve lunch, please?”
“Bar snacks—what would you like?” She handed him a menu.
The bar snacks were very reasonably priced. And the Low-en-brow wasn’t at all bad, really. And the girl was pretty, and the landlord was being helpful—come to that, even Dr David Audley had been helpful in his equivocal way, just as Cecil had been polite after his fashion. And here he was, an innocent German scholar, abroad on a summer’s day in a tranquil English valley of the sort that few mere tourists ever discovered, since there wasn’t a single sign-post to direct them to it.
“Thank you, but no.” He looked at his watch. “It is only ten minutes after twelve—that is too early for me.”
The pretty girl gave him another sunny smile, and turned away to dummy1
start re-arranging the glasses behind the bar.
It was only instinct, of course . . . that prickling at the nape of the neck which came even against reason from some undiscovered part of the brain, although it always seemed to travel up the spine from the small of his back . . . or, if not instinct, then more simply his subjective reaction to the oil-and-water mixture of so much innocence here with what he knew about Audley and what lay somewhere in that quiet, tree-shaded churchyard.