Gunner Kelly

both behind effortlessly, and he was alone again.

The trees thickened suddenly on each side of the road, closing in on him, but he caught a glimpse of a squat church tower, grey-green with age, in a gap up in front, on his left.

And now there was a straggle of houses—little dwellings in weathered brick, hidden behind thick hedges under the trees—

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 Wiesehofer 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 Wiesehofer 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,