I felt sorry for our German guide, not much older than myself, whose sad eyes suggested that the Nazi era couldn’t be that easily cast aside, although like myself, he would have been born after the war.
And then the final stage of the tour, which I had been dreading. I still felt sick when I entered the gas chamber, but at least this time I had the courage to follow my wards into the building where the ovens were situated. I stared at the temperature gauges and switches on the wall and bowed my head. When I raised it again, my eyes settled on the large oven door, and I understood for the first time the journey one young man had taken before he became the Bishop of Ripon.
BAIRSTOW & SON
IRON FORGERS
FOUNDED 1866
THE CUCKOLD
ADAM WESTON AND Gareth Blakemore always met on a Sunday evening to share a bottle of wine and put the world to rights.
The venue never changed, only the wine, which was always vintage and selected by Adam. But then he was the proprietor of the Swan Inn, a popular gastropub on the outskirts of Evesham.
Gareth was Adam’s oldest friend, a successful lawyer by profession, with chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. He’d recently been appointed a QC, and he and his wife, Angela, lived in a Victorian pile at the the other end of the village. Gareth would usually drop into the Swan around seven, before traveling on to London. Tonight, he was late, very late, and Adam knew why.
Gareth walked in just after nine, looking tired and depressed. He gave his friend a weak smile, before seating himself on a stool at the far end of the bar. Adam uncorked a bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and joined his friend.
“What is it?” asked Gareth after taking a sip.
“An underrated Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley that’s proving rather popular with my regulars.”
“I can see why,” said Gareth, taking another sip.
“How’s your week been?” asked Adam, aware there was no time to waste.
“You don’t want to know. Tell me your news, because it’s got to be better than mine.”
“We had a good week,” said Adam. “Greene King have offered me the opportunity to buy the pub, but at the moment I just don’t have that sort of money.”
“How much are they asking?”
“Two million. It’s a fair price, and the only stipulation they’re insisting on is that I continue to sell their beer for the next ten years.”
“That seems fair enough,” said Gareth, “assuming you made a decent return last year.”
“Turnover was almost a million, and after rent, rates, and taxes, I showed a profit of around ninety thousand, not including my salary.”
“Sounds like a worthwhile investment to me.”
“And I have plans to add another dozen or so covers in the restaurant. I’ve also got my eye on a chef who’s working at the Savoy. Tells me he’s sick of commuting up and down to London every day.”
“That all seems rather promising, but what’s the bank’s attitude?”
“They’d loan me a million at four percent, but would expect to have a lock on all my assets, including the pub. So I still need to raise another million from other sources, and wondered if you’d consider coming in as my partner?”
“I’d love to,” said Gareth, “but you couldn’t have chosen a worse time.”
“But I keep reading in the press that you’re one of the most successful barristers in the royal courts.”
“Yes, but not for much longer.”
“How come?”
“Angela’s filed for divorce. I have a preliminary meeting with her lawyers tomorrow morning. They’re the meanest in the business, and I should know—I recommended them.”
“How come?”