When the barman came to take her empty plate away and asked if there was anything else she’d like, she shook her head. ‘Non merci,’ but knowing the man had at least some English, she asked, ‘Could you give me directions to the Auberge de Campagne, s’il vous plaît?’

‘Rue du Moulin. Left by the cemetery.’

‘Merci.’

Belinda paid the bill, gathered her things together and, holding BB’s lead tightly, left the bar. Rue du Moulin, a single-track road, was easy to find and Belinda found the ‘Auberge de Campagne’ about two hundred metres along on the right-hand side. Larger than the surrounding houses, it was set back from the road with a short drive lined with some well-pruned bushes leading to the shallow flight of steps up to its front door. A large ship’s captain-type brass bell was fixed to the wall near the door. Smiling at the ‘We speak English here’ sign, Belinda climbed the steps and pulled the cord.

The woman who opened the door several seconds later was about her own age and gave Belinda a friendly smile.

‘Bonjour. I’m Belinda Marshall and I have a room booked with you for a couple of nights.’

‘Hello and welcome. I’m Fern LeRoy. Come on in and I’ll show you all six and you can take your pick. Not many tourists around at this time of year,’ and she held out her hand.

‘You’re English?’ Belinda said, shaking the offered hand.

‘Yes,’ and Fern bent down to stroke BB. ‘Aren’t you the beautiful one? I hope you like Lady, my girl.’ She glanced up at Belinda. ‘I’ve got a West Highland White terrier. Come on, let’s introduce them. She’s in the boot room.’

‘BB usually loves other dogs, particularly bitches,’ Belinda said. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

It wasn’t. Within minutes, the two dogs were playing happily together and Fern took Belinda upstairs to choose a bedroom. She chose the second room she saw – a large room at the back of the house overlooking a beautiful garden and the countryside.

‘You have a lovely auberge here. Bigger than I was expecting.’

‘It’s an old maison de maître,’ Fern explained. ‘Built in the nineteenth century for a prosperous businessman, when there were such people in rural Finistère.’

Belinda detected a strained note in the short laugh that followed the explanation before Fern spoke again.

‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or are you dashing off somewhere?’

Belinda knew she should return to the campsite to start assessing things, but the more time she could spend away from the place and the inevitable confrontation with Alain Salvin, the better right now.

‘Tea would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing you’ll be stocked up with English tea, which somehow the French never seem to make properly.’