‘Try this.’

‘There must have been other people doing the same thing …’

‘We saw Monsieur Vernhes when he met the major too …’

‘That was in the forest …’

‘Perhaps he was also working for the Resistance then, if he went to see the major.’

‘We tracked the major. We thought he was going to meet Madame Ariane …’

‘But when we found the car, there were two men talking …’

‘We didn’t hear what they were saying …’

‘Except he spoke very bad German …’

‘The major didn’t speak French at all …’

‘This is what you want.’ Suzie handed a piece to Sabine, who took it, tried it, rejected it.

Theo at last asked, ‘What did he want with the major, Mr Vernhes?’

To that there was no reply. An absorbed silence lengthened until Theo realised that they were going to say nothing more. He rose and went out and the children did not stir as he shut the door. They had unexpectedly given him confirmation of Nikola’s story. This was why Vernhes had come this morning, why he had felt it necessary to threaten him. He feared that Theo had gleaned information about him, or would soon do so. He had asked carefully whether his enquiry was official or personal, had reacted angrily to the idea that Theo might report anything to the authorities. What Nikola had said must be true.

He descended the tower stairs and glanced out of the window that looked down on the farmyard. Ariane, wearing an old coat, was at work with Florence. She was holding a pitchfork in one hand and was pushing back a strand of hair from her eyes with her forearm. Theo noticed that her bare wrists, protruding between her sleeves and gloves, looked so fragile that they might snap if she applied the slightest force to any action. He paused to watch the silent co-operation of the two women. Florence had taken hold of a sack leaning against the barn wall by its two top corners and was dragging it across the cobbles. Ariane laid down her tool and joined her, taking the other end. The two of them swung it up and into the barrow, which Florence then began to push towards the animal pens. Ariane picked up the pitchfork once again and speared a bundle of hay with it.

As he stood there and observed the fluid movements of the two women hefting the sack into the barrow, Theo experienced a leap of understanding. He felt that he was witnessing, fleetingly, life at Bonnemort during the Occupation, when he was not there, when the men were absent and the women were in charge. Suddenly the idea that the SS major had been Ariane’s lover, which had so maddened him, became almost insignificant, reduced to triviality by his flare of insight.

Ariane had killed the major.

Chapter Thirty-three

Ariane was waiting for Theo’s interrogation; she wondered what she would say. He had given her warning and she knew it must come. The wariness of her expectation filled their bedroom like smoke from a blocked chimney. That night she sat on a stool in front of the fire in their bedroom, still dressed, stretching out her hands to the warmth. She heard him approaching the door and thought that the sound of the months of the Occupation had been that of footsteps: leather on wood, steel on stone, heels on rock.