Madame Ariane fell on her knees by the major’s head and a long ululating sob came out of her, like wind in trees. She passed one hand over his face, her fingertips pulling down his eyelids. She remained there, her head bowed, for several minutes. The all-seeing, hovering Rahel saw her reach out and pick up one of his hands and kiss it, without wondering why. Then Madame Ariane ran away.

Sabine scrambled down the ladder.

‘It’s the major. We’ve killed the major.’ There was no doubt in their minds that he was dead. Madame Ariane had confirmed it for them.

Suzie crawled out from her hiding place. The light from the stars was bright enough to see him clearly. The hook had hit him in the centre of his forehead and he had fallen straight back, his jaw sticking up, exposing his neck to the full. It was a warm night and he wore no shirt. His skin gleamed faintly in the moonlight, as if he had been sweating. Sabine walked around the major, her fist in her mouth. It was hard for Rahel to determine whether she was disappointed because it wasn’t Madame Ariane lying there, or worried at the thought of reprisals.

Then Rahel saw Suzie standing opposite Sabine, with the body lying between them. The knife was in her hand, the knife with which she would not have struck the unconscious Madame Ariane. She was not making a mistake; she knew who lay there; and with one neat backhand stroke, like Monsieur Jouanel, she drew the blade down the side of the major’s neck. Sabine’s shriek coincided with the spray of blood that leaped from the slashed throat. Suzie stepped neatly aside, allowing the fountain to gush onto the rocky floor. Her dress was splashed nonetheless, as was Sabine’s, for, with some memory of her task at the pig-killing, Sabine ran over to the shelves, seized one of the enamel pans from the wall and shoved it below the major’s neck as his life gushed away.

Suzie slithered down from the loft and stood under the hook, waiting for its swinging to slow to a halt. She could not make all the calculations that they had made last time, but she could tell by eye that it hung too low now. He was a smaller man than the major, about the same height as Madame Ariane. She would have to go and take in the rope by at least one turn. She climbed up the ladder again, like a dog, hands and feet pattering on the steps. She shortened the rope, descended once again to collect the hook and carried it back up to the loft with her. She installed herself in Sabine’s position, in line with the door, and made two practice throws. It was, she discovered, harder than it seemed. It was more a question of letting it drop, so that the weight did the work. After two more journeys up and down the ladder to retrieve the hook, she decided against any further trials. Fate would decide it, as it had before.