My “astute detective skills”! I just hoped I was getting somewhere. To me it felt as if I was one of those little mice in a cage, running around and around in circles. Maybe tomorrow would be a turning point, I tried to tell myself optimistically.

I tried to put aside my concerns as we pushed the buggy through the gardens and Liam delighted in watching sparrows and dogs and children playing. Celeste served a delicious dinner but I found it hard to eat. Only the meringue with chestnut stuffing slipped down easily, and I was glad when it was finally time for bed.

I awoke at first light, my nerves taut and my brain telling me to get up as there was work to be done. A mist from the river hung at the end of the street and hid the rising sun, but it promised to be another fine day. I looked down at Liam, still sleeping peacefully in his crib. No cares in the world, I thought. He probably won’t even remember that he nearly died in a bomb blast, that his nursemaid covered him with her own body as the roof came down. He doesn’t know that his father’s life is constantly in danger or that his mother has to try to find a murderer. I went to the bathroom to complete my toilet before he awoke, then nursed him and carried him down for the boiled egg that had become his new favorite food.

When he was finally settled on a rug in the salon with Sid and Gus I slipped away, joining the morning crowds on the Métro back to Place Pigalle. I came up to see that the area around the fountain in the middle of the Place was now full of young women, some of them skimpily clad, one actually wearing a bustier and fishnet stockings, others dressed more demurely. One or two were smoking. Others were drinking coffee or something stronger as they sat chatting with artists. I walked among them, looking for the girl in Reynold Bryce’s painting, but didn’t see her.

“Are you new?” one girl called to me. “Yes, you. You must be new or you wouldn’t be stupid enough to stand on my pitch.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not a model. I’m looking for one myself.”

“Oh, you’re a painter, are you?” Her demeanor toward me changed and she took a provocative pose. “My rates are reasonable and they say I have the best legs in Paris.”

“I’m looking for a particular type,” I said. “Young-looking. Big dark eyes. Lots of dark hair. I saw a picture of her and now I have to paint her too.”

The woman looked around, then shrugged. “I don’t know who you mean,” she said.

“So a model who resembles that description doesn’t come to the market?”