When the train arrived at Chartres the next morning, Lucy and Elizabeth didn’t have to ask for directions to the cathedral. It was immediately visible, dominating the town from the top of a hill. Worshippers and sightseers alike had to make the climb if they wanted to gain entry to the church, and Lucy thought it was an apt metaphor for the Christian’s path to salvation. A path that was guaranteed to involve considerable pain and sacrifice, but first, she wanted to visit Sylvie’s parents and get rid of the heavy basket of fruit she’d brought from Paris as an expression of sympathy.

It was easy enough to find their tabac. It was in a prime location next to the train station, and the sign above the door identified the proprietor as M. Émile Seydoux. The modest little shop, which sold candy and gum, phone cards, papers and magazines, as well as cigarettes, must be a real cash cow, thought Lucy. The sign, however, was quite old-fashioned, with fading paint, and Lucy suspected it was a reference to a previous M. Seydoux, perhaps the founder of the business. Another sign, this one handwritten in shaky ballpoint pen and taped over a printed placard announcing, “OUVERT DE 6H00 À 22H00,” read simply, FERMÉ.

“What now?” Elizabeth wondered aloud. “The shop’s closed.”

“I bet they live upstairs,” said Lucy, pointing to windows above the storefront that were covered with spotless lace curtains. “I think that must be the door,” she said, pointing to a simple wooden door beside the shop windows that was painted blue.

An old-fashioned bell pull was next to the door, and she gave it a good tug, producing a distant chime. A few moments later Madame Seydoux opened the door. Lucy was shocked at her appearance. Her hair was uncombed, and she was wearing a very worn and faded housedress, the sort of wrapper Lucy’s grandmother used to wear when she tidied the house before dressing for the day.

“Quoi?” she demanded.

Lucy’s French wasn’t up to lengthy explanations, so she simply held out the fruit basket while Elizabeth expressed their condolences in French.

Madame took the basket with a curt “Merci” and was about to shut the door when Lucy spoke up.

“Elizabeth, did you tell her about the money?”

That caught Madame’s attention; it seemed she did understand some English. “Money?” she asked, letting the door swing on its hinges.

“When we packed up your daughter’s things, we found some money hidden in a duffel bag she kept at work,” said Elizabeth, speaking in French.

“Sylvie was a very good girl, very thrifty,” said Madame, taking a crumpled tissue from her pocket and wiping her eyes. “Where is this bag? Did you bring the money?”

“It was quite a lot,” said Lucy. “We gave it to the police.”