In truth though, the Vincents’ travel from Calais to Binché was little different from any trip in a public carriage. It was too crowded for comfort, and the views out the windows – though of unfamiliar scenery – were only glimpsed by twisting one’s neck.

The carriage exchanged passengers at inns, crossings, and stables so that they had an unending variety of new travel companions. Jane cared not at all. None of the other passengers took notice of them, and the freedom from responsibilities delighted her nearly as much as what little scenery she could glimpse.

For the first two days they travelled without concern, slowed only by a log across the road, which delayed their progress by some hours. As the carriage rolled through the country, Jane was enchanted by the differences between France and England. Not that she found France in any way superior, but the local garments, which changed with every region through which they passed, were endlessly charming. At one stop, the local women had red borders on their aprons. When they halted for a quick nuncheon at an inn in the north of France, the women wore heavy wooden clogs as they walked through the mud of the stable yard. In another region, white fichus were the order of the day.

But as the carriage bounced across the landscape, what Jane most wished for was more padding upon the seats. She was, therefore, delighted when the carriage slowed and then stopped, as this would offer a chance to escape its confines. Outside, she could hear a muffled conversation, but no coachman appeared to open the door. She hoped that it was not another log across the road, though even that might be welcome if it afforded them the opportunity to stretch their legs.

After a few minutes, one of the other travellers – an old matron whose black lace marked her as a widow – peered out the window and tutted loudly. She turned to the young girl travelling with her and said something disapproving in Flemish.

Jane sat on the other bench, by the door, with Vincent acting as a human shield between her and the German soldier who shared their bench. He would not have been objectionable as a companion were it not for his propensity to eat whole garlic cloves. Curious as to what the matron had seen, this soldier now leaned across the diligence to look out the small window in the door, though there was a window on his side of the carriage as well.

‘We are in a field,’ he said in heavily scented English.

The door flew open and a man with a cravat wrapped around the lower part of his face looked in. He held a pistol.