‘Of course. My house is next door. Let us go and have some coffee.’

‘Ah, thank you, Father. A cup of coffee would certainly go down very well.’

*

Even though Huber had spent the night with Trudchen, his kitchen was still warm from the previous day, for the blue-tiled Kachelofen wood-burning stove retained its heat long after the fire had died down. The priest sat in the corner seat and poured the coffee. Were his hands shaking? He was a slender man of average height, but in these parts where the men were strong from mountain herding and harvesting, he had the appearance of a weakling. Too much time with his head in books.

‘Now then, Herr Kalt, perhaps you would tell me what this is all about.’

‘Real coffee, Father? What luxury. I am honoured.’

‘I had it from before the war and keep it for special occasions.’

‘A little sugar, too, perhaps?’ He laughed although he had said nothing funny. ‘If you have such a thing.’

Sugar was not as rare as coffee, but it was still a precious commodity these days. Huber smiled and gave his visitor one spoonful and left the spoon in his cup for stirring.

‘Thank you. Now, Father, I am the bearer of great tidings for a young girl named Klara Wolf, who I am certain is known to you. A large bequest is due to her from a man of considerable wealth and importance, who died not long ago in Hamburg. Killed in a British air raid – can you believe that? And to think Reichsmarschall Göring said we could call him Mayer if ever a British airplane intruded on our territory! Anyway, little Klara is now a very rich girl.’

‘Klara? Klara Wolf? I am trying hard to think if I know this girl. The name does not seem familiar, Herr Kalt.’

‘Surely a good priest never forgets those he has baptised? Anyway, the name will come to you soon enough. The point is, you see, I require her present whereabouts – and you were the obvious man to come to.’

The hairs at the nape of Huber’s neck prickled. He shook his head slowly.

‘No, I am afraid not. Forgive me, sir, I fear your long journey has been wasted. Perhaps you should have called ahead.’

Kalt narrowed his small, beady eyes and smiled.

‘You baptised her here in this very village, ten years ago – 1931. Her mother, Angelica Wolf – a healthy, pretty young girl of peasant stock – was present, but I believe her father was absent on military duty.’

Huber shook his head again, this time more briskly, as though he had a nervous tic.

‘No, truly, I do not recall the name.’

He studied Kalt. This small man did not look like a lawyer, even with his round spectacles. But what exactly did a lawyer look like? Well-to-do, perhaps? Well fed? This man Kalt had no meat on his body, let alone fat, and his hands were rough and thick like a son of the land. In Huber’s eyes, he looked like a Gestapo officer, not that he had ever seen one of that hated breed, to the best of his knowledge.