I took my drink and the box-file over to the little table in the corner. The note was from Florence. Odd that I had never seen her handwriting before. It was almost childish, but neat, sloping forwards, not backwards, modest loops to the Ts.

‘Sunday: If you have time, can you call me at Dr Colin’s surgery in the morning? Between 8.30 and noon. I am helping the new girl to settle in. Sincerely.’ And she had signed it ‘Florence Caldicott’.

Later, up in my room, under the raised eyes of Jesus and the patting paws of the kittens, I changed my shirt, washed my face, stared at my reflection in the speckled mirror of the wardrobe. Even allowing for the speckles, it was a fairly ordinary face. Pity.

From the window the dying sun was turning the clifftops to vermilion fire, a swing of swallows swept upwards against the fading blue of the sky and scattered. I felt a strange loneliness suddenly. A feeling of isolation. I had an overwhelming longing to go off right away to the rue Émile Zola and not to wait until tomorrow for contact with Florence. I wanted to see her, touch her, or at least feel her near me. I wanted to see those steady grey eyes, be comforted by her calm. After the operatic nonsense I had just read, and more of which lay, I was certain, in the box-file on my bed, a little sanity would not come amiss. Banal ordinariness would be balm.

But there were problems in such urgent desires, Thomas for one, Madame Prideaux for another. And anyway, perhaps they had friends in for tea or lemonade or something. Such a fine evening.

So, set desire apart, get down to work.

On the white counterpane of the hillocky bed the box-file looked like a black coffin.

Inside, a bundle of papers, the copies from the Agendas, neatly held in a metal clip. Beneath them a sealed brown envelope. Stapled on the top, a card:

I trust that these random pieces will be sufficient to satisfy you and your curiosity! They are, I would venture to suggest, self-explanatory. It might be useful to you if I point out that the Lodge gates are at all times locked against exits and entrances. You might well speak with the lodge-keeper. If you have any queries.

There was no signature. But that didn’t matter.

The first page, on top of the Agenda copies, was a copy of a letter. It was undated.

Jericho.

My dear Master,