Florence looked at her watch. ‘I must take him back.’

‘You said that you and James shared a “barren bed”. Your words.’

‘I lied. Of course I lied! Would you confess that to anyone, to a stranger of all people? I never asked questions, but I saw his … well, I saw his wrists. I watched his face, the pain, the greyness, but I never again saw his body. It was “Do you want salad?” or “Have you brought in some logs?” or “I am going to the village, is there anything you need?” He wept very much at first. Then he came to terms with our “life”, but he never touched Thomas. He almost never acknowledged him. He was a terrible reminder to him, he was ashamed and afraid. That was the end of things.’

‘He did love you. In the fragments of stuff he did not destroy, he says so. You know. You have read them. His life was radiant with you.’

‘It finished.’ She hugged her knees, leaning forward, hair falling loosely about her face. ‘The Agendas that Millar showed to you. Why does he have them? What sort of Agendas are they? It is so strange. Why Millar?’

‘He bought them.’

She looked up instantly. Startled. Brushed hair from her face. ‘Bought them? Why? The Agendas?’

‘To avoid blackmail.’

Thomas was suddenly awake, perhaps his mother’s sudden movement. He thumped me in the chest, laughed.

‘Blackmail?’

‘That too. And cocaine. You knew that.’

She reached out towards Thomas to take him in her arms, but he pulled back, shaking his head, holding me.

‘I knew. At first after Paris, but he fought. We won. Until Thomas.’

She got briskly to her feet. Céleste got up at the same time, moved towards us quietly.

‘Take Thomas, Céleste. He is tired, we must go.’

But Thomas struggled, screamed, was finally subdued by us all, and we walked back to the cars, I carrying a shouting, furious child waving a trumpet. Not the happiest of afternoons. Not by a long chalk.

We drove back to Bargemon in a convoy of two. Thomas, calmer now, waved the bunch of wilting wild flowers from the back window, I waved back. At the cars, Florence had asked me to come to rue Émile Zola at about six. Madame Prideaux was away playing bridge. There was more to talk about, she had more questions; it was already late, well after Thomas’s time for his milk and biscuits, or whatever he had.

There was no one in the hall of the hotel, and I took my key from the hook behind Madame Mazine’s desk, washed, changed my shirt, and was at the door of number 11, rue Émile Zola, as the church struck six.