‘He came here sometimes. For a pastis or maybe some Gauloises cigarettes, not so often. He bought a little place. Dinner is at seven-thirty to nine, no orders after that.’ He closed the door and left me standing under the lithograph of the Jesus looking heavenwards.

First clue. James had been there, naturally enough. So they’d be certain to know where the Pigeonnier was; someone might even know where and when he had gone.

In the hall, crossing it to the bar, the woman in the black and white overall suddenly called my name. She was behind the little desk; a calendar, a green china pot with browning-tipped fern, a ledger which I had signed earlier which did as a Visitors’ Book.

‘M’sieur Colcott. Your passport.’ She handed me the thing. ‘It is not necessary to fill in all the details, just your name. We like to have it in the book, for the next time, you see?’

I took the passport back, stuck it in my inner pocket.

‘I believe that you had another Colcott here once, is that so? English? Do you remember him?’ It was obvious that the ‘aldi’ part of my name, our name, was too difficult to pronounce, so I went along with Colcott.

She looked above my head vaguely.

‘We have been colonized here, you know, by the Romans and the Greeks, the Celts … It is difficult to remember all the people who have been in Bargemon-sur-Yves … we are an ancient town, always full of visitors, I can’t remember everyone.’

‘This visitor wasn’t here so long ago. A year about. He was called James Colcott. Does that make it any easier?’

She suddenly looked at me with clear, steady eyes.

‘Ah yes: Jimmie, I remember. A painter … blond, very gentle. Oh yes, I remember. He was here.’

‘But he’s gone now?’

‘Yes. Gone. He bought a little house.’

I took the key from my pocket, held it towards her in the dim light of the hall. ‘This is the key. He sent it to me. I’m his brother.’

She looked at me with quick unease, plucked at the pocket on her overall.

‘His brother?’

‘There were twelve years between us.’

‘Ah bon.’

‘Where is his house, Le Pigeonnier, Madame? In the village or outside?’

She closed the ledger before her, pulled a few bits of brown from the fern, threw them into a basket under the desk, avoiding my look.

‘It’s not in the village, no. On the road to Saint-Basile, about two kilometres; I haven’t been there, but I know that it is empty, no one is there now.’

I thanked her, put the key back in my pocket, went across to the bar. I knew that she was watching me, knew that she was standing perfectly still. Pondering.