But, in my usual way, I decided to shove all that to the back of the stove and let it quietly simmer for the time being. First things first. Giles was only here for a short stay. Until his mother returned from her recce. Or, on the other hand, if he chose to wait, until I went back at the end of May. It all hinged on James.

If by the end of the month there were no significant leads, if Aronovich had really no idea of what might have happened, then I would have to face up to the facts and report him missing; no matter who might try to stop me. The British Consul was in Marseilles. In a couple of weeks I’d report a missing person and hand it over to the authorities. I’d have done my best, obeyed James’s wishes as far as possible, but I had a life of my own to live and to rearrange. Time to think of myself. Helen always said that, ‘way down there at the bottom’, I did anyway. ‘Número Uno’ she used to call me when a row began to rumble or an argument was in danger of being lost. By her.

So, I’d wait until the end of May and that would be that. Two weeks left. Meanwhile life had to continue as if there were no problem at all.

At La Source that lunchtime M’sieur Simon and his sons were clustered round the bar, a truck of logs parked outside. I was greeted warmly, which was quite reasonable because I had paid heavily for their services before.

‘Logs! A good opportunity to buy! We have a whole truck! Half olive, half oak, from a building-site across the valley. You can have them at a good price. It’s May, who buys logs in May?’

‘The boulangerie?’ asked Marc mildly. ‘Anyone with an oven will buy –’

‘People in May forget the cold of November! A truckful! You will need fuel in the winter?’ M’sieur Simon’s gold tooth flashed persuasively.

We made a deal. My deal, which they did not quite understand until they had done the job, was to cart more stuff about Jericho: a dressing-chest for Giles, a wardrobe, things that he and I could not manage ourselves.

With encouragement, Marc and Georges unloading and stacking wood beside the house, and M’sieur Simon and I dragging things about, finally Jericho began to look habitable. When the beds arrived I’d have a house in which to settle, and to perhaps try a hesitant new life. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Giles, naturally, treated the whole thing as an extended version of an adventure holiday. Fact and fiction (that is to say his future) were conveniently blurred. For him anyway, if not quite for me.