‘I wanted you to come because I have things to ask you,’ I said.

‘What things?’

‘Oh. Many. I have rented a car. From Maurice. His brother-in-law.’

Florence laughed softly. ‘The Mayor’s car! Goodness … he’s ill.’

‘Correct. I went over to Saint-Basile-les-Pins, to find L’Hermitage.’

She looked at me without curiosity. ‘Why?’

‘I thought that perhaps the American you spoke of, who lives there, might have an idea where James has gone to. Or even why perhaps? You know …?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘No. Why? Because he commissioned some ugly paintings?’

‘You never saw them, you said. Were they ugly?’

‘I don’t know. I just …’ She picked up a dead leaf and began to shred it carefully. ‘Just had an idea they would be.’

‘How did James come to know the American?’

‘He was working for Aronovich, the hotel owner in Cannes, and he introduced them, I think. James didn’t really tell me much. I think it was like that.’

‘When will Aronovich collect all those canvases upstairs? Does he know they are ready?’

She sighed, screwed the pieces of leaf into a tiny ball and dropped them. ‘Yes. He knows. But the hotel is not ready. The pictures are but the walls are not. I think there is a problem with money. The usual thing.’

‘Does he know that you have moved away, the house is empty?’

‘I have written. All the mail that came here, and there never was much anyway, is redirected to rue Émile Zola. You know? Bank statements, things like that. But the bank knows anyway. James made everything over to me for Thomas. You knew that?’

‘I know that. How did James meet Aronovich? Can you tell me?’

Florence shook her head in disbelief, a small smile on her lips. ‘You are Mister Maigret! So many questions.’

‘There are so many questions, Florence. If I can try to trace James, I will. I’ll have to talk to the people he knew and you did not. You see?’

‘I see. He met Aronovich years ago. When he was living in Paris. Before here. Before me. Before Jericho.’

I could see Annette and Céleste, Thomas pulling hard between them, coming slowly towards us through the little orchard.

Florence sat up, shielding her eyes from the westering sun. ‘Did you find L’Hermitage?’

‘Eventually. It’s very isolated. Do you know it?’

‘No. I never knew it. I think I have to take Thomas home. He’ll tire.’

‘The next time I go, I’ll call at the lodge; there is a little house inside the gates. Very impressive. Locked with a chain. And there were dogs …’

Florence got up and started to walk towards the straining child and his guardians. ‘Did you also see Snow White perhaps?’ She was smiling, so I knew it was not a rebuff. For the moment.

‘Not Snow White,’ I called, ‘but a very odd person. Perhaps the witch, she had an eye-patch.’