The weather was still fine when they set out with Becket at the wheel. Daisy had enjoyed another night of passion and was pleasantly sleepy. They decided to check into a hotel when they arrived at Saint Malo. Dolores had been photographed for a postcard – postcards of famous beauties sold well – and Harry had bought several to show around the town to see if anyone recognized her.

Daisy was disappointed when she found that her room adjoined Rose’s and so there would be no chance of a night in Becket’s arms.

The following morning, Harry told them all to relax and look around the town while he went off with Becket to see if anyone knew of the farm where Dolores had lived.

Rose and Daisy walked along the ramparts of the fortress town. A steamer advertising Chocolat Meunier lay below them in the harbour, being boarded by tourists.

Daisy was dying to confide in Rose, but decided against it. She felt sure Rose would put down her loss of virginity to her low background.

Harry moved farther and farther out into the countryside, stopping at farms and showing them Dolores’s photograph. He was about to give up because the light was failing and he was tired and dusty when he saw a little farmhouse set up on a rise.

He ordered Becket to drive up to it and got stiffly out of the car, his old war wound throbbing.

Harry knocked at the door. A child answered it and stared up at him. Harry, in slow and careful French, asked if he might speak to her father or mother. She was pulled aside by a young woman who demanded to know Harry’s business. He showed her the photograph of Dolores. She stared down at it and then jerked her head as a signal that he was to follow her indoors.

A family were seated around a kitchen table having their evening meal. There seemed to be three generations – grandparents, parents and three children. A pot of cassoulet stood in the centre of the table and the kitchen smelt sweet from the bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters. The woman who had called him in explained the reason for his visit and the photograph was passed from one work-worn hand to the other.

When it got to the old man at the head of the table, he said something and Harry caught the name Betty.

He approached him. ‘Do you recognize this woman?’

‘Looks like our Betty,’ said the old man.

‘Your granddaughter?’

‘No. She came along out of nowhere one day. In a bad way she was. No shoes. Hungry. We gave her food and then said she could stay if she worked on the farm. Said her name was Betty. That was all.’

‘Betty?’ asked Harry eagerly. ‘English?’

He shook his grey head. ‘Betty spoke Breton as well as French. Stayed with us for six months, about. Then one day, we sent her into Saint Malo to buy some cloth and she never returned. We tried to find her. She had called at the mercer’s and paid for the cloth and it was there waiting for us. We searched the town but no sign of her.’