‘Can you be sure? Ever since you came back Léon Roussel has been hanging round here, manipulating you. At Goliath’s burial was he the one who set the fire to make you think you were in danger? To make you turn to him for help. Don’t think that I don’t know he’s been turning up here every evening, beguiling you with his mask of uprightness and trustworthiness. Even now when he should be in a hospital bed he is here with you, trying to find out more.’

‘No!’ I smacked both my hands down hard on to his shoulders. ‘No, you are lying again, André.’

He smiled softly. ‘Can you trust him?’

‘Yes.’ I moved away and wiped my palms on my skirt. ‘Yes, I trust him with my life.’

I walked to the door, slammed it behind me and flew down the stairs. In the yard I walked over to the open window of Léon’s car, bent down and kissed him full on the mouth. When I pulled away, André was watching from his window, as I’d known he would be. I climbed into my own car and sped away from Mas Caussade.

*

The mayor’s house befitted his position. It was grand but not ostentatiously so, a fine square stone-built mansion with beautiful proportions and an elegant portico. I rang the old-fashioned bell and hoped Mayor Durand wasn’t taking a Sunday afternoon nap.

His daughter opened the door, my glass-blowing friend, Marianne.

‘Eloïse, this is a surprise.’

She smiled with her usual warmth and I felt sick at the thought of hurting her family.

‘I’ve come to see your father, actually. Is he around? I know it’s Sunday but this is kind of urgent.’

‘Your poor face.’ She leaned close and kissed me delicately on one cheek. ‘I heard you’d been at the air base. What a hideous tragedy. I never did like that vile headmistress but I’d never have expected her to do such a thing.’

‘Is your father home?’ I interrupted. Marianne could talk for five minutes without drawing breath.

She laughed. ‘Yes, he’s in the garden at the back. I’m in the middle of baking,’ she wiggled floury fingers at me,’ so just go round the house and you’ll find him there.’

I kissed her. ‘Thanks, Marianne.’

How did a man like Charles Durand produce a gem like Marianne?

*

‘Good afternoon, Monsieur le Maire.’

Charles Durand leaped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard me approaching across the grass and I was now standing right behind him. He’d been bent over his roses, deadheading them with a pair of secateurs, humming quietly to himself, and a thorn tore a trail across his thumb when he jumped.

‘Eloïse, for God’s sake, girl, that’s no way to . . .’ He stopped as he took in my face. ‘Well, you certainly look a mess, don’t you?’