‘Because I see it,’ she replied simply. ‘The death is linked to the violence of a man,’ she hesitated, and moved the cards around. ‘Yes, that death of the child is linked to the violence of a man. The child is – what – ten to fifteen years old, twelve years old?’

‘Thirteen.’

She nodded. ‘I think this death is linked to the violence of a man, amongst other things . . .’ She tailed off, then repeated, ‘Violence by a man.’

There was a pause. I wondered fancifully whether the child had been conceived during a rape, since no man was mentioned in the letter, nor was there any reference to a man in connection with the lives of the mother or child, or the boy’s death.

‘Where did you find it, on an English coast?’

I nodded.

‘Does it come from a boat?’

This time I shrugged.

‘I think it comes from a boat,’ she answered herself. ‘I think it definitely comes from a boat. I see a woman clearly, I ask myself whether it comes from a woman who is on a boat . . . There is some violence. Does she speak of violence in the letter? Or of difficult things?’

‘Well, yes, the death, that’s difficult,’ I answered unhelpfully.

‘Is the letter written in French?’ she interrupted.

‘Yes.’ I was deliberately trying to provide bald uninformative statements.

‘Yes, I see French writing, it comes from someone French . . .’ Not difficult, I had just told her that. ‘I see a sailing boat, a kind of half sailing, half motor boat, not very big . . .’ Not a cross-Channel ferry then. ‘I see this woman, I see this death, I see violence on the boat, the cries of violence . . . It’s strange, I see someone diving, trying to get something, but they can’t reach it. As though they are trying to recover something from underwater.

‘Give me another card.’ She glared at the picture I had handed her. ‘It’s not easy . . . give me another card . . . It’s not someone old who did this. Someone of about forty, more or less . . . fortyish, maybe fifty. Another card. Another . . . Does she speak of violence with a man? Something difficult with a man?’

‘The death of her son,’ I answered, and then was annoyed with myself. I had given her an unnecessary clue, the precise relationship of the dead boy. We were fencing.

She nodded, as though it were no surprise. ‘May I touch the letter now?’ she asked.

As she opened the bottle and tipped out the letter she continued to ask questions. ‘How long ago did you find it?’

‘March . . .’ I began and hesitated as I wrestled to convert the year into French.

‘One, two years ago?’ she asked.

Meanwhile she was opening up the bottle, unfolding the letter. The lock of hair fell out. ‘Is this the child’s hair?’ she asked. ‘At all events, the mother has hair like this. Exactly like this.’