He shrugged at that. ‘We all serve our country in different ways. I had a gift for finding things out. I could plant false trails and keep the enemy so confused they would twist themselves into the ground trying to untangle the wisdom from the lies. They don’t give you many medals for it but it wins wars. It was just a pity I had to die.’

For a second I thought he was about to admit to being a ghost. I fair feared he was about to put his hand through his own chest.

‘Operational decision,’ he explained. ‘My section commander needed men who did not exist on paper. He needed men willing to become deniable assets if caught by the enemy. And I was happy to oblige.’

‘But Fairfax,’ I said.

‘He was a kind man,’ said Christopher. ‘A good father. But I had a chance to be more than a weak lad from Gilsland and if I had to make Mam and Dad cry to do so I was willing to do it.’

‘And?’ asked Cordelia, coolly.

‘And we arranged it. A telegram home, a notice in the paper, a death certificate. And then I was a ghost. I could operate where I was needed. And after the landings I was needed a lot of places.’

‘France,’ said Cordelia. ‘Correze.’

He looked at her like she was a child. ‘You’re going to ask about the massacre,’ he said. ‘About Jean Favre. Le Tanneur.’

‘Was he the man in the mausoleum?’ asked Cordy, straight out.

Christopher pinched the bridge of his nose and then looked at Mr Parker. I followed his gaze. Parker gave a tiny nod and Christopher sighed.

‘Favre was the person the Maquisards feared,’ he said, eyes closed. ‘The Resistance hated the Germans, don’t misunderstand me. They knew the Nazis to be evil of a kind. But the Milice were something else. They were Frenchmen who had chosen to side with the enemy. They spoke the language. They blended in. They had a capacity for horror that eclipses anything the SS could imagine. Their weapon was terror. When they caught Maquisards they made sure they made examples. And Le Tanneur was the best at that. Favre could cut a man’s skin off from the neck to the ankles without letting him die. The SS loved him. He was a weapon. He’d been a leather-worker before the war. They say that he gave a handbag made of Maquisard’s skin to the wife of one of his commanders. He saw it as a gift.’

In the armchair, Mrs Parker dropped her head. She shook herself, not wanting to hear.