‘Mr Parker used to be called Abel,’ said Christopher, smartly. ‘He was one of the first men into the village in Limousin after the reports started coming back about the massacre. He saw what was inside the church. He found the bodies. Hundreds of bodies. Human shapes made of ash. Gold and lead, mingled together into great shapes of twisted liquid. The heat in the church had been so ferocious it had melted the bell. Melted the tabernacle and candlesticks. Melted the chalices in the strong box. Turned that whole place into something no man should see.’

We looked at the little man in his chair. He grew smaller under our gaze. He was staring into the fire. There were shadows upon his face.

‘After the war it was important that justice be found for the victims of these atrocities,’ explained Christopher. ‘Our allies in France needed men to testify against the Nazi soldiers who perpetrated the massacre. Abel was one of the men brave enough to do that. But to do so nearly cost him his life. Members of the Milice were now responsible in part for running the country. Some had fled abroad but others were now powerful members of the government and they did not want the past being raked over. My network heard that an assassin had been sent to deal with any witness thinking of testifying at Nuremberg. We needed to get Abel out. By this time, Abel was working for a fertilizer company in Alsace. He was doing well in his life. But he knew what he had to do. My unit relocated him. He gave his testimony and started a new life. Favre was arrested and imprisoned. Abel did the right thing. He should have been left alone.’

Cordelia narrowed her eyes, shaking her head.

‘That doesn’t add up,’ she said. ‘Why Gilsland? Why Mrs Parker? Why here?’

Christopher showed his irritation. ‘I am already breaking the Official Secrets Act just telling you this much. But you would not leave things alone, would you? Can’t you just accept it is as I say?’

I could see Cordelia was battling with something. A light had come on in her eyes when Christopher mentioned the Official Secrets Act. She screwed up her face as if something didn’t fit.

‘This is all a bit cosy, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘How did Mrs Parker here end up as Mrs Parker? How did Abel end up in your own little village? That’s asking for trouble …’

My mind was on fire. I was jerking my head like a horse plagued by flies. Taking it all in, trying to make sense of it: my eyes flicking this way and that, taking in the pictures, the horse brasses, the ornaments … the photograph above the dresser. A young boy with sad eyes and a gap where the bottom half of his left arm should have been.