It was early autumn and the visitor numbers were dropping as they always did after the summer. Technically, it was a normal day. Yet, normal days could be deceptive. From them could erupt disquiet, even a violence of sorts. Certainly, violent emotions. The contents of Laure’s unassuming, unshowy museum possessed a power to trigger them, particularly in those close to breaking point.

She picked up the first-aid pack. Nic picked up the clipboard. Together, they ran downstairs. If procedure was being observed, Chantal at the kiosk would be hastening upstairs ready to herd visitors away from the room in which the incident was taking place.

In Room 3, a man and a woman were fighting. Or rather, he was fending off an attack as she beat him on the face with the museum catalogue. Laure and Nic exchanged a glance. Nic put down his clipboard, stepped forwards and, as politely as possible in the circumstances, pulled the woman off the man.

Panting, the man stood back – disappointment and rage written all over his face. He touched his cheek where the edge of the catalogue had left a red mark. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Odile?’

‘I wish I could kill you.’ She was matter-of-fact which made what she said the more chilling. One hand clung to the belt threaded through her jeans which, Laure noted, had a large metal buckle. ‘Perhaps I will one of these days.’

They were French. Not so surprising as this was Paris – but you could never predict in this museum (any museum?) what a visitor’s nationality might be.

The woman’s knees buckled, forcing Nic to tighten his grip. Laure whipped the chair, stationed by the wall for precisely these emergencies, under the woman and together they eased her down.

The first-aid pack had been designed to snap open easily and Laure produced a cup and a bottle of water. ‘Would this help?’ She was calm and measured. ‘I’m forbidden to hand out medication but I can contact a doctor or the emergency services if you think you require them.’

Nic picked up the clipboard and wrote the time and date down in the boxes on the form headed ‘Incidents’.

She held the plastic cup to the woman’s lips who took a mouthful and pushed away Laure’s arm. ‘Thank you.’

Laure eased herself upright and addressed the man. ‘Are you the person who we would deal with in an emergency?’

Tall. Wearing jeans and a corduroy jacket. Probably in his forties… ‘If you’re asking if I’m her husband, I am,’ he answered. ‘Yves Brun.’

Sour, too.

Nic noted it down. ‘Is your wife unwell or was it something in the museum which has upset her?’

A shade crossed the man’s features. ‘I suspect it was something here.’

Even to an uninformed observer, and Laure and Nic were habituated to seven degrees of deception practised by the public, it was obvious Yves was skirting the truth.