“What about the trunk? Maybe there is something in there that will give you answers?”

Lia crouched down and lifted a small padlock. “It’s locked,” she said.

Gabriel joined her. “May I have a go?”

“At the lock?”

“It’s a pretty rudimentary lock. It wouldn’t be hard to open, I don’t think.”

“This is something they teach you in art school? Breaking and entering?”

“This is something that they teach all little brothers who want to read their big sister’s diary.”

“You didn’t.”

Gabriel winced. “I did.”

“So there are some advantages to being an only child.”

“My sister almost became one that day when she found out what I had done.”

Lia laughed. “Then by all means, do your worst. Again.”

Gabriel ducked out of the hidden room and fetched a leather-bound tool kit from his bag, returning quickly. He unrolled it, ignoring the neat row of brushes, spatulas, and tweezers, and selected the two rake picks from the end.

“You seriously carry around lock picks?”

“Useful every once in a while in my line of business. These won’t steal the crown jewels, if that is what you’re worried about. But they do provide access to places long forgotten on occasion.”

“The crown jewels are about the least of my concern at the moment.”

Gabriel bent to his task. The padlock was old and bulky but protected from the elements and free from rust. It gave way fairly easily.

He opened the trunk and shuffled to the side so that Lia could have access.

On top were a few sets of what appeared to be men’s clothes—pants, shirts, socks, and even underwear. A threadbare coat had been neatly folded alongside, the fabric faded to a mousy brown. Lia took out each item of clothing with care, placing them all on the bed behind her. Beneath the clothes was an old rifle, gleaming and free from the usual signs of age. Beside that rested a square biscuit tin. Lia pulled that out, set it on the floor, and levered the lid off. Inside was a stack of what appeared to be identity cards. She examined each one and then passed them to Gabriel. There were Belgian and French papers, battered and covered with stamps and ink, all with black-and-white images of unsmiling men.

“Any of these names familiar to you?” Gabriel asked. He peered at a set of Belgian papers proclaiming the unfamiliar image to be Jacques Brunet of Charleroi.

“No. None of these names mean anything to me.”

They tucked the papers back into the tin and continued to search the trunk. With a small gasp, Lia withdrew a violin case.

“You recognize that?” Gabriel asked as she set it down.

“Not this one in particular. But Grandmère played the violin, and she—” Her words died as she opened the case.