“I think she’s convinced herself that it was taken after 1917, that it might be more recent. I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell her that was how he looked at the end.”

“You mean she thinks it was taken after he was declared missing?”

“And that Francis himself might have sent it to her.”

“Jesus. She thinks he might still be alive and sending her a calling card?” Cassie’s eyes widen.

“She looked scared when I met her at the station. I didn’t expect that. She kept looking around in Ypres, as if she thought he might be there watching us.”

“Are you absolutely certain that she’s wrong?”

“Yes. I think so. Surely?”

“You don’t sound one hundred percent convinced.” Cassie blows up her fringe. Her fingers push away the photograph. “Your poor Edie. What an awful thing. It’s sad that she didn’t want to keep it, but I can absolutely understand why.” She turns the envelope over and squints at the postmark. “Saint-Christophe du Quercy?”

“Is it? I couldn’t make it out. How can you tell?”

“Three years as a doctor’s secretary. Does it ring any bells for you?”

He shakes his head. “But . . .” It then strikes him. “I met someone from a place called Calvaire du Quercy.” Gabriel’s address is still in his pocket. “A few weeks ago. Just a stranger who I met in a cemetery.”

“Could that stranger have known your brother?”

“No, I can’t see how.”

“Same region, though. I’d guess that it’s down in the southwest, with a name like that. You should go and find out.”

He thinks about the photograph that he took of Gabriel. Could there be any link between that and the image of Francis that Cassie is turning in her hands? “Yes. I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Listen, I don’t mean to pile another rock onto your shoulders, but I’ve something for you from Ralph.” She fishes in her handbag and pushes a cream envelope across the table.

“What is it?”

She wrinkles her nose and frowns. “You gave him the name of another missing soldier. He had more of a result there. That’s what he found out.”

“You mean David West?”

“Yes, that’s the name.”

Harry picks the envelope up and weighs it in his hands. He thinks about Rachel and how much depends on the contents of this envelope. He thinks about the wreath maker whose undeveloped image is still on the film in his bag. “I really hope that this contains an address?”

Cassie looks down at the ostrich feathers in her lap. “I’m sorry. I think it’s the address of a cemetery.”

Chapter Fifty-Three: Edie

Chapter Fifty-Three

Edie

Amiens, September 1921