“You must finish it, then.” Gabriel nods. “Do you have the photograph of Marcellin’s grave?”

“Yes.”

Harry reaches for the stack of photographs from the dresser. Gabriel stands at his shoulder as he turns through them, and then he is there standing at the side of his brother’s grave. Harry hands him the portrait. Gabriel, in the photograph, is making the sort of expression that one ought to make at a graveside, his sepia face solemn but noble. The face at Harry’s side, as he looks at his own image, isn’t quite so solid. Is he thinking of standing in this same spot with Madeleine? Gabriel rubs his eyes and Harry turns away.

He looks at the next image in the pile, which is just a wall. He had stared at it as it floated into existence in the bath of chemicals. He had tried to remember why he might have taken a photograph of a wall. It was only a couple of hours later that he had managed to place and recall the significance of that particular expanse of stone. A figure had been sat in front of it. He had talked to that man, told him his name, shaken his hand. Afterward, in the red light, Harry had stood in front of the mirror. He half expected his own reflection to have disappeared then. But, unlike that of Daniel East, Harry’s face was there in the glass.

“My mother will never make this journey,” says Gabriel. “I am glad that I can show her this image. You must remember that, when you send your photographs back. It is a good and a kind thing that you have done.”

Would he have posted the image of Daniel East to Rachel? He thinks of the man’s face, as real as his own in the mirror. The only clue in the photograph that he might ever have been there is a wreath leaned against the wall. That is it. He thinks of Rachel and her talk of clairvoyants, of psychics conjuring spirits for those in wishful mourning. Had he wished Daniel East from his imagination? He had almost told Rachel as they stood looking down over Vimy Ridge. It would have sent her search in a different, and false, direction. He had been on the very edge of telling her.

“Thank you,” he says to Gabriel.

“Are you going to go back to Saint-Christophe? I spoke to Lucien Delbos, who owns the bar. He said that there was an Englishman living there.”

Harry tries to recall the photographer’s face, but all that will come back to him is a blur. He knows there was something familiar there, but in recall it has no detail. His recalled image is not quite sharp enough. As with Daniel East, could he just have been mistaken?

“I don’t know,” Harry says.