He replaced the receiver, and picked up the postcard of the Chartres labyrinth Will had sent to Max, which he’d hung on to. “Well,” he whispered, “you’d never get yourself into a problem quite like this one, would you? What to do?” He put the postcard on his dining table and took out the baffling bundle of documents that had come to light after Lucy’s bizarre revelation. He had a day off. Perhaps it was time for him to take a proper look at them.

IT WAS SIX-THIRTY P.M. THE VERGER MET HER UNDER THE ARCH OF THE TRANSEPT. She’d never been to Chartres, never been so affected by a religious space. She’d spent the last hour of the day letting the light of the stained glass tickle her face, her eyes fixed on the rose windows. She’d sat and just looked up. It was awe-inspiring, and she couldn’t quite take it in. She thought about the way the light worked: it was a high space, and the light drew your eyes up to it. In England, cathedrals were longer and lower, and she’d heard Alex say that was perfect for the lingering light of English twilight. French sunshine was more brilliant perhaps, and the power of the light to penetrate the gloom was exceptional, forcing your head up all the time. She’d lit a candle for her mother, wherever she was; one for her father; and two others, for two people she’d never met. She had tried to leave her thoughts of Alex and his family out of today, but she found she couldn’t. She was affected by what he said on the phone—albeit in the briefest words. She wished he were here. A man had been watching her—an unpleasant reality of being a young woman traveling alone. She’d forgotten how irritating it was—in fact, how disturbing it could be—and she wished she had Alex’s arm to hold. Now, in any case, she was here with the verger and just three other people who were sharing this private tour. They would each walk the sacred path, he told her. The seating had been moved, and candles were lit along the great looping coils. The setting was transcendent.