Cavalier flew to Paris and hired a Harley, similar to his motorbike in Chiang Mai, and made the 270-kilometre ride to Bleulance’s property near the town of Chateauroux. Despite the poor May weather, which made the roads slippery, it took him just under ninety minutes and earned him a speeding ticket en route. From a distance of five kilometres he could see the tops of the chateau, a stunning 300-year-old building.

He sped round a tight bend in the road. There in front of him was, if not Versailles, then a zany, brilliant version of it in the form of a fantasy chateau, all turrets, curlicues and grey pointy spires. It was a bit of a French castle here, a touch of Byzantine Istanbul mosque there, and a delicious, large wedding cake overall.

Cavalier had done his usual meticulous preparation, noting that this castle-like structure with the imaginative name of Napoleon V, had been given to the French National Trust post World War Two (after the Nazis had pillaged the property), in a slick buyback arrangement in which the Bleulances ran it for the trust as a foundation.

Cavalier looked up at the blue sky, interspersed with threatening white cloud, as he alighted from his bike. He decided he should put a weather-proof cover on it. He had an unhealthy suspicion of French weather from his many visits to the country. Just as he was fastening the cover, a butler in pinstripes, waistcoat and tails bounced down the front steps of the chateau, and thrust out his hand.

‘I’m James,’ he said in French, ‘the baron is waiting for you in the dining room.’

Cavalier was ushered into a vast pavilion-style room, festooned with works of art from statuettes to busts, from paintings to pastels. Long coffee tables were piled with books on art, food, antiques and a smattering of war history. Several copies of Food, Art and Antiquity were conspicuous. Exquisite flower arrangements gave the room a delicate freshness.

Tall, thin Jacques Bleulance uncurled himself from a soft beige sofa, dropped reading glasses to his chest, and placed some papers on a small table. His movements were languid, no rush to ingratiate. In tweed jacket, dark green turtleneck jumper, brown corduroy trousers and black shoes, the baron took a pace forward. His attire made him look like a French country squire who had never farmed in his life. His handshake was wet-fish, perfunctory and brief. His long oval face ended in disappearing thin folds rather than a chin. Yet the face was anything but weak. His high forehead would have still looked intelligent if he had a full head of hair. The eyes were eagle-like under hooded arches.