The gravedigger grumbled but said, ‘I’ll have them ready for you within the hour.’

The priest turned towards the church door where Grimm was waiting. The gravedigger called after him. ‘By the way, the slates on the steeple...’

Father Gaulle called over his shoulder, ‘Yes I know, a few were cracked when the British advanced through Cléry. I’ll deal with it another time.’ And he was gone.

The old man stuck his spade into the ground. ‘I never did like the Germans,’ he spat. ‘Priest or not, he’ll be sorry when he sees what I saw. Pah.’ He pulled out his spade and found a fresh patch of earth to dig two new, small graves.

Silver Hand and the priest walked quietly into the church. Grimm dropped his backpack outside the door and made sure the pistol was loose in its holster.

Father Gaulle took the key from the deep pocket of his robe. He slipped it into the lock, turned the key then twisted the handle. He stepped back quickly in case Marius or the girl was waiting for this moment to attack – perhaps they had worked out his identity by now. Nothing. The priest nodded to the man with the silver hand, who raised his pistol and limped forward.

Grimm entered the gloom of the tower and swept the ground floor with his eyes and his pistol. He looked up to the bell platforms high above. There was nothing but a glimmer of daylight. He backed out of the tower and swung his gun angrily towards the priest. ‘They’re not there.’

‘They have to be. There is no way out.’

‘You had them in your hands and you let them slip away.’

‘They are hiding somewhere,’ Father Gaulle shouted. A woman was lighting a candle near the altar. She looked round in fear when she heard the German voices raised in anger. She hurried out of a side door. ‘They will be hiding up in the belfry at the top.’

‘I can’t climb up there. Not with this ankle. But I am telling you I should be able to see them. There’s no hiding place. The tower is empty.’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘Then you find them,’ Silver Hand said. He held the butt of his weapon towards the priest. ‘Go on in. Take my pistol. You find them, Benedict.’

But Benedict Gaulle – German spy – found nothing.

30 August 1918: Cléry

Marius and Aimee had been trapped in a tower with ancient stone walls as thick as a castle dungeon and a door of oak almost as solid. The lock was dull brass and covered in dust but unbreakable as a jail.

Aimee sank to the floor. Angry at being trapped. Angry that she’d led Marius into danger. She began to sing to keep up her spirits. She sang a bitter British song she’d heard the soldiers sing. It made fun of dying.

‘The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling