‘Yes,’ She nodded. ‘I speak French.’

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Beatrice Adamson,’ said Bea. ‘What’s happened?’ Her hands held the edge of the door, there was grit on the floorboards beneath her bare feet.

‘What relation are you to Alexander Adamson?’

‘I’m his sister.’

‘May we come in?’ he said, then, as if as an afterthought, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you so early. My name is Blanchard.’

She had the idea that if she refused she could stop it, that to submit was to invite the Devil. But she had no choice. She opened the door wider. They came into the hall in their army boots and uniforms. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She crossed her arms. The younger gendarme, who hadn’t spoken, took off his sidecap and looked around.

‘I have bad news,’ said the first man, Blanchard, and waited.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked obediently.

‘There has been an accident.’

She felt very alone. He looked straight into her eyes.

‘Your brother has been involved in a car accident. I’m very sorry to have to tell you, he did not survive. He is dead.’

She’d heard what he’d said, and half of her felt it was a very small thing, this one fact, and now she knew it, it was done, but the rest of her did not believe him. She watched herself from a distance, standing barefoot in the hall. They were both much taller than she was. She saw herself lean towards them.

‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’

‘Your brother, Alexander Adamson, was in a car accident this morning, a few hours ago. I am sorry, madame.’

‘Where did it happen?’ she asked.

‘Near a town called Oyannax.’

‘Where is that?’

He gestured. ‘Two hours, from here. Near Bourg-en-Bresse.’

‘I don’t know where that is.’

There was a silence. She had never heard of those places. She didn’t know anything about them.

‘Where?’ she said.

‘Oyannax.’

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘My name is Jean Blanchard.’

She began to shake – not her limbs, but from the inside. She didn’t know if she was breathing. He looked concerned. He looked very upset for her, and the other gendarme was staring at her.

‘I’m so sorry you had to do this,’ she said. ‘It must be awful telling people these things.’

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ said Blanchard, gesturing his companion to bring a chair.

She heard heavy footsteps on the gravel outside, and they all turned as Griff came into the hall, smart and healthy-looking and full of vitality from his morning walk.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, looking from Bea to the two uniformed gendarmes standing beside her, with their holstered guns and heavy boots.

‘Bea?’

‘Alex is dead,’ she said. She shouldn’t have just said it. She should have prepared him. She was overwhelmed by remorse. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.’

Griff didn’t say anything, he didn’t move at all. She couldn’t stop thinking how badly she had done it. She’d been so cruel. She’d done it wrong.