‘Sorry to disturb you, but do you know where Monsieur or Madame Dauclercq lives?’

The old woman replied coldly, ‘The Dauclercqs are the last farm, at the end on the right.’

Franck saw in his rear-view mirror that she was eyeing them suspiciously, probably because of the size of the car and its imposing appearance. They finally found the right farm, La Combe.

This time, Franck drove the 4×4 straight into the yard. He noticed a figure at the back of a shed: this must be Madame Dauclercq. He hooted in a friendly manner, but instead of coming towards them, the elderly farmer headed towards the house. Franck and Lise got out of the car to follow her, but the woman had already come out again with a bunch of keys, holding them in front of her as if to get rid of them, clearly indicating that she had nothing to say to them. Even so, Lise tried asking some questions, to which the woman replied sharply.

‘Is the house on the hill up there?’

‘No, it’s not that hill, it’s the one six kilometres further away. At the hairpin bend you take the track on the left and go up.’

‘Thank you. It’s pretty here.’

‘You think so? It’s too dry.’

‘And for shopping, do you have to go to the village at the bottom of the hill?’

‘No, there’s nothing there.’

‘But there is a shop in the village, isn’t there?’

‘There isn’t a village any more.’

Irritated, Franck shot back, ‘Wait, there is a supermarket; I saw it on the internet.’

‘If you want shops you have to go down to Limogne or Saint-Martin, but it’s quite a drive.’

‘Oh really? How far is it?’

‘A good half-hour.’

‘So not far.’

‘Yes, it is far.’

As he was speaking, Franck noticed a surprisingly large kennel near the shed. The kennel must have been at least one and a half metres high, as if it housed some sort of enormous dog, but at the moment it was empty.

They were still standing in front of the woman, who was herself still standing on the doorstep. She had not asked them inside, much less offered them a drink. Franck felt that not only were they bothering her, they were also incurring her sharp disapproval. From this he concluded that the woman had no wish for the gîte to be rented. Quite clearly it wasn’t hers and she was only looking after the keys, but deep down, for whatever reason, she didn’t like the idea that it would be occupied.

‘And where are the owners?’

‘Madame Henderson has been in a retirement home for a long time.’

‘Henderson? That wasn’t the name on the advert.’

‘That’s their business.’

‘It’s not a local name?’

‘No.’

‘I see, and how old is she?’

‘Not far off ninety-eight, maybe even a hundred.’

‘But then who placed the advert?’