‘Are you always as pernickety as this, Joe?’

‘Yes. It drives the men mad. I check and recheck and I make them do the same thing.’

Dorcas pulled down the corners of her mouth. ‘I thought I was coming on holiday with Mr Holmes – all flash and flare, inspiration and dramatic deduction – and what I find I’ve got is Inspector Lestrade.’

Joe grinned. ‘The world can get along without Holmes, I suspect, but it can’t do without its Lestrades.’

‘But Thibaud looks English,’ Dorcas persisted.

‘Looks are not a reliable indicator. Quite a few French from the north have Scandinavian blood like the English and fair or red hair is not uncommon. Like us, they were invaded by waves of Norsemen. Followed by English from the west, Ottoman Turks from the south and Prussians from the east.’

Dorcas was looking about her as they threaded their way back to the centre. ‘The poor French! They’ve been invaded so many times. It’s a wonder they stay French. But they do. Look at those clapboard houses, Joe.’ She pointed to a row of wooden buildings hastily erected amongst the rubble of an ancient market place. ‘You could imagine a shanty town in the Californian gold rush but then you see the beautiful lettering on the shop-fronts, the net curtains, the shining paintwork and the neat piles of produce and you know you couldn’t be anywhere but in France.’

‘They came up from their cellars, rolled up their sleeves and just got on with it,’ said Joe. ‘And all the way through that misery they kept saying the same thing: “On les aura!” – “We’ll get ’em!” And in the end, they did,’ he said sentimentally. ‘But at what a cost!’

‘And so many people paid the bill,’ said Dorcas quietly.

Joe stared in dismay at the blackened stumps on either side of the great doors on the west façade of the cathedral and felt foolish.

‘It’s gone! Of course . . . smashed to pieces by long range artillery like the rest of the statues. I had thought that here on the western side they might have escaped. These portals were crowded with them . . . saints and angels. The loveliest of medieval sculptures and all very natural, quite unlike the stylized, elongated ones at Chartres. They used to be there.’ He waved a hand. ‘Standing about. You’d have said a cocktail party was going on. And there,’ he pointed above his head, ‘is where you’d have found your host – the smiling angel.’

‘There’s work going on – listen!’ said Dorcas. ‘It’s bound to take time. It makes a lot of sense to rebuild the houses and shops before the churches. I’ll have to come back in a few years from now if I want to see this famous angel.’

Joe shook his head. ‘Impossible to recreate, I’d say. I think, sadly, I’ve looked my last on him.’

‘Oh, don’t be so sure of that,’ said a jovial voice behind them and they turned to see a figure from the Middle Ages watching them. A miller was Joe’s first impression. Surely not? He wore a miller’s hat, white with dust, and an equally dusty smock of holland fabric down to his knees. Plaster-caked trousers were secured with string at the bottom and his feet were shod with clogs. Above a grey-streaked beard, sharp, kindly eyes twinkled at them through a pince-nez.

‘Come with me and I’ll show you a wonder! This way, young lady, over that plank and mind where you put your feet.’

Intrigued, they followed their jaunty guide through a stonemason’s yard and into the shell-damaged but serviceable shelter of an outbuilding which might at one time have been a chapel but was now a workshop. Joe was enchanted by the medieval scene being played out all around them, a reassuring blend of bustle and order. Men looked up from their chipping to greet them and to smile warmly at Dorcas. Their work reclaimed their attention at once and claimed Joe’s attention also. Figures from the façades and ledges of the cathedral were being recarved. The fine-grained limestone of the region was being used for repair or complete reconstruction and by hands which were the equal in skill, it seemed, of their ancestors.

‘Over here!’ They followed their guide, whom Joe guessed to be a master builder, judging by the signs of recognition he was receiving from his crew as he passed. ‘There he is. The gentleman you were looking for, young lady.’

He waved an introductory hand as Dorcas stood wondering, a tiny figure, in front of the seven-foot-high angel. A perfect, gleaming new figure. Beneficent and urbane, he beamed his remembered welcome.

‘But how? Can it be . . .?’ Joe murmured.

‘Not the original unfortunately. No. That was shattered beyond repair. But –’ he held up a finger for emphasis – ‘the Monuments Museum had, years ago, had the forethought to have a cast made and it was preserved in Paris. I have replicated the angel using the cast as a guide for my carving.’

‘What a beautiful result!’ said Joe. ‘Worth every effort and a witness for evermore of your talent, monsieur.’ His admiration compelled an old-fashioned but spontaneous bow.

The sculptor beamed in recognition of the compliment.

‘And when may we see him back in his rightful place?’

‘I fear this will be some time in the future. Money has been short. What the town has it spends on rehousing its inhabitants.’ He smiled. ‘You’d say every architect in France is busy in Reims and all trying to express themselves in the new style.’

‘Art deco, you mean?’ said Joe.

‘Is that what you’d call it?’ said the sculptor with gentle irony. ‘Not sure about “deco” . . . or “art” for that matter. But we’ll see. I shall have to try to get used to it. Repairs to the damaged fabric have been going on here at Notre Dame though not as fast as some of us would like. But with the injection of a very large sum of American dollars and some English pounds, work – as you can hear – goes on apace. Soon we may have a façade on which to mount him. Well, there you are. I hope he does not disappoint the young lady.’

‘I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever seen! Don’t you think so, Joe?’

‘Always have,’ said Joe.

They said farewell to their guide and made their way back out into the morning sunshine.

‘Two special smiles in as many days,’ said Joe. ‘Any similarity?’

‘Hardly any,’ said Dorcas. ‘Thibaud’s smile was sweet but it was just a reaction. There was no thought behind it. It didn’t really reach his eyes, did it? The angel was all bright intelligence and good humour. His brain was creating the smile. I really think Thibaud’s brain is mostly dead or frozen up somehow. But I’ll tell you this, Joe – if ever our forgotten soldier were to come back to the world again and if he were to smile . . . good heavens! . . . it would be a smile worth waiting for.’

‘Are we going back to the hospital?’ Dorcas wanted to know as they regained the car.

‘Ah, no,’ said Joe. ‘I thought I’d make a start on interviewing one or two of the claimants. With Bonnefoye’s introduction and signed permission in my pocket I think they’ll agree to see me. Though I rather thought I’d start by going off at a tangent. One of the names on that list is a bit of a dark horse and I’d like to take a surreptitious look at its teeth before I begin anything so formal as an interview. My first call is at a house a street or two away and there is no way in the world I will agree to your accompanying me there. I’m going to park the car a couple of doors down and lock you in with your book while I go in.’

‘Are you seeing one of the claimants?’

‘No. I’m paying an unscheduled visit to someone who may be able to shed light on one of them. A past employer, if you like, with . . . um . . . commercial premises in the rue de la Magdeleine. The lady may be able to furnish a reference and background information.’

Dorcas’s look of puzzlement cleared. ‘Oh, you’re off to a brothel! On the trail of Mademoiselle Desforges.’ She nodded wisely. ‘That’ll be the Rêves de l’Orient. Everyone’s heard about that! It has quite a reputation in tourist circles. Well, don’t get carried away by your research. I don’t want to have to tell Aunt Lydia you parked me outside a Reims house of ill-repute for an hour while you visited. Oh – and I won’t be locked in. Suppose the car caught fire? They do, you know! Look – park the car here,’ she said as they passed along an elegant shop-lined street. ‘There’s things for me to look at. I can see the new Galeries Lafayette. You can walk from here. Leave me the keys and I promise I’ll be here safe and sound when you get back.’