It was all too premature, Joe feared. A scene from Romeo and Juliet in preparation? Joe grinned as he happily dismissed the thought. These two were old beyond their years; they’d both, in their different ways, grown up taking too much, too early, on young shoulders. But this too had happened on his watch. Perhaps he should have a word with Orlando when they finally tracked him down? Issue some sort of warning? Urge a belated paternal concern? ‘Well, here’s your daughter back, old man. No—no trouble at all … In fact she’s been most helpful. And here she is—delivered safe and sound in wind and limb, as you see, but—have a care—there may be unseen wounds in the region of the heart …’ No. Joe knew it would be a waste of time. He’d wait and report back to Lydia when he returned to Surrey. Lydia would know whether to speak out or be silent.

With her uncomfortable ability to intercept and respond to his thoughts, Dorcas, eyes still closed, was muttering: ‘Do you think Orlando’ll notice I’ve changed a bit? So many things to tell him when we get to him.’

‘Yes, lots to tell Orlando,’ Joe agreed. ‘But I was wondering, Dorcas, when—if, indeed, ever—you were going to come clean with me and confess all. Would this be a good moment to tell me what you need to tell me?’

Her eyes popped open and he felt an undignified rush of triumph to see he’d surprised her.

‘Whatever are you talking about? Confess? To you? You’re a policeman not a priest!’

He grinned. ‘I think it’s entirely possible that you’ll be needing me in both capacities before we go much farther. Do you want me to spell it out? Would it ease your confession if I were to say: I know what you’re up to!’

Joe left a space for the inevitable outburst of denial to run its course but there was a long silence.

‘When did you guess?’ Her voice was suddenly uncertain.

‘I don’t guess. I work things out. It’s what I do. But, to answer your question: it occurred to me before we left Surrey. All that nonsense about not wanting to go to Scotland with Lydia’s family for the holidays? You were given every chance to come south with your father and his menagerie when he set off at the start of the summer but you refused. And I had noticed you’d been devouring Walter Scott’s novels one after the other and you’d got together a whole collection of hill-walking clothes from Lillywhite’s—from boots to tam-o’-shanter and everything in between. You were looking forward to Scotland but the moment you discovered that—just for once—I wasn’t going north with Lydia but motoring down to spend a month in Antibes with an old army mate, you changed your plans. You used every possible means of persuading my sister to talk me into bringing you along with me. Out went the woollies—sandals and shorts were chucked into a bag. Walter Scott was put back on the library shelves and Alphonse Daudet and something coyly entitled So You’re Going to Provence? were done up with string and put out ready for the journey. Not one of my most challenging puzzles, Dorcas! For some reason, you wanted to be here with me in Provence. Am I getting this right? Say something!’

She nodded dumbly, unable to come up with a riposte. Joe paused, giving her time to make her own explanation.

She turned on him angrily. ‘Crikey! You must be a difficult man to live with! Sneaking about looking in wardrobes … checking labels! Going through my books! You’ve a nerve!’

Again, he waited.

‘Well, all right.’ She took a moment to collect her thoughts, considering him through eyes narrowed in speculation. He knew the signs and prepared himself to hear one of her easy fabrications but her confession when it came was halting and clumsy, the pain in her voice undeniable. ‘Yes. It seemed too good a chance to waste. I’ve been trying for years, Joe. Every time we’ve come south with my father, for as long as I can remember, I’ve tried. With no co-operation from Orlando. He doesn’t want me to succeed. He really doesn’t. I’ve searched and searched from Orange down to Les Saintes Maries on the coast. I’ve talked with gypsies and men of the road … I’ve checked every new grave in every cemetery. No luck. There’s a limit to what a child can do even down here where there’s more freedom to come and go and talk to anyone you meet. Life’s not so … so corseted … as it is in England. But even so, it’s not easy. And now I’m getting older …’ Dorcas looked uncomfortable for a moment, ‘there will be places I can’t go to, people I just can’t interview without running a risk … I’m sure you can imagine. Gigolos and white slavers and bogeymen of that description. I know how the world works … I’m not stupid!’

‘So you thought you’d latch on to a sympathetic chap who can go unchallenged into these dangerous and shady places and ask the right questions on your behalf—’

‘A nosy fellow with a good right hook!’ she interrupted. ‘And one who speaks French of a sort? That’s always useful.’

‘Mmm … these valuable attributes come at a price.’ Joe nodded sagely. ‘I warn you there’ll be a forfeit to pay. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ She accepted without thought, not bothering to ask what the fee would be. She knew he was just making pompous noises and he knew that she would break any agreement that proved not to suit her anyway.

He pushed on with his pretence: ‘So long as you’re hiring my detective services, I think I should insist on a clear client’s instruction from you. I wouldn’t want to discover you were expecting me to track down that silver bangle you dropped down a drain in Arles the year before last.’

Dorcas smiled. ‘No. I want you to find something much more precious, Joe. Something I lost thirteen years ago. I want you to find my mother.’

Chapter Two

‘Well, according to the innkeeper, this village is indeed the one we’re looking for—Silmont. He gave me a very old-fashioned look when I asked for directions to the château. Made verging-on-the-rude remarks about the acuity of my eyesight and brought my English common sense into question.’ Joe waved a hand towards the end of the village street and grinned sheepishly. ‘Can’t say I blame him! It’s obvious enough, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Like standing in the middle of Trafalgar Square and asking someone where Nelson’s statue is. How embarrassing!’

‘Is this what you were expecting, Dorcas?’

She was sitting in the passenger seat where he’d left her, parked outside the Hôtel de la Poste. Clearly she was taken aback, as he was himself. ‘It’s not what I’d pictured. No, not at all. But then … you never know with Pa.’

‘All his geese are swans?’

‘Yes. People and places. You know … every vagabond he meets round a campfire is really an undiscovered genius violin player, every pretty waitress in a café is the twin of Kiki de Montparnasse … any house in the country is a château. I’ve learned never to expect too much. But …’

‘But this? What are we to make of this? If we’ve got the right place. It seems, for once, to be a true bill. The word “château” doesn’t go far enough. It can, indeed, mean any grand house in the country but this is a château-fort, no less! A castle. With all its imposing bits and pieces in place. Impressive! I’m impressed. Overwhelmed might be nearer the mark. Pass me the guidebook from the glove locker, will you? I think we should spend a minute or two getting this place in focus. Something so grand and ancient—it’s bound to get a mention.’

They spent silent moments looking down at the guide and up at the outcrop of rock, a quarter of a mile distant at the end of the village street. The crag reared up in front of them, proudly bearing the weight of limestone masonry that grew imperceptibly from the rock itself to take the form of an imposing fortress.