‘Police? What sort of police? Forgive me for asking but, here in France, we have at least six different varieties. There’s the state police and the PJ and Clemenceau’s Tigers … or are they the same thing?’ said Lacroix.

‘And there are divisions of divisions,’ put in Lesueur. ‘There’s Tax Evasion, Narcotics, Art Smuggling … er …’

‘Pimping—that’s one …’ the doctor offered.

‘And Wasting Police Time, you’ll find, gentlemen!’ Lacroix, eyes twinkling called a halt.

‘I’m very simply with Criminal Investigation. If I say—Scotland Yard …?’

They had all heard of Scotland Yard.

‘Joe’s their crack sleuth,’ Orlando offered. ‘Criminal Investigation Department. And he liaises with that European lot in Lyon—’

‘Interpol,’ supplied Joe. ‘It’s in its infancy—birth throes might be more accurate—though it is intended to spread worldwide. But—don’t be alarmed! I’m on leave at the moment. Not on official business. I’m actually on my way down to Antibes. I was cornered at a party in London before I left by a friend with a special plea.’

The doctor groaned. ‘A cross we professionals all have to bear. Favours!’ He put on an old duffer’s voice: ‘“I say—you’re a medical man of sorts, aren’t you? I seem to have this lump behind my ear … this rash in an intimate area …” Pain in the rear, they mean! And then, having received a free diagnosis, they have the nerve to tell me they’ll be sure to go and see their own doctor!’ He levelled a sharp and humorous glance at Joe. ‘As I expect you find, the ploy always works. I never have discovered the formula to deny anyone.’

‘Exactly!’ said Joe. ‘The request I had was rather unusual. “I say, you’re a detective, aren’t you? Can you find a missing wife?” The worse for three cocktails at the time, I heard myself saying: “Not at all, old boy … rely on me.”’ He gave a shudder. ‘And now I have to get on with it. Wonder if you could help? We called in on the off-chance. Long resident in the neighbourhood, pillars of your community—I thought you might be able to offer me the end of a ball of string. I’ve had no luck so far and the Riviera calls! My lost sheep is, of all things, a girl born and bred in these parts.’

‘And her husband’s in London?’ asked Lacroix. ‘Seems a bit unlikely.’

‘He was in London. Recently dead, hence the hoo-ha. Yes. A pre-war, Belle Époque-style romance, don’t you know.’ Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Young Englishman of good family, touring Europe, head full of Petrarch and Boccaccio, La Bohème as well for good measure probably, meets and falls in love with a very young Provençal girl. He marries her and carries her off to England. Not finding it to her taste, she flees back home and the war closes in. There wouldn’t have been a problem, I believe, but there’s a question of progeny and inheritance. It always comes down to cash.’

Heads nodded gravely.

‘So, all other avenues of enquiry having failed, here I am, mewing with frustration and going through the motions.’

‘Joe does himself less than justice,’ Orlando backed up. ‘Even after three cocktails he’ll remember giving his word—and keep it. The man’s a ferret. He’ll find her. It’ll just take time.’ And then, slowly: ‘Why don’t you show them the evidence, Joe. You have it in your wallet.’

‘Ah yes. I say—may I?’ His query was more than a politeness and he waited for Orlando’s nod before taking out his notecase.

He slipped the photograph from it and three heads bent, intrigued, over the faded sepia print.

‘We’ve narrowed this down to 1906. And to a small village in the vicinity of Avignon. The girl in question is the one on the right, aged about twelve. We know that the name of the priest who conducted the communion classes was Father Ignace.’

‘Our priest here is Father Pierre,’ said Lacroix, intrigued. ‘He’s been here for decades. If anyone knows the where-abouts of the priesthood, he will. I don’t know of one called Ignace … You fellows?’

‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘And I know every priest in the area. I can tell you with confidence that there is none such between here and Avignon. But look—1906. I didn’t take up my work here until after the war. I was based in Paris before that and moved down here to be close to my old academy friends.’

‘And I was with my regiment in North Africa at that time,’ said Lacroix.

‘I’ve heard the name before,’ said Lesueur. ‘In a priestly context, I’m sure. Like the others, I’ve come and gone. These have not been settled times in France. But it does ring a bell.’ He closed his eyes and concentrated. ‘Getting old. Memory full of holes. I’ll think about it. Let you know.’

Orlando went off to the stables looking rather chipper, Joe thought, when the message came that the horse was ready for him. Looking forward to the ride? Or happy to be getting shot of his police escort? Joe decided—both.

They agreed to meet in the great hall on their return. Orlando dashed off, Joe was quite certain, with the clear intention of getting home before him. He prepared himself to parry a few thrusts spiked with the word ‘horsepower’ when he got back.

He strolled out to his motor car, taking his time to give Orlando a head start and planning the rest of his afternoon. He found he was split between an eagerness to return to the château and a concern to give the Commissaire a run at the problem unencumbered by his presence. Joe decided to waste a little more time. There was one more step he could take in the mad pursuit of Orlando’s Laure before he returned.

He was just climbing behind the wheel when he heard a thin voice calling after him. He turned to see Alfred Lesueur coming at a stately trot down the drive, waving his arms to attract his attention.

‘So glad I caught you! Sorry—I nodded off! I came to with the answer in my head. The name Ignace. Well, an Ignace.’ He frowned. ‘I do hope it’s not the one you’re looking for … You wouldn’t want to find this one. No, no! Terrible business! I’m not a religious man, Sandilands, but I have to say—with everyone else—shameful. If it’s the affair I’m thinking of.’

He put up a hand to forestall Joe’s question. ‘No. I’ll say no more. In case my memory serves me ill. It does play tricks … You must find the evidence for yourself. Not difficult. It was in the newspaper. The local one. They’ll have copies in the archives in Avignon.’

‘Can you remember a date?’ asked Joe without much hope.

‘Before the war. I’m not certain of the year.’

‘A season? That would be a help. If you could remember where you were reading at the time,’ he prompted, ‘you might remember when.’

‘Oh yes. Let me think … Now I take the daily national newspaper … I was probably reading the local one at my aunt’s house. The Voix de la Méditerranée. It comes out weekly. Yes! All the aunts were there, tut-tutting over it. The editor was much criticized for printing the article. My aunt Berthe had bought a copy to check the programme of events for the coming national holiday. So—there you have it,’ he chortled. ‘You’d be looking for the week before July 14th!’

‘Well done!’ said Joe, amused. ‘You’ve saved me hours if not days of research!’

‘Delighted to be of help, old chap. When you find the paper in question, you’ll have to search with a fine-tooth comb because the story I recall, to everyone’s disappointment, only made one appearance. I expect further reports were instantly suppressed by the powers of … well, shall we just say—those with an interest. But even they couldn’t censor the tittle-tattle!’

The priest’s housekeeper showed Joe into Father Pierre’s study. ‘Commander Sandilands, Father,’ she murmured and left them together.

‘Good of you to see me, Father,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve just spent an hour with Alphonse Lacroix who gave me your name as one who might possibly be able to help me.’

‘Sit down. Sit down. You’re very welcome. But—help an English policeman?’ He looked again at the card he held in his hand. ‘A Scotland Yard Commander? Are you sure you want to see me?’