Isabelle, he judged, was a woman who would decide for herself whether and when

and where to take a lover, and yet it would feel odd to him – and probably to

her – if he did not make an advance on his own turf. Neutral ground was called

for, and the lady wanted a picnic, so a picnic it would be.

He drove up the long hill past the water tower and out onto the plateau that

gave the best views along the bank of the river, and Isabelle made suitably

appreciative noises. At a road so small it looked like a track, he turned off.

They climbed another low hill, and came to the foot of a high and almost

vertical cliff where he parked on a small patch of ancient gravel, opened her

door for her and then released Gigi. He took a small picnic bag from the cool

box and she heard the tinkling of glasses.

‘I want you to meet a friend of mine,’ he said. He led her up a track, round a

corner and there, nestling into the base of the cliff, was a small house. It had

a door, two windows, and its roof was the great rock itself. A small stream

flowed from the base of the house through a gutter to tumble down the hill with

a soft sound. In front of the house was a narrow terrace, with an old metal

table and three chairs, and beyond it was a small vegetable garden. A black and

white mongrel dog was tied to a hook screwed into the doorpost, and growled when

it first saw Gigi. But Bruno’s dog knew his manners and approached slowly and

humbly, his tail wagging as if asking permission, and the two dogs sniffed each

other courteously.

‘They’re old friends,’ Bruno explained. ‘We go hunting together.’

The door opened and a small elderly man poked his head into the open. ‘Ah

Bruno,’ he said, as if they had last met a few minutes ago. ‘Welcome, welcome,

and who is your friend?’

‘Isabelle Perrault, this is Maurice Duchęne, owner and keeper of the sorcerer’s

cave, who was born in this cliff house and has lived here all his life. Maurice

Duchęne, meet Inspector Isabelle of the Police Nationale, a colleague but also a

good friend.’

‘My home is honoured to receive you, my dear Mademoiselle.’ The old man,

terribly bent with age, came forward to shake her hand. He had to cock his head

sideways to peer up at her, but Bruno noticed his glance was keen and almost

roguish.

‘A beauty, my dear Bruno, you have brought a real beauty to my home, and my

magnificent Gigi, prince among hunting dogs. This is a pleasure, such a

pleasure.’

‘Come, sit and have a drink with us, Maurice, and then with your permission I’d

like to show Isabelle the cave. And could you bring us some of your water?

Isabelle is from Paris and she will never have tasted anything like it so we

must take care of her education.’

‘Gladly, gladly, my dears. Sit down and I shall be with you immediately.’ He

turned and hobbled back into the house. Isabelle sat, and Bruno took a dark wine

bottle with no label from his bag and three small wine glasses, and poured.

Isabelle sat back and turned to look at the view, a vast sweep of the valley

with trees marking the river’s meandering course and more cliffs on its far

side.

‘Here we are, here we are, the finest water of mother nature and father

Périgord,’ said the old man, coming out with a tray and a jug of water and three

tumblers that were opaque with age. ‘Straight from the rock, straight into my

kitchen and bathroom, always running water. It never runs dry. And Bruno has

brought my favourite aperitif. He makes it himself, you know, every year on St

Catherine’s day. This must be last year’s vintage.’

‘No, Maurice, in your honour, and for Isabelle, I have brought the ’99 that you

like. Here, let us drink a toast to friendship, but first, Isabelle, I should

tell you that this is vin de noix, made from our local green walnuts and

Bergerac wine and eau de vie from my own peaches. You won’t find this in Paris.’

‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘And what a magnificent view you have, Monsieur Duchęne.

But is it not cold up here in winter?’

‘Cold? Never. The water never freezes and the rocks keep me dry. I have plenty

of wood and my stove is all I need, even on the coldest nights when there’s snow

on the ground. Now you must try my famous water, my dear. If there were much

more of it, I’d call it a source and bottle it and become richer than Monsieur

Perrier.’

She took a sip. It was cool, so lightly pétillant that she could barely taste

the bubbles, and without any of the chalky taste of some mountain waters. She

liked it and took some more, swirling it around her mouth.

‘It tastes like freshness itself,’ she said, and the old man rocked back and

forth with glee.

‘Freshness itself. Yes, that’s a good one,’ he said. ‘Yes, we shall remember

that. You think they would like that in Paris, Mademoiselle?’

‘Paris, New York, London – they would love it everywhere,’ she said. Bruno was

touched by her enthusiasm.

‘May I show her the cave, Maurice?’ he asked. ‘I have brought two torches. And

the vin de noix is for you, old friend, along with some pâté I made this

Spring.’ He took a large glass jar with a rubber seal from his bag and placed it

on the table, and the old man handed Bruno an ancient key and poured himself

another glass of Bruno’s drink.

They walked on past the vegetable garden, along an increasingly narrow winding

track, where only a flimsy rope fence protected them from the drop, and then

around a steep buttress in the cliff. They came to a patch of brilliant green

turf that led to an ancient iron-bound door in the rock. Bruno opened it with

the key, gave Isabelle a torch, and told her to watch her footing. He took her

arm to guide her in, and they stood for a moment to let their eyes get

accustomed to the darkness. Gigi stayed at the entrance, backing away from the

cave’s black interior and growling softly. Bruno was very conscious of

Isabelle’s closeness as he steered her forward, his feet carefully feeling their

way over the rough rock.

‘They call this the Cave of the Sorcerer, but hardly anyone knows about it and

even fewer come to see it,’ he said. ‘Maurice prefers it that way, so he puts up

no signs and will not let the tourist board advertise it. But it has something

very rare among the cave paintings of this district.’

He stopped, turned her slightly towards him and saw her give a small start, and

then lean slightly towards him as if she expected to be kissed, but he shone his

torch high and told her to look carefully. As she followed the movement of the

torch beam she suddenly saw that he was illuminating the outlines of a creature,

crouching and heavy and somehow touched with power and menace.

‘Is it a bear?’ she asked, but the torch was moving on. And there, next to it,

was another image, but now Bruno was playing the torch beam up and down along a

strange curve that seemed at first sight to be part of the rock. Bruno let her

take in the dark painted shape.

‘It’s a mammoth!’ she said, marvelling. ‘I see the tusks, and that’s a trunk,

and those massive legs.’

‘Twenty thousand years old,’ said Bruno softly, and shone the beam further along

to a small creature on all fours, its face turned towards them.

‘Its face is so human,’ Isabelle said. ‘Is it a monkey, an ape?’

‘No tail,’ said Bruno, moving the torch to the rump. ‘This is just about unique,

the only identified humanoid face in all the Périgord cave engravings that are

known. Look: the eyes, the curve of the jaw and shape of the head, and the gap