that seems to be an open mouth.’

‘It’s wonderful, but it looks almost evil.’

‘That’s why Maurice calls it the Sorcerer. See that bag that he seems to clutch

in one hand? Maurice says that’s his magic tricks.’ He paused, and she shone her

own torch around the cave, up to the jagged, sloping roof and back to the

mammoths. ‘There’s one more thing I want to show you, something I find very

moving,’ he said, and steered her around a pillar of rock and into a smaller

cave, his torch darting back and forth at waist height before he found what he

was looking for. Then the beam focused on a tiny hand, the print of a child’s

palm and fingers, so clear and precise that it could have been made yesterday.

‘Oh, Bruno,’ she said, clutching at his hand and squeezing it. ‘A child’s hand

print. That’s so touching, it’s marvellous.’

‘Can’t you just see the little one at play? While his parents are painting

mammoths and sorcerers, the child puts a hand in the paint and then makes a mark

that lasts for ever.’

‘Twenty thousand years,’ she whispered, then impulsively reached up and touched

his cheek and kissed him. She let her mouth linger on his as the light from

their torches darted aimlessly around the cave. Bruno responded, tasting the

wine on her lips, until she moved her hand up to stroke his cheek. She drew

back, her eyes glinting in the torchlight and smiling questioningly, as if

asking herself whether he had brought any other women to this cave, and whether

it had worked the same magic on them.

They bade farewell to Maurice and his dog, and the sun was still an hour or more

from sinking as they returned to the car, hand in hand.

‘Now what?’ she asked.

‘Now for your picnic,’ he said firmly, and drove on up the narrow, winding road.

They came out on a wide plateau formed by the cliff that harboured the cave. He

drove on towards a small hillock topped with a ruined building, but the distance

was deceptive. The hillock was far larger than it seemed at first sight, and the

ruined building was tall and imposing.

‘It’s a ruined castle,’ exclaimed Isabelle with delight.

‘Welcome to the old castle of Brillamont, seat of the Seigneurs of St Denis,

built eight hundred years ago. It was twice taken by the English and twice

recaptured and sacked, and ruined over four hundred years ago by fellow

Frenchmen in the religious wars. It boasts the best view in France and the best

place I know for your picnic. You have a look around with Gigi while I organise

our meal. Just don’t climb the walls or the staircase – it’s not safe.’

Bruno watched as Gigi bounded ahead, occasionally glancing back to see what took

this human so long, and Isabelle climbed the hill past the crumbled castle walls

to a large sloping expanse of turf dominated by a central tower. Three of its

walls still stood, but the whole of the interior was open to her view. A stone

staircase that looked solid enough climbed up the interior of all three walls.

Bruno glanced up from the fire he was making as she paced the exterior walls and

looked out over the plateau, where the view was even grander than it had been

from the cave, with the River Vézčre flowing into the Dordogne as it came from

an adjoining valley.

Swifts and swallows were darting above Isabelle as she rejoined Bruno. He had

built a small fire inside a nest of stones and laid across it a metal grill he

had brought with him. Two freshly gutted fish were steaming gently above the

coals. He had spread a large rug and some cushions on the ground, and two

champagne glasses stood on a large tray. He’d put a fresh baguette ready, with a

hefty wedge of Cantal cheese and a block of pâté on a wooden board. As she knelt

on a cushion, he reached into the cool box and pulled out a half bottle of

champagne.

‘Now there’s a responsible policeman. Only drinking a half-bottle because he has

to drive,’ she said, sinking to her knees on the rug. ‘This looks even better

than I could possibly have dreamed when I asked for a picnic, Bruno. Where did

you get the fish?’

‘From my friend the Baron. He caught those trout less than half an hour before I

met you at the hotel.’

‘What would you have done if he hadn’t caught anything?’

‘You don’t know the Baron; he’s a born fisherman. The fish stand in line for the

honour of taking his bait. But just in case you’re still hungry after the fish,

a couple of my homemade sausages from the pig we killed in February are in the

cool box.’

‘Can we have one of those as well?’ she asked, clapping her hands. ‘Just so I

can try them? I don’t think I have ever had a homemade sausage before.’

‘Certainly, anything for the lovely lady of Brillamont,’ he said, handing her a

glass of champagne, and then diving into his giant cool box to bring out a long

skein of sausage which he laid carefully over the coals.’

‘That’s far too much. I just want a little taste.’

‘Yes, but Gigi has to eat too.’ He raised his glass. ‘I drink a toast to my

rescuer, with my deepest appreciation. Thank you for saving me from a real

beating back there in the square. Some day you must tell me where you learned to

fight like that.’

‘My toast is to you and your wonderful imagination. I can’t think of a better

evening or a better picnic, and there’s no one I’d rather enjoy it with.’ She

leaned forward and kissed him briefly, letting her tongue dart out between his

lips, then sat back, smiling almost shyly.

‘I’m glad,’ he said, and poured the rest of the champagne into their glasses.

‘Drink up, before the sun goes down and it gets too dark to see what we’re

eating.’

‘Knowing you, Bruno, you’ll have thought of that, and some elderly retainers

will march out from the castle ruins holding flaming torches.’

‘I think I’d prefer the privacy,’ he laughed, and handed her a tin plate from

his picnic box. He moved across to the fire to turn the fish and sausage, and

looked back briefly. ‘Help yourself to the pâté and break me off some bread,

please.’ He turned back to his cool box, and came out with two fresh glasses and

a bottle of rosé. ‘This is why we only had the half-bottle of champagne.’

‘Tell me about this pâté – the softer stuff in the middle and the dark bits.’

‘That’s how I like to make it. It’s a duck pâté, and then the circular bit in

the middle is foie gras, and the dark bits are truffles.’

‘It’s delicious. Did you learn to make this from your mother?’

‘No, from friends here in St Denis,’ he said quickly. He paused a moment. How

should he go on? ‘I learned how to do this from my predecessor in this job, old

Joe. He taught me a lot about food and cooking, and about being a country

policeman. In fact, between them, he and the Mayor and the Baron probably taught

me everything I know. I didn’t have a family of my own, so my family is here in

St Denis. That’s why I love it.’

The fish were just right, the blackened skin falling away from the flesh and the

backbone pulling easily free. She saw thin slivers of garlic that he had placed

inside the belly of the trout, and he handed her half a lemon to squeeze onto

the pink-white flesh, and a small side plate with potato salad studded with tiny

lardons of bacon.

‘I couldn’t make a feast like this in a fully fitted kitchen, and you produce it

in the middle of nowhere,’ she said.

‘I think they probably had very grand banquets up here in the castle in the old

days. The sausage looks about ready, and we still have another hour of twilight