“The fact we are fortunate enough to be funded by a private individual rather than an institution is neither here nor there. It’s the unwarranted suspension of work which is so aggravating, not to mention inconvenient. Our work here is highly important.”

“Dr. Brayling,” said Noubel, as if they had been having the same conversation for some time, “my hands are tied. We are in the middle of a murder enquiry. You have seen the posters of the two missing persons, out? So, inconvenient or no, until we have proved to our satisfaction that the bones you have found are not those of our missing persons, work will be suspended.”

“Don’t be a fool, Inspector. There can be no doubt the skeletons are hundreds of years old!”

“You have examined them?”

“Well, no,” he blustered. “Not properly, of course not. But it’s obvious. Your forensic people will bear me out.”

“I’m sure they will, Dr. Brayling but until then…” Noubel shrugged. “There is nothing more I can say.”

Shelagh stepped in. “We appreciate the position you’re in, Inspector, but can you at least give us any idea of when you might be through here?”

“Bientot. Soon. I don’t make the rules.”

Dr. Brayling threw his hands in the air in frustration. “In which case, I shall be forced to go over your head to someone with authority! This is utterly ridiculous.”

“As you wish,” replied Noubel. “In the meantime, as well as the lady who found the bodies, I need a list of anyone else who went inside the cave. Once we have concluded our preliminary investigations, we will remove the bodies from the cave, then you and your staff will be free to go.”

Alice watched as the scene played itself out.

Brayling stalked off, Shelagh put her hand on the Inspector’s arm, then immediately withdrew it. They appeared to be talking. At one point, they turned and looked back toward the car park. Alice followed the line of their gaze, but saw nothing of interest.

Half an hour passed and still no one came near her.

Alice reached into her rucksack-brought down from the mountain by Stephen or Shelagh, she presumed-and pulled out a pencil and her drawing pad. She opened it at the first empty page.

Imagine yourself standing at the entrance, staring into the tunnel.

Alice closed her eyes and saw herself, fingers on either side of the narrow entrance. Smooth. The rock had been surprisingly smooth, as if it had been polished or worn away. A step forward, into the dark.

The ground sloped down.

Alice started to draw, working quickly now she’d fixed the dimensions of the space in her head. Tunnel, opening, chamber. On a second sheet, she drew the lower area, from the steps to the altar and the skeletons halfway between the two. Beside the sketch of the grave, she wrote a list of the objects: the knife, the leather pouch, the fragment of cloth, the ring. The face of the ring had been entirely smooth and flat, surprisingly thick, with a thin groove around the middle. Odd that the engraving was on the underside, where no one could see it. Only the person wearing it would know it was there. A replica in miniature of the labyrinth carved into the wall behind the altar.

Alice leaned back in her chair, somehow reluctant to commit the image to paper. How big? The diameter was nearly two meters maybe? More? How many circuits?

She drew a circle that filled most of the page, then stopped. How many lines? Alice knew she’d recognize the pattern again if she saw it, but since she’d only held the ring for a couple of seconds and seen the carving through the distant darkness it was hard to recall it precisely.

Somewhere in the rambling attic of her mind was the knowledge she needed. History and Latin lessons at school, curled up on the sofa with her parents watching documentaries on the BBC. In her bedroom, a little wooden bookcase with her favorite book on the bottom shelf. An illustrated encyclopedia of ancient myths, its glossy, garish pages grown dogeared at the edges where she had read it so often.

There was a picture of a labyrinth.

In her mind’s eye, Alice turned to the right page.

But it was different. She placed the remembered images side by side, like a spot-the-difference game in a newspaper.

She picked up the pencil and tried again, determined to make some progress. She drew another circle inside the first, trying to connect them together. No good. Her next attempt was no better, nor the one after. She realized it wasn’t only a question of how many rings there should be spiraling in toward the center, but more that there was something fundamentally wrong with her design.

Alice kept going, her initial excitement giving way to a dull frustration. The collection of scrunched-up balls of paper around her feet grew larger.

“Madame Tanner?”

Alice jumped, sending the pencil skeetering across the surface of the paper.

“Docteur,” she corrected automatically, getting to her feet.

“Je vous demande pardon, Docteur. Je m’appelle Noubel. Police Judiciaire, departement de I’Ariege.”

Noubel flashed his identification card at her. Alice pretended to read it, at the same time shoveling everything into her rucksack. She didn’t want the inspector to see her failed sketches.

“Vous preferez parler en anglais?”

“It would be sensible, yes, thank you.”

Inspector Noubel was accompanied by a uniformed officer with alert, darting eyes. He looked barely old enough to be out of school. He was not introduced.

Noubel squeezed himself into another one of the spindly camping chairs. It was a tight fit. His thighs bulged over the canvas seat.

^uEt alors, Madame. Your full name, if you please.“

“Alice Grace Tanner.”

“Date of birth.”

“Seven January 1976.”

“You are married?”

“Is that relevant?” she snapped.

“For information, Dr. Tanner,” he said mildly.

“No,” she said. “Not married.”

“Your address.”

Alice gave him details of the hotel in Foix where she was staying and her home address, spelling out the unfamiliar English names letter by letter.

“It’s a long way to come every day from Foix?”

“There wasn’t room in the site house, so…”

“Bien. You are a volunteer, I understand, yes?”

“That’s right. Shelagh-Dr. O’Donnell-is one of my oldest friends. We were at university together, before…”

Just answer the question. He doesn’t need your life story.

“I’m just visiting. Dr. O’Donnell knows this part of France well. When it turned out I’d got business to sort out in Carcassonne, Shelagh suggested I detoured via here for a few days so we could spend some time together. A working holiday.”

Noubel scribbled in his pad. “You are not an archeologist?”

Alice shook her head. “But it’s common practice to use volunteers, interested amateurs, or archeology students to do some of the basic work apparently.”

“How many other volunteers are there?”

She flushed, as if she’d been caught out in a lie. “None actually, not right now. They’re all archeologists or students.”

Noubel peered at her. “And you’re here until?”

“This is my last day. It was anyway… even before this.”

“And Carcassonne?”

“I have a meeting there on Wednesday morning, then a few days to look around. I fly back to England on Sunday.”

“A beautiful city,” said Noubel.

“I’ve never been.”

Noubel sighed and wiped his red forehead again with his handkerchief. “And what is the nature of this meeting?”

“I’m not sure exactly. A relative, who’s been living in France, left me something in her will.” She paused, reluctant to go into it. “I’ll know more after I’ve met with the solicitor on Wednesday.”

Noubel made another note. Alice tried to see what he was writing, but couldn’t decipher his handwriting upside down. To her relief, he left the subject and moved on.