“It’s not as simple as that.”

He sat back in his chair. “In which case, I’m afraid I have no choice.”

“No choice but to do what?”

He darted his gaze to her rucksack. Alice dived for it, but she was too slow. Authie got there first and thrust it at Inspector Noubel.

“You’ve got absolutely no right,” she shouted. She turned on the Inspector. “He can’t do this, can he? Why don’t you do something?”

“Why object if you have nothing to hide?”

“It’s a matter of principle! You can’t just go through my things.”

“Monsieur Authie”, je ne suis pas certain-“

“Just do what you’re told, Noubel.”

Alice tried to grab the bag. Authie’s arm shot up and took hold of her wrist. She was so shocked at the physical contact that she froze. Her legs started to shake, whether out of anger or fear she couldn’t tell.

She jerked her arm free of Authie’s grip and sat back, breathing heavily as Noubel searched through the pockets.

“Continuez. Depechez-vous.”

Alice watched as he moved on to the main section of the bag, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before he found her sketchpad. The Inspector caught her eye. He hates this too. Unfortunately, Authie had also noticed Noubel’s slight hesitation.

“What is it, Inspector?”

“Pas de bague.”

“What have you found?” said Authie, holding out his hand. Noubel reluctantly handed him the pad. Authie flicked the pages with a patronizing look on his face. Then his look narrowed and, fleetingly, Alice saw genuine surprise in his eyes, before the hooded lids came down again.

He snapped the sketchbook shut.

“Merci de votre… collaboration, Dr. Tanner,” he said.

Alice also stood up. “My drawings, please,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“They will be returned to you in due course,” he said, slipping the sketchpad inside his pocket. “The bag also. Inspector Noubel will give you a receipt for it and have your statement typed up for you to sign.”

Alice was taken by surprise by the sudden and abrupt end to the interview. By the time she’d gathered her wits, Authie had already left the tent, taking her belongings with him.

“Why don’t you stop him?” she said, turning on Noubel. “Don’t think I’m going to let him get away with that.”

His expression hardened. “I’ll get your bag back, Dr. Tanner. My advice is to get on with your holiday. Forget all about this.”

“There’s no way I’m going to let this go,” she shouted, but Noubel had already gone, leaving her alone in the middle of the tent, wondering what the hell had just happened.

For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. She was furious, as much with herself as Authie, at being so easily intimidated.

But he’s different. She’d never reacted so strongly against someone in her life. The shock gradually wore off. She was tempted to report Authie straight away to Dr. Brayling, or even to Shelagh, she wanted to do something. She dismissed the idea. Given her status as persona non grata right now, no one was going to be sympathetic.

Alice was forced to satisfy herself by composing a letter of complaint in her head, as she turned over what had happened and tried to make sense of it. A little later, a different police officer brought the statement for her to sign. Alice read it through thoroughly, but it was an accurate record so far as it went, and she scrawled her signature across the bottom of the page without hesitation.

The Pyrenees were bathed in a soft red light by the time the bones were finally brought out from the cave.

Everybody fell silent as the somber procession made its way down the slopes toward the car park, where the line of white and blue police vehicles stood waiting. One woman crossed herself as they passed by.

Alice joined everybody else on the brow of the hill to watch the police load the mortuary van. No one spoke. The doors were secured, then the vehicle accelerated out of the car park in a shower of gravel and dust. Most of her colleagues went back up to gather their belongings straight away, supervised by two officers who were to secure the site once everyone was ready to leave. Alice lingered a while, unwilling to face anybody, knowing that sympathy would be even harder to deal with than hostility.

From her vantage point on the hill, Alice watched as the solemn convoy zigzagged away down the valley, getting smaller and smaller until it was no more than a smudge on the horizon.

The camp had grown quiet around her. Realizing she couldn’t delay any longer, Alice was about to go back up too when she noticed Authie hadn’t yet gone. She edged a little closer, watching with interest as he laid his jacket carefully on the back seat of his expensive-looking silver car. He slammed the door, and then took a phone from his pocket. Alice could hear the gentle drumming of his fingers on the roof as he waited for a connection.

When he spoke, the message was brief and to the point.

“Ce nest plus la,” was all he said. It’s gone.

Chartres

The great Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame de Chartres towered high above the patchwork of pepper-tiled rooftops and gables, and half-timbered and limestone houses which make up the historic city center. Below the crowded labyrinth of narrow, curving streets, in the shadows of the buildings, the river Eure was still in the dappled light of the late afternoon sun.

Tourists jostled one another at the West Door of the cathedral. Men wielded their video cameras like weapons, recording rather than experiencing the brilliant kaleidoscope of color spilling from the three lancet windows above the Royal Portal.

Until the eighteenth century, the nine entrances leading into the cathedral close could be sealed at times of danger. The gates were long gone now, but the attitude of mind persisted. Chartres was still a city of two halves, the old and the new. The most exclusive streets were those to the north of the Cloister, where the Bishop’s Palace once stood. The pale stone edifices looked out imperiously toward the cathedral, shrouded with an air of centuries-old Catholic influence and power.

The house of the de l’Oradore family dominated the rue du Cheval Blanc. It had survived the Revolution and the Occupation and stood now as a testimony to old money. Its brass knocker and letterbox gleamed and the shrubs in the planters on either side of the steps leading up to its double doors were perfectly clipped.

The front door led into an imposing hall. The floor was dark, polished wood and a heavy glass vase of freshly cut white lilies sat on an oval table at its center. Display cases set around the edges-each discreetly alarmed-contained a priceless selection of Egyptian artifacts acquired by the de l’Oradore family after Napoleon’s triumphant return from his North African campaigns in the early nineteenth century. It was one of the largest Egyptian collections in private hands.

The current head of the family, Marie-Cecile de l’Oradore, traded in antiques of all periods, although she shared her late grandfather’s preference for the medieval past. Two substantial French tapestries hung on the paneled wall opposite the front door, both of which she had acquired since coming into her inheritance five years ago. The family’s most valuable pieces-pictures, jewelry, manuscripts-were locked away in the safe, out of sight.

In the master bedroom on the first floor of the house, overlooking the rue du Cheval Blanc, Will Franklin, Marie-Cecile’s current lover, lay on his back on the four-poster bed with the sheet pulled up to his waist.

His tanned arms were folded behind his head and his light brown hair, streaked blond by childhood summers spent at Martha’s Vineyard, framed an engaging face and little-boy-lost smile.