Alice listened with half an ear, until they arrived at the northern side of the cathedral. The guide pointed at the eerie stone procession of Old Testament kings and queens carved above the north portal.

Alice felt a flutter of nervous excitement.

“This is the only significant representation of the Old Testament in the cathedral,” said the guide, beckoning them closer. “On this pillar is a carving which many people believe shows the Ark of the Covenant being carried away from Jerusalem by Menelik, son of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, despite the fact that historians claim the story of Menelik was not known in Europe until the fifteenth century. And here” – she lowered her arm a little – ‘is another mystery. Those of you with good eyesight might just be able to make out the Latin – HIC AMITITUR ARCHA CEDERIS.“ She looked round the group and smiled smugly. The Latin scholars among you will realise that the inscription does not make sense. Some guidebooks translate ARCHA CEDERIS as: ”You are to work through the Ark“ and translate the entire inscription as: ”Here things take their course: you are to work through the Ark.“ However, if you take CEDERIS to be a corruption of FOEDERIS, as some commentators have suggested, then the inscription might be translated as: ”Here it is let go, the Ark of the Covenant“.”

She looked around the group. “This door, among other things, is one of the reasons for the number of myths and legends that have grown up around the cathedral. Unusually, the names of the master builders of Chartres Cathedral are not known. It is likely that, for some reason, no records were kept and the names were simply forgotten. However, those with more, shall we say, lurid imaginations have interpreted the absence of information differently. The most persistent of the rumours has it that the cathedral was built by descendants of the Poor Knights of Solomon, the Knights Templar, as a codified book in stone, a gigantic puzzle decipherable only by the initiated. Many believed the bones of Mary Magdalene had once been buried beneath the labyrinth. Or even the Holy Grail itself”.“

“Has anybody looked?” Alice said, regretting the words the second they were out of her mouth. Disapproving eyes swivelled to her like a spotlight.

The guide raised her eyebrows. “Certainly. On more than one occasion. But most of you will not be surprised to hear they found nothing. Another myth.” She paused. “Shall we move inside?”

Feeling awkward, Alice followed the group to the West Door and joined the queue to enter the cathedral. Straight away, everybody dropped their voices as the distinctive smell of stone and incense worked their magic. In the side chapels and by the main entrance, flickering rows of devotional candles sparkled in the gloom.

She braced herself for some sort of reaction, visions of the past, as she’d experienced in Toulouse and Carcassonne. She felt nothing and after a while, she relaxed and began to enjoy herself. From her research, she knew Chartres Cathedral was said to have the finest collection of stained glass anywhere in the world, but she was unprepared for the dazzling brilliance of the windows. A kaleidoscope of shimmering colour flooded the cathedral, depicting scenes of everyday and biblical life. The Rose Window and the Blue Virgin Window, the Noah Window showing the Flood and the animals marching two by two into the ark. As she wandered around, Alice tried to imagine what it must have been like when the walls were covered with frescos and decked with richly woven tapestries, the Eastern fabrics and silken banners all embroidered with gold. To medieval eyes, the contrast between the splendours of God’s temple and the world outside the cloister must have been overwhelming. Proof positive, perhaps, of God’s glory on earth.

“And, finally,” the guide said, “we come to the famous eleven-circuit pavement labyrinth. Completed in 1200, it is the largest in Europe. The original centrepiece is long gone, but the rest is intact. For medieval Christians, the labyrinth provided an opportunity to undertake a spiritual.pilgrimage, in place of an actual journey to Jerusalem. Hence the fact that pavement labyrinths – as opposed to those found on the walls of churches land cathedrals – were often known as the chemin de Jerusalem, that is, the road or path to Jerusalem. Pilgrims would walk the circuit towards the centre, sometimes many times, symbolic of a growing understanding or closeness to God. Penitents often completed the journey on their knees, sometimes taking many days over it.”

Alice edged to the front, her heart racing, only now realising subconsciously she’d been putting this moment off.

This is the moment.

She took a deep breath. The symmetry was destroyed by the rows of chairs on either side of the nave facing the altar for evensong. Even so, and despite knowing its dimensions from her research, Alice was taken aback by the size of it. It entirely dominated the cathedral.

Slowly, like everyone else, Alice began to walk the labyrinth, round and round in ever decreasing circles, like a halting game of follow-my-leader, until she arrived at the centre.

She felt nothing. No shiver up her spine, no moment of enlightenment or transformation. Nothing. She crouched down and touched the ground. The stone was smooth and cool, but it did not speak to her.

Alice gave a wry smile. What were you expecting?

She didn’t even need to get her drawing of the cave labyrinth from her bag to know that there was nothing for her here. Without a fuss, Alice excused herself from the group, and slipped away.

After the fierce heat of the Midi, the gentle northern sun was a relief and Alice spent the next hour exploring the picturesque historic town centre.

She was half looking for the corner where Grace and Audric Baillard had posed for the camera.

It didn’t seem to exist or else was outside the area covered by the map. Most of the streets had taken their names from the trades practised there in previous times: clockmakers, tanners, equerries and stationers, testament to Chartres’ importance as the great centre of paper making and book binding in France in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. But no rue des Trois Degres.

Finally, Alice arrived back where she had started, in front of the West Door of the cathedral. She sat down on the wall leaning against the railings. Immediately, her gaze honed in on the corner of the street directly opposite. She jumped up and ran over to read the sign on the wall: RUE DE L’ETROIT DEGRE, DITE AUSSI RUE DES TROIS DEGRES (DES TROIS MARCHES).

The road had been renamed. Smiling to herself, Alice stepped back to get a better view and banged into a man buried in a newspaper.

“Pardon,‘ she said, moving sideways.

“No, excuse me,” he said, in a pleasant American accent. “It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

To her surprise, he was staring intently at her.

“Is there…”

“It’s Alice, right?”

Yes?“ she said cautiously.

“Alice, of course. Hi,” he said, pushing his fingers through his mop of shaggy brown hair. “How amazing!”

“I’m sorry, but I-”

William Franklin,“ he said, holding out his hand. Will. We met in London, nineteen-ninety four or five. Big group of us. You were dating a guy… what was he called… Oliver. Is that right? I’d gone over to visit with my cousin.”

Alice had a vague memory of an afternoon in an over-crowded flat filled with Oliver’s university friends. She thought she could just about remember an American boy, engaging, good looking, although she’d been head over heels in love at that stage, noticing no one else.

2›This boy? 2›

You have a good memory,“ she said, shaking his hand. ”It was a long time ago.“

You haven’t changed so much.“ he said, smiling. ”So, how is Oliver anyhow?“