I stayed at the farmhouse for two nights, enjoying the relative comfort of my surroundings and content, for the moment, to be away from other people. But I knew that I could not stay there forever, and on the third night made plans to travel ever closer to Albert. Wrapping a number of items of food and some bed linen into a blanket, I fashioned a makeshift rucksack from some old belts and a piece of tarpaulin. It was not comfortable to carry, but it did the job and, if I were to get caught, I felt it would at least give me the appearance of a local, fleeing from the fighting. I also carried the remainder of the tarpaulin to use as a tent.

The days and nights that followed were not without incident, as I came across at least two French army patrols and spent most of my time hiding in ditches and taking advantage of whatever shelter I could find. Occasionally I would see other travellers on the roads and footpaths, wandering almost aimlessly, displaced no doubt by the impact of war.

At least the weather proved kind, remaining largely dry until I finally came within five miles of Albert. At this point, I took refuge in a small brick-built shed on a hillside beside what remained of an extensive vineyard. This appeared to be a bad choice, for the next morning I awoke to the frantic shouting of an angry, bearded man holding a shotgun. The French that I had learnt did not enable me to readily understand or communicate with this man, although I gathered from his actions that he was less than pleased that I had slept in his property. In my frustration, I shouted back at him in English, “Please, I do not understand!”

His reaction was remarkable and all at once the shotgun was lowered and he gave me a broad grin. “Anglaise?” he mused.

I nodded, reluctant to smile back in case this was part of some elaborate trap. But he seemed genuinely pacified and beckoning for me to follow him, turned and paced out of the shed and off up the hillside. I hurriedly gathered my few belongings together and staggered out after him, squinting in the early morning light and taking in the variety of aromas that filled the air that bright spring morning.

There can be little doubt that lady luck continued to be on my side during that brief period in France. The vineyard owner that found me was the ageing Xavier Renouf, a bear of a man who loved life and appeared to have a particular fondness for the English. I learned later that his wife, the very elegant Vanessa Renouf, was the granddaughter of an English sea captain who had settled in the region some years before. Vanessa could speak very good English and both seemed happy to take me in and feed me, proudly serving me a meal on their prized Lowestoft porcelain - a welcome reminder of home.

The elderly couple provided me with a bed that evening and seemed unconcerned about any risks they faced in sheltering me. The next day I rose early and after a welcome bath and shave came down to find a large breakfast waiting for me. Still the couple seemed unconcerned about this young, ill-clothed Englishman who was wandering around the French countryside in the middle of a war. But on the basis that they did not appear to be in the least bit worried, I relaxed and enjoyed another good meal with them.

After breakfast, I once again thanked Madame Renouf for her hospitality and said that I would be leaving within the hour. She nodded sagely and smiled. “Peter, you are not the first British deserter to pass this way. And I doubt you will be the last. I wish you well in your travels.”

I felt some embarrassment at this, but smiled back and went off to gather my rucksack. When I said goodbye to the couple, I promised sincerely to repay them one day, and set off down the long track that led from the front of their imposing farmhouse. It was only later that I learnt how much I owed them, when I found that Xavier had hidden within my rucksack a loaf of French bread, some goat’s cheese and a good bottle of red wine .

If you are still with me, Heinrich, you will understand that I was now within a stone’s throw of the townhouse and the hoped for diamonds. Emboldened by my experience with the Renoufs, I began to walk the four or five miles towards Albert in broad daylight. The route appeared to be quiet for the most part - Xavier had indicated that the Germans had pulled back from the town at least a month before, having occupied it for some time prior to that. I hoped to God that this did prove to be the case.

Luckily, I encountered no soldiers of any kind and by late morning I stood on the outskirts of the town. I do not know what I expected to see at that point, but the sight I was faced with came as a big surprise. The area had been heavily shelled, with numerous buildings levelled and debris scattered all over. So bad was the damage left by the fighting, that I could scarcely work out the layout of the town compared to what I had learned back in Suffolk.

This was without doubt the lowest point of my journey so far, as I imagined that the townhouse in which your family had lived all those years before had been raised to the ground by the artillery shells. If this was the case, all of my efforts would have been in vain and my quest would be over. I stopped to rest at a large white gatepost that stood proudly and alone amidst the rubble of a former home, a large residence, judging by the size of the plot. Occasionally I would see local people coming and going through what remained of the town, none of them paying much attention to me. I am sure that they had more pressing concerns.

Having eaten some of the bread and cheese given to me by Xavier, I made my way into what remained of the town, still unsure what to do. I felt confident that I had reached the part of the town in which the house had stood, although I could not be sure. But as I scoured the buildings and rubble in desperation, my gaze centred on the remaining two stories of an impressive townhouse standing close to a small orchard. The walls of the house were dark blue and in an earthenware pot to the right of the main doorway I could see a single topiary tree. This had to be it .

My pleasure at finding the house was short-lived. The front door was locked and as I walked around the property on the side nearest to the apple orchard, I could see that very little of the building was still standing behind the front wall of the house. Without much thought for the dangers I faced, I began to climb over the mountain of debris. I felt strangely uneasy walking on what remained of the interior fittings and beautifully crafted furniture - one moment stepping over a child’s wooden horse, the next climbing up and over what looked like a large marble fireplace.

I am able to recollect that scene with incredible clarity as I write these words to you. And I am sure that you will understand how elated I was when, towards the rear of the house, I looked down amid the debris and saw beneath my feet the metal casing of a small green box. Dusting off the front of the box with my sleeve, I could see a maker’s name etched clearly in one corner and realised with joy that I had indeed found a safe. With the collapse of the interior walls of the house, the safe that had lain hidden for so many years, had finally been exposed - and only I knew of its existence.

I checked to make sure that no one was watching me, aware suddenly of the vulnerability of my situation. I tried to move the safe, thinking that it may be better to try and open it elsewhere. But even though the casing itself was less than one foot square, I could not move it at all and it remained fixed firmly among the brick rubble. I had to take a chance and open it there and then having come this far.