Orlando. Finishing his morning tea, Joe decided it was his duty to confide his fears and suspicions to him and let him make what he might of them. He realized he didn’t know the man well enough to judge with any confidence how he would react. ‘All his geese are swans,’ Joe had agreed with Dorcas. And Joe was one of his geese. It wouldn’t surprise him to hear Orlando proudly announcing to the crowd that in the space of a few hours his Scotland Yard friend had uncovered under their roof a tormentor of small animals, a drugs ring, a deflowerer of virgins, and the man who once shot at Queen Victoria.

There was no way around it. Joe would have to count on Orlando’s common sense, though so far in their relationship it hadn’t made much of an appearance.

Joe sat on after breakfast as the rest wandered off to their work, sharing the dregs of the third pot of coffee with his target. ‘Come and help me find some children’s books,’ said Joe. ‘I’m sure on the way in I passed a store room full of broken rocking horses, rickety dolls’ houses and that sort of thing.’

Orlando looked a little surprised. ‘I know the one you mean. Follow me.’

When they entered the room Joe shut the door and invited Orlando to take a seat on a gaudily painted pirate’s chest. He pulled up a decaying nursery chair and tested it for strength and height before lowering himself on to it opposite and slightly higher than a puzzled Orlando. So far, so good. It never failed. Joe’s over-close proximity, knee to knee with his interviewees, the stiff breeze of moral rectitude at his back and, for choice, the sun in their eyes, was too unnerving for any but the most innocent of victims.

Predictably, Orlando began to squirm with discomfort. ‘Oh, goody!’ he said, nervously. ‘We’re going to play Snakes and Ladders! No? Knucklebones then?’

‘Shut up and listen to me, you clot!’ Joe snapped. ‘I need to put you on your honour and I’m a bit perplexed as to how to do that. Is there anything sacred you can be made to swear by? You don’t believe in God and you’d cheerfully sell your mother to the devil. If I were to confide something disturbing—could I trust you to handle the information with discretion? How far can I trust you, Orlando?’

The ingratiating grin faded and Orlando looked back at Joe with a face suddenly unprotected by its usual mask of mocking self-awareness. ‘You can trust me with your life. And any other burden you care to set on me. I thought you knew that?’

And, apparently regretting lowering his defences even for a moment, he reverted to his usual insouciance: ‘Didn’t realize I’d be made to swear a blood oath. I say, I hope you’re not contemplating a little knife-work to seal this brotherhood … Can’t stand the sight of the old claret oozing from the veins, don’t you know.’ Then, into Joe’s intimidating silence: ‘So it’s to be a round of Truth or Consequences, then? You tell the truth and I suffer the consequences?’

‘Something very like that,’ Joe agreed. ‘A warning, Orlando. And here’s the truth—this is not a safe place for the children. You must take them away from here.’

He waited for the automatic protests, the huffing and puffing to roll away. ‘Yes, yes, I can see that. Oh, to be ten years old and free to roam in a pack about the Château de Silmont in summertime! With a dozen indulgent adults to take an interest. Twenty years ago I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven to be among them … But listen—it’s gathering … I’m not sure what, but something dark. If there’s anything more important to me than flushing out a villain who’s committed a crime it’s preventing that crime from ever happening in the first place. There’s no glory in that for a policeman! No front page acclamations in the daily papers. And to hell with all that! Will you help me to take the necessary steps, Orlando?’

Joe waited for and got an understanding nod before he went on. ‘There are one or two things you ought to be made aware of. Listen—I went to take a look at the mess in the chapel yesterday. All as described and disturbing enough, but there was an additional element … a small furry one …’

Orlando listened and, to Joe’s relief, didn’t make the all-too-easy Englishman’s scoffing objections. ‘Not much of a reader, I’m afraid, Joe, and I can’t say I’ve ever opened a book by any of those psychologist chaps you go on about. From what I hear, it all sounds a bit like common sense and I can’t see what the fuss is all about. Perhaps it sounds more impressive being expressed in German? But I can quite see why you—or anybody—would be on the alert. It rang a bell with me—what you had to say at luncheon yesterday—that stuff about progression.

‘There was a girl in the village—yes, a girl—who was a bit queer in the head, you know. Started sticking pins in her dolls, chopping off their limbs … the family cat had kittens and they all mysteriously disappeared one by one. No one noticed.’ Orlando breathed in and out slowly and shuffled his feet. ‘Her baby brother, six months old, was found dead in his cradle one day. Suffocated, the doc said.’

Joe nodded. ‘Classic case. I do hope …?’

‘The doc is a clever man. He put two and two together and saw that the right thing was done.’

‘I don’t think your village gossip is going to be much help with the next problem. I have to ask—any dope-fiends in the neighbourhood?’

‘Dope? Not as far as I know. People say there’s a lot about these days. You can get anything you want in most Paris bars. You just go to the till with your cash. They even have a slang word for the till: la pharmacie! And the Riviera coast is Paris-by-the-Sea at this time of year. Bloody awful stuff! I’ve watched friends of mine … well, never mind. I drink too much and, yes, I’ve sniffed a little this and that. Lost my nasal virginity at a young age but never got addicted. I don’t think I’m the addictive type. Nothing clings to me and I cling to nothing. Everything and everybody rejects me in the end and moves on. Except for Dorcas. She’ll drop a tear on my coffin.’

‘So. Glad to hear you’re conscious of the dangers.’

‘I don’t want the evil stuff or any rum bugger under the influence of it anywhere near the children. It’s illegal here in France anyway. Throw your weight about, Joe. Lean on whoever it is you’ve flushed out and make them leave. Who? Give me a name!’

Joe took two screwed-up pieces of paper from his pocket. ‘Let’s examine the evidence first. What do you make of these?’

He handed one to Orlando.

Orlando took it and opened it up carefully. ‘It claims to be face powder—shade, wild rose. My mama uses these. Dab, dab, dab on the cheekbones. Useful little things to slip into your handbag. They don’t leak or spill. But this powder’s white.’ He licked a finger, ran it along the creases and popped it into his mouth. ‘Definitely not cosmetic. It’s cocaine,’ he said.

‘Thought so.’

‘Some folk use a five-pound note for the purpose,’ Orlando offered.

‘All adds to the gaiety, I suppose.’

‘Well, it could have been worse, you know.’

‘What do you mean? Bad enough, I’d have thought.’

‘There are more deadly concoctions about. Until recently, this stuff was sold openly over the counter as a tonic!’

‘Here in France?’

‘Yes. Never heard of Mariani Wine?’

‘Of course. A tonic—as you say. One of my great-aunts swore by it. She imported it by the case.’

‘I bet she did! But she was in good company. Other advocates of this infusion of coca leaves topped up with red Bordeaux wine included Edison—he of the electric light bulbs—Jules Verne, the Prince of Wales and His Holiness Pope Leo XIII. His Holiness actually awarded them a medal! At nine milligrams of the hard stuff per bottle, no wonder they were enthusiastic!’

Joe was entertained, as usual, by Orlando’s worldly knowledge. ‘Good Lord! I had no idea! Edison, eh? Isn’t he the chap who said genius is one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration?’