Joe put a comforting arm around Georges’s shoulder and hugged him, feeling his dejection. He recognized that the boy’s desperate courage in sharing his hideous memory deserved an acknowledgement rather deeper than the ‘Well done, old chap . . . better out than in – what!’ which came instinctively to him. ‘That took some determination, Georges,’ he murmured. ‘I can understand how difficult it must be to speak of such horrors. But equally – how difficult to remain silent! In your present situation, which gets daily more tricky, you will want to do justice to your father or his memory as well as show loyalty to your mother. And perhaps there is a way through . . . If there is I’ll find it,’ he finished encouragingly. ‘We will find it. And you can count on our discretion.’ He wondered whether to add a few words about lancing the boil of suspicion with the scalpel of truth and decided he’d said enough.

‘But this is all fascinating, Georges! Aren’t you fascinated, Joe? I am!’ Dorcas’s voice rang out suddenly, gushing with excitement, as her eyes flashed a warning. ‘Do you know – in all the years I’ve been coming to France this is my first visit to a cellar. But you must be getting cold, Georges? I feel quite guilty, hogging your nice warm jumper. Why don’t we all go to the stables next and show Joe the horses? I warn you though – he’s quite an expert!’

‘Dorcas, really you exaggerate . . .’ Joe spun on his heel, hearing a slight sound behind them. ‘Ah! Madame Houdart! There you are! You discover us halfway round the tour. We are offered the horses next. Will you join us?’

Chapter Nineteen

Aline Houdart came towards them, smiling her pleasure at tracking them down. She looked fresh and charming in riding trousers and yellow blouse, a tweed jacket thrown over her shoulders. She showed no sign that her appearance down here in the cellar involved anything but her regular stroll around the property. She greeted Joe and Dorcas and, taking her son by the arms, reached up and kissed him on each cheek. ‘They told me I’d find you down here. What it is to have a son who wakes with the lark! Such energy! It makes me feel old and sluggish! But I’ll do my bit now. Better late than never. Georges, darling, you may stand down – I’ll show our guests around the stables.’

‘Dorcas has already seen them, Maman,’ said Georges, recovering. ‘We went out this morning. Early. I thought I’d take her to look at the vineyards next.’

‘Then we shall have the horses to ourselves, Joe,’ said Aline, slipping her arm through his. ‘But first I have a rather charming little ceremony to perform. And you can help me.’

The two young people had gone ahead and were out of sight by the time Joe emerged with relief into the fresh air and sunshine of the courtyard. He had been trying to reconcile the maenad image of destructive madness Georges had conjured from the haunted depths of the chalk galleries with the cheerful presence and inconsequential chatter of the woman leaning so lightly on his arm, and he could not. What had that looming vision – black, chalk-white and blood-red – to do with this bird-like creature, all chestnut and gold, at his side? With many questions still to put to Georges, he was resentful that Aline was setting the pace and organizing his morning, a feeling he instantly dismissed as churlish. He had made this journey specifically to talk to her and help resolve her problem, hadn’t he? – and here she was, gracefully making his task easier.

She paused by the door and pointed to a lidded wicker-work basket on the ground outside. ‘Would you mind, Joe? We ’re going to take that to the dovecote. Today you will be witnessing the founding of a new dynasty!’ she announced playfully. ‘A dynasty of doves.’

He picked up the heavy basket, catching flashes of white through the holes. ‘What have we got here?’

‘It’s a pair of doves a kind neighbour has sent me. Ours died out soon after the war and it’s high time we restocked. We have a perfect home for them over there, you see.’

She pointed to the round, stunted tower with its grey-tiled pepper-pot roof and started towards it. ‘A house looks so pretty with doves perched on its roof, don’t you think?’ She pushed open the door of the pigeonnier and Joe stepped inside, an earthy-scented darkness closing in around him, muffling his senses. Aline swung the door shut and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he found he was just able to see by the soft light filtering in from under the tiles.

‘Before we release them we’ll close their escape hole at the top of the roof. Look, we use this rope to open and close the louvres. Now, what you have to understand about doves is that you’ve got to keep them shut up together for at least two weeks, feeding them well, of course, before you can let them out into the open air. They have to be kept together in their place so that they learn it is their home to which they must always return and then they will mate. They are very faithful birds, you know, and mate for life so it’s important to get the pairing right. See how pretty these are!’ she said, taking one gently in her hands and spreading its wing. ‘This one is the female – a pure white. Here, hold her for a moment, Joe.’

Joe carefully took hold of the soft round shape which nestled perfectly happily into his cupped hands and began to smooth the silky down with his fingers.

‘Men have kept doves for at least seven thousand years, you know,’ she went on, seeing his interest wakening. ‘The ancient Egyptians used them as messengers. The Romans probably first brought them to France. And in Persia they were the sacred birds of Astarte, the Goddess of Love.’

Her close presence in the gloom, her murmuring voice and the gentle rustle of straw under his feet were disturbing. He was conscious of the smooth hands that closed over his to take back the dove; he was surprised by a warm waft of her perfume – an innocent country scent he thought he recognized. It was a moment before it came to him: that unique natural blend of flowers and spice was honeysuckle.

‘It’s very generous accommodation,’ he said awkwardly, looking around at the large number of nesting holes provided and rather regretting the slight tone of billeting officer he heard. ‘There must be room for hundreds of birds.’

He sensed she was smiling at him. ‘In earlier centuries, in winter when all the stock had been killed and eaten, doves often provided the only source of fresh meat. I suppose you would judge that a frightful gastronomic solecism? How typical of the French!’

‘Not at all,’ he said easily. ‘Cushat pie is not unknown in my country.’

‘We had a hard time towards the end of the war,’ she said. ‘There were many people to feed. Our stock was exhausted. The ones we didn’t eat we attempted to use as messengers. The English took away the last of our flock, intending to release them with goodness only knows what significant information taped to their feet, but none ever returned.’

‘I expect those also ended up in a stew,’ said Joe. ‘Cooked up in a dixie over a British camp-fire. So you’re intending to keep these two unfortunates prisoner in here until they agree to get on with each other?’ he added briskly. ‘I think I ought to be arresting you for something but I can’t imagine what the charge would be.’ He couldn’t shake off the suspicion that she was attempting to manipulate him in some way and yet her voice was cool, her attention entirely on the doves. ‘And how certain can you be that this pair will get on with each other? Who has had the selecting of them? Are they mates?’

‘I don’t think so. Not yet. These are young birds and I don’t think they have chosen a mate yet. They may get on well from the start but sometimes they do not and will peck each other quite savagely. But if you can keep them locked in together for two weeks it will do the trick. They will be lifelong lovers and they will become attached to their new home.’