‘I found it in my father’s things after he died. He told Hélène he had burned it, burned everything. She went to her grave thinking everything of Sophie was destroyed. That was the kind of man he was.’

She can barely tear her eyes from them. ‘I will copy them and send this straight back to you,’ she stammers.

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘What use do I have for them? I can no longer read.’

‘Monsieur – I have to ask. I don’t understand. Surely the Lefèvre family would have wanted to see all of this.’

‘Yes.’

She and Mo exchange looks. ‘Then why did you not give it to them?’

A veil seems to lower itself over his eyes. ‘It was the first time they visited me. What did I know about the painting? Did I have anything to help them? Questions, questions …’ He shakes his head, his voice lifting. ‘They cared nothing for Sophie before. Why should they profit at her expense now? Édouard’s family care for nobody but themselves. It is all money, money, money. I would be glad if they lost their case.’

His expression is mulish. The conversation is apparently closed. The nurse hovers at the door, signalling mutely with her watch. Liv knows they are on the point of outstaying their welcome, but she has to ask one more thing. She reaches for her coat.

‘Monsieur – do you know anything about what happened to your aunt Sophie after she left the hotel? Did you ever find out?’

He glances down at her picture and rests his hand there. His sigh emanates from somewhere deep within him.

‘She was arrested and taken by the Germans to the reprisal camps. And, like so many others, from the day she left, my family never saw or heard of her again.’

23

1917

The cattle truck whined and jolted its way along roads pocked with holes, occasionally veering on to the grassy verges to avoid those that were too large to cross. A fine rain muffled sound, making the wheels spin in the loose earth, the engine roaring its protest and sending up clods of mud as the wheels struggled for purchase.

After two years in the quiet confines of our little town, I was shocked to see what life – and destruction – lay beyond it. Just a few miles from St Péronne, whole villages and towns were unrecognizable, shelled into oblivion, the shops and houses just piles of grey stone and rubble. Great craters sat in their midst, filled with water, their green algae and plant life hinting at their long standing, the townspeople mute as they watched us pass. I went through three towns without being able to identify where we were, and slowly I grasped the scale of what had been taking place around us.

I stared out through the swaying tarpaulin flap, watching the columns of mounted soldiers pass on skeletal horses, the grey-faced men hauling stretchers, their uniforms dark and wet, the swaying trucks from which wary faces looked out, with blank, fathomless stares. Occasionally the driver stopped the truck and exchanged a few words with another driver, and I wished I knew some German so that I might have some idea of where I was going. The shadows were faint, given the rain, but we seemed to be moving south-east. The direction of Ardennes, I told myself, struggling to keep my breathing under control. I had decided the only way to control the visceral fear that kept threatening to choke me was to reassure myself I was heading towards Édouard.

In truth, I felt numb. Those first few hours in the back of the truck I could not have formed a sentence if you had asked me. I sat, the harsh voices of my townspeople still ringing in my ears, my brother’s expression of disgust in my mind, and my mouth dried to dust with the truth of what had just taken place. I saw my sister, her face contorted with grief, felt the fierce grip of Édith’s little arms as she attempted to hang on to me. My fear in those moments was so intense that I thought I might disgrace myself. It came in waves, making my legs shake, my teeth chatter. And then, staring out at the ruined towns, I saw that for many the worst had already happened, and I told myself to be calm: this was merely a necessary stage in my return to Édouard. This was what I had asked for. I had to believe that.

An hour outside St Péronne the guard opposite me had folded his arms, tilted his head back against the wall of the truck and slept. He had evidently decided I was no threat, or perhaps he was so exhausted that he could not fight the rocking motion of the vehicle enough to stay awake. As the fear crept up on me again, like some predatory beast, I closed my eyes, pressed my hands together on my bag, and thought of my husband …

Édouard was chuckling to himself.

‘What?’ I entwined my arms around his neck, letting his words fall softly against my skin.

‘I am thinking of you last night, chasing Monsieur Farage around his own counter.’

Our debts had grown too great. I had dragged Édouard round the bars of Pigalle, demanding money from those who owed him, refusing to leave until we were paid. Farage had refused and then insulted me, so Édouard, usually slow to anger, had shot out a huge fist and hit him. He had been out cold even before he struck the floor. We had left the bar in uproar, tables overturned, glasses flying about our ears. I had refused to run, but picked up my skirt and walked out in an orderly fashion, pausing to take the exact amount Édouard was owed from the till.

‘You are fearless, little wife.’

‘With you beside me, I am.’

I must have dozed off, and woke as the truck jolted to a halt, my head smacking against the roof brace. The guard was outside the vehicle, talking to another soldier. I peered out, rubbing my head, stretching my cold, stiff limbs. We were in a town, but the railway station had a new German name that was unrecognizable to me. The shadows had lengthened and the light dimmed, suggesting that evening was not far away. The tarpaulin lifted, and a German soldier’s face appeared. He seemed surprised to find only me inside. He shouted, and gestured that I should get out. When I didn’t move swiftly enough, he hauled at my arm so that I stumbled, my bag falling to the wet ground.