‘Did her husband go, as well?’

‘I do not think so. But he is also out, somewhere.’

Hiding from his wife, most likely. Happy marriages, I thought, seemed something of a rarity these days. Especially in Chinon.

‘Ah.’ Thierry glanced upwards, approvingly, as the violin shifted tunes. ‘This is the symphony by Beethoven, is it not?’

I listened, and nodded. ‘Yes, the Eroica.’

‘Comment?’

I repeated the name more clearly. ‘Beethoven’s Third Symphony. He wrote it for Napoleon.’

Thierry raised his eyebrows. ‘So it is French, this symphony?’

‘Well, in a way. But Napoleon went and had himself crowned Emperor before this piece was finished, and Beethoven wasn’t at all pleased about that.’ In fact he’d been so disillusioned that he’d changed the dedication – no longer for Napoleon, but simply ‘to the memory of a great man’. Every age, I thought, had mourned the loss of heroes.

Thierry smiled. ‘You know much about this music, Mademoiselle.’

‘Not really. I just remember certain pieces, and the stories that go with them.’

‘Me, I do not listen to the type of music Monsieur Grantham plays. I take him into Tours, to the discotheque, so he can hear real music, but …’ The young bartender shrugged again, amiably. ‘He says he likes better the violin.’

Silently, I sided with Neil. ‘What time is it now, Thierry, do you know?’

He turned his wrist to look. ‘It is just after fifteen hours.’ He sighed. ‘Two hours more before my work is finished for today.’

Work or no, I thought, the hotel bar wasn’t the worst place one could spend an afternoon. The long polished windows stood open to the scented breeze and the glowing sunlight of an autumn afternoon fell warm upon my neck and shoulders. Outside, the market crowds had thinned and I could clearly see the fountain scattering its rain of diamond drops through which the Graces gazed, serene.

Thierry was looking out the window, too, and thinking. ‘Yesterday, that was Monsieur Valcourt you lunched with, was it not? I did not know you knew him.’ The trace of envy in his tone puzzled me, until he went on, ‘He has the best car, the very best.’

I smiled, remembering that bright red Porsche that purred like a great cat and gleamed like any young man’s dream. ‘It is a nice car,’ I agreed.

‘Madame Muret, she has promised she will take me for a fast drive in this car one day. When Monsieur Valcourt is gone to Paris.’

‘Has she really?’

‘Yes. He lets her drive the car, when he is gone. She brought it here last week when she came once to see Christian, and she would have given me the ride then,’ he confided, ‘only I could not leave until my work was finished and by that time the police had telephoned.’

I frowned. ‘The police?’

‘Yes. To say they had found the body of her husband.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘It was most sad.’

Presumably he meant his thwarted efforts with the Porsche, and not the death of Didier Muret. I sympathised. ‘I could ask Monsieur Valcourt, if you like. He might have time to take you for a—’

‘No, please,’ he broke in hastily. ‘It is not so important. And besides, it would be more pleasant, I think, to drive with Madame Muret.’

Et tu, Brute, I thought drily. Were there any men around who weren’t smitten by Martine? Smiling, I swung my gaze beyond the tumbling fountain. There was that blasted spotted dog again, I thought. Without its owner, this time. It snuffled round the edges of the phone box at the far side of the square. Now who, I wondered, would a gypsy be telephoning?

When the phone behind the bar burst shrilly into life, I think I jumped as high as Thierry did, then caught myself and smiled. Paul was right, I thought. Simon’s paranoia was definitely spreading.

‘A moment,’ Thierry begged the caller, as a trio of customers came through the door from the street. He cupped his hand over the receiver and sent me an imploring look. ‘Mademoiselle, I wonder …?’

‘Yes?’

‘It is a call for Monsieur Grantham, but he is practising, and when he practises he always takes his telephone off the hook. I wonder, would you be so good …?’

‘You want me to fetch him for you?’

‘Please.’ He flashed the charming smile at me, the one the poor receptionist, Gabrielle, had such trouble resisting. I was a little more immune than Gabrielle to Thierry’s charms, but his dilemma was very real. The new customers settled themselves at the bar, expecting service. I sighed, and rose half-heartedly to go and break up Neil’s practise session.

A shiver struck me on the twisting staircase, but I shook it off again, blaming it on the cool breeze that drifted through the open door to the terrace. On the first floor landing the air felt distinctly chilly. Here the violin was sweeter, stronger, and even though I knocked two times it kept on playing. He couldn’t hear me.

My third knock was so forceful that it moved the door itself – the handle hadn’t latched properly – and I felt like an intruder as I watched the door swing inward on its hinges. It didn’t open all the way, just far enough to show me one angled corner of the room. And Neil.

It was easy to see, then, why he hadn’t heard me. I doubt if anyone could have reached him at that moment – he was locked in a world that no one else could touch or even visualise. He looked a different person when he played. His eyes were closed as if it somehow pained him, the fleeting and elusive beauty of the music that would not be held, but slipped past the listener almost before one’s ear could register the notes. Neil’s hands moved lightly over the familiar strings, sure as a lover’s touch and twice as delicate. And the strings responded in a way no human lover could, singing pure and sweet and achingly true. It was disquieting to watch.