Pook sat at the large table and looked across at Bisset with a fixed smile. The Frenchman was studying the map and looking at books piled around him. His jacket was off, his sleeves were pulled up and his elegantly coiffured hair was starting to hang limply over his face.

“How is it progressing?” said Pook.

“Bon, bon,” said Bisset absently.

“Your fraternity certainly requires full use of your abilities,” said Pook. “One would almost think there was… no one else.”

Bisset looked up.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“That your fraternity has no one else in it,” said Pook, “with your ability.”

Bisset stared at him.

“We are an order of quite some importance and many aims. The satisfaction of one man’s obsession is not of great significance to us,” he said before continuing his work on the map.

“And your master is very, very obsessed with this… Jennings,” Bisset added casually. “Why is that?”

“Beyond what he told you, I believe Mr Clackprattle feels personally slighted by Sir John and highly aggrieved at his treatment. He wants some reparation, some public reparation, so it is clear who is the superior,” said Pook.

“And you,” asked Bisset. “What do you seek?”

“I am my master’s servant,” said Pook. “His needs and wishes are my needs and wishes.”

Bisset glanced up at the smiling, implacable face, his eyebrows raising slightly.

“Hmm…” he said. “You understood of course that my masters have needs and wishes too.”

“Indeed,” said Pook. “From our original conversation I inferred you had a use for Mister Clackprattle’s unique talent.”

“I have a list,” said Bisset, “of enemies of the fraternity. You will take the list and remove them. But not all at once, please. And you must follow the sequence of the list.”

Pook’s eyebrows raised then.

“That’s rather a strange way to arrange assassinations,” he said.

“Our reports from the shop say that everyone believed Dinard had died of old age.” said Bisset. “Your master’s talent leaves his victims looking unmolested. The list is by age, the oldest first so as to disguise our purpose for as long as possible.”

“Of course,” said Pook. “I understand. The deaths will seem to be merely the sad passing of an aging person, rather than an underhand act.”

“Just so,” said Bisset, then suddenly “Merde! It’s so obvious! Why didn’t I see it?”

He stood up, sighed and pushed back his hair into some kind of order.

“We have the first location. I will take some refreshment now and some rest,” Bisset said wearily.  He walked away out of the room whilst Pook continued to sit.

When the door closed  Pook looked over at the map then emitted a quick, high pitched giggle. He took a pen and a piece of paper and wrote on it.

“Master, all is going to plan, we will start tomorrow.”

He then walked across to the fireplace, the large fire dying down but still active. He threw the paper into the fire and watched as the smoke rose, twisting into shapes like letters. When the paper was burned and the smoke had gone, Pook went back to the table, picked up the map and left the room. The smile on his face didn’t change once.

Dinard’s shop was empty of people and the dust was dancing in the late afternoon sunlight. From the back room there was a rustling sound and an occasional sigh. The knob on the door to the street rattled.

“It looks like no-one’s in,” said Sir John from outside.

“Good,” said Emile. “Stand over there a minute, will you?”

“If you like,” said Sir John. There was a scratching noise at the door in the lock, then some clicking and finally the door swung open. The sounds in the back room stopped instantly.

“Voila!” said Emile, walking into the shop.

“You can’t do that!” said Sir John, hovering outside the door.

“I just did,” said Emile. “Come on in Sir John and I’ll show you what I saw.”

“I don’t think I should,” said Sir John, still hovering.

“Then I shall bring it out,” said Emile.

“You shouldn’t do that either, it’s theft,” said Sir John. He hopped from one foot to another then sighed and came into the shop.

“I knew you’d see sense,” said Emile. “Besides, this is important.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me before?” said Sir John.

“Well, I didn’t want to scare Marie, and besides I thought you wouldn’t agree to come if I told you what I was planning to do,” said Emile. Sir John sighed again.

“You were probably right,” he said. “What is it you want to show me?”

Emile grinned and then vaulted over the counter. Sir John gapsed and waved his arms in the vague direction of the Frenchman.

“You can’t… that’s not…” spluttered Sir John.

“I was ‘ere the other day, the one after Dinard died,” said Emile from underneath the counter. “I had a book on order from him. I know the tat on the shelves is garbage, but he knew how to get the good stuff too. So I thought I’d try to find his order book and see what had happened to my order.”

Emile stood up and placed a small book onto the counter.

“I didn’t find it,” he said, “but I found something else. His appointment book.”

Emile opened the book and pushed it toward Sir John. The smile had gone now.

“Guess who he saw on his last day?” said Emile.

Sir John looked puzzled at the small book then gasped again.

“Clackprattle!” he said.

“Indeed,” said Emile. “It was maybe a couple of hours before you came in and…”

Emile suddenly stopped and put a finger to his lips. Sir John looked puzzled and Emile tapped his ear. He then darted into the backroom. There was a crashing sound and some shouting and Emile came back dragging a young, thin man with a pale face.

“Who are you?” Emile was shouting. “What are you doing in this shop?”

The young man was shaking and squirming out of the evening sunlight.

“I… I… I…” he said, “I work here, Monsieur, for Monsieur Dinard.”

Emile snorted.

“Well, I haven’t seen you before,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Os – Osvold”, said the young man. Still squirming and shaking.

Sir John stood very still and tilted his head.

“Osvold,” he said slowly, “do you mostly work at night?”

The young man nodded vigorously.

“And did M Dinard look after you… perhaps… bring you… food?” said Sir John.

Osvold’s eye’s dropped to the floor and he nodded.

“I think,” said Sir John, glancing at Emile, “we need to introduce you to a friend of ours.”

Marie continued to stare out of the window of the small house. Sir John and the tenants, M and Mme Enrault, stood in the room as she did so.

“Would either of you like some coffee or perhaps some tea,” said M Enrault, looking nervously at Sir John. M. Enrault was still trying to work out why he had invited this strange pair into his house, a question his wife was also considering from the expression on her face.

“No thank you,” said Sir John. “You can leave us, we’ll be fine.”

The couple retreated willingly and Sir John turned to look at his wife’s back.

“You think I’ve gone too far,” she said. “That I should have just asked and not… done what I did.”

“I imagine you thought you only had one chance, and you were so anxious to see your aunt’s old house again, that you panicked a little,” said Sir John gently.

Marie’s shoulders shook a little.

“It has been 28 years,” she said, “to the day.”

Sir John’s face fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps we should have waited.”

“No,” said Marie, “you were right, it is… fitting.”

Just then a woman in her sixties walked past and glanced into the window. She stared for a moment and then screamed. The woman dropped the bag she had been carrying and came up to the window. Her face was pale as she stared in at Marie.

“Mademoiselle La Fleur,” she said in disbelief. “Is that… is it really you?”

Marie’s head nodded and the woman went to the front door of the house. There was a knock at the door then a conversation in the corridor. The woman from the street came into the room and rushed over to Marie. She held Marie’s face with her hand and stared into it.

“Not a hair different,” she said in awe.  Marie smiled then.

“You are too kind Mme Duchamp,” Marie said. “My hairs are very different. Some are even grey now.”

The woman then looked over at Sir John and back to Marie.

“Is this… are you?” she said.

“May I present Sir John Jennings,” said Marie, “my husband. Sir John, this is Mme Margot Duchamp.”

“Enchantée,” said Mme Duchamp. “An English knight? How strange, but then you always were different. When I saw you now, when I screamed, I swore I thought you were a ghost. Especially today. What happened? Where did you go?”

“I am sorry to scare you Mme Duchamp.” said Marie. “All I can say is, after they died, my aunt, my uncle, I couldn’t be here anymore. I just had to leave.”

“My word, all these years!” said Mme Duchamp. “I can’t believe it, we thought you were killed with your aunt and uncle. Why did you not come back here? Your things were all here?”

“I did come back,” said Marie, “right after the shell took them. I saw it fall, I saw them die, right in front of me. I came back here and everywhere was their possessions, their life, our life. Now gone. It was too much, after my mother’s death. Too much for me. I took a bag of things I would need and I left. I didn’t have an idea to leave forever, but I never came back. And then. Then other problems. The commune and everything.”

Marie wiped away the tear which had run down her face.

“It was bad then for sure,” said Mme Duchamp. “A terrible time. But then did you find your uncle? He was looking for you.”

Marie looked confused.

“Mme Duchamp, my uncle was killed that day,” she said.

“No, not that one, the other one, the brother of your aunt. What was his name?” said Mme Duchamp. “Thierry? I forget his surname.”

“Oh,” said Marie. “He was not my uncle Mme Duchamp, he was just a family friend, I think. I called him uncle to be polite.”

“I think not, Marie,” said Mme Duchamp. “I’m sure your aunt called him brother. And besides, he came to look for you when he heard your aunt and uncle had died. Poor man looked so sad. So you didn’t see him? He didn’t find you?”

“No,” said Marie, “I… I didn’t know. Do you have an address for him?”

“I don’t,” said Mme Duchamp, “but this has reminded me I do have something you may want.”

“What is it?” said Marie.

“When we all were sure you had all died, your uncle said for us to take what we wanted from the house. I don’t think he cared to take much himself. So I took your books, and I have most of them still.”

“I don’t think I need them anymore,” said Marie, “but thank you.”

“No, you don’t understand,” said Mme Duchamp. “I just grabbed all the books without looking. I didn’t realise that one wasn’t a book at all. Marie, my dear, I have your diary.”