‘Ah.’ He stopped and lifted out a print and its negative, both encased in a thin protective sleeve. ‘I think this is the one.’ He turned from his desk and showed her the print.

She took it carefully, holding it between her fingers, the way he had, and tilted it to the light. The snap showed a group of people, all dressed in rough, working-style clothing. Six men and one woman. They were huddled around a fire in the open, expressions sombre, most of them facing the camera. The men were armed with rifles, some with bandoliers of ammunition across their chests. The woman sat at one end of the group, a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. The man next to her had a hand on her knee. With its dark tones and grim connotations, the scene pulsed with atmosphere.

‘I took that,’ Poudric explained, remembering the occasion with unusual clarity, ‘one evening near Poitiers. I had worked hard to gain the confidence of this group and persuaded them to sit for posterity.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘This particular group was communist in its affiliations, but they were brave people, all fighting for what they thought was right. To be frank, it was risky having this done — for them far more than me — but when one is faced with history in the making, you take whatever opportunity comes along. And there were damn few weddings or celebrations requiring my expertise at the time.’ He chuckled dryly at the memory.

Agnes nodded, not taking her eyes off the photo, as if mesmerised. ‘Do you have others of this group?’

‘There are some, but I would need time to find them. The collection is not in order yet.’

‘In that case, this one will do.’

‘I will have to copy it — it’s the only one I have. I’ll need an address to send it to.’