Twice a year Caitlin conducted a photographic tour of Europe – usually the Rhine region or Tuscany and, invariably, the Dordogne river valley. There was a purely mercenary reason for that, of course – these were places of such outrageous beauty that – providing one remembered to removed the lens cap – it was nearly impossible to take a bad picture, which made Caitlin a great teacher. Happy customers meant good word-of-mouth which, thanks to the internet, meant a harvest of bookings for the next trip. Usually, fellowship flowed with the wine the first night at the Chateau and, once the awkward interval following introductions gave way to the initial peel of laughter, everyone behaved as is they’d fallen among long-lost friends. Not this time. This group was different, and a more mismatched herd of human beings she couldn’t imagine. This became evident the first night at dinner, when, having left the table, Jeremy Farthing grinned evilly, and closed the door quietly behind him. Mrs. Wagner sniffed. “Did anyone notice if that man cast a reflection when he walked by the mirror?†“I’d lock the door on him,†said Mrs. Griffeths, “if those girls weren’t still out there somewhere. If this were a murder mystery,†she added, “that man would be found full of cutlery in the morning, with a house full of happy suspects.†She scooped a vengeful spoonful of raspberries. “I don’t suppose that’s very nice of me, is it?†Mr. Piper seemed about to say something, but instead just smiled.
