Even allowing for the storm, the village seemed oddly empty. Nothing seemed to be open. Once he thought he heard footsteps in the distance, muffled by the mist. Once he thought he heard the bleating of sheep. But when he listened again, all was quiet.

The state of the road got better, the buildings more grand, the further he went. The larger houses had laurel trees in wide wooden planters outside their doors. But, still, he saw no one. No signs of day-to-day life. All the shops were boarded up and the wooden shutters firmly bolted.

Heavy, metal-framed gas lamps were set into the walls. The flames cast a weak yellow glow. But although the mist had lifted a little, there was something about the dusk, the stillness and the lack of life that made Freddie feel as if he had stepped into an old-fashioned photograph. He half expected to see gentlemen in old-fashioned coats and top hats walking past. Or nursemaids pushing babies in prams. Or little girls with their hair in ribbons and boys in sailor suits playing with wooden spinning tops.

Without warning, a memory of a family photograph came into his mind. It was the last one taken of them all together. His mother was seated, her long skirts spread out around her. He, a boy of ten, stood next to her. Their father, smart in his wing collar and black moustache, stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder. George, fine in his uniform, stood on the other side of his mother.

They were all smiling.

Freddie took a deep breath. George. It was more than ten years since his brother had gone missing. Freddie’s dreams were still haunted by him, but he thought of George less often as the years went by. It was odd his brother was so much on his mind this afternoon.

‘A place of ghosts,’ he said again under his breath.

Freddie arrived at the small square in the centre of the village. It was bordered on three sides by buildings and lined by trees with silver bark. In the centre there was a stone well with high sides and, in one corner, a water trough for animals. Beside it he saw a small café with a yellow and white striped awning. It, too, was shut, the chairs were tipped forward against the round metal tables. A small church occupied most of the southern side of the square, with a single bell set high in the wall.

As his gaze moved around the square, Freddie found what he was looking for: a modest guest house, plain but respectable-looking. He walked over and up the three stone steps leading to a wide wooden door. A board above the door gave the names of the owners, Mr and Mrs Galy. Another sign stuck in the window, this one handwritten, said there were vacancies.

A brass bell hung on the wall. Freddie raised his hand to pull the rope when, suddenly, something made him pause. He had a prickling feeling on the back of his neck. He felt as if hidden eyes were watching him from behind the shutters and windows, the same feeling he’d had in the woods.

Freddie glanced behind him. Again, there was no one there.

‘Pull yourself together,’ he said to himself.

Freddie took off his hat, straightened his jacket, then rang the bell. At once, he heard footsteps behind the door. Moments later, it was opened by an old man in a flat-collared shirt, a waistcoat and heavy brown country trousers. His face was weather-beaten, lined by the years. White hair framed his face. Freddie guessed he must be Mr Galy, the owner.

‘Yes?’

In halting French, Freddie asked if there was a room available for the night and tried to explain about the accident. Mr Galy at first said nothing, then shouted down the corridor. A stout, middle-aged woman dressed in black from head to toe appeared. Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she came towards them.

Mrs Galy spoke some English, at least enough for Freddie to be able to explain how his car was stranded in the mountains above the village. She nodded. Then after a rattling conversation with her husband, too fast for Freddie to follow, said there was a local mechanic who could help.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said.

‘Not this afternoon?’

Mrs Galy shook her head. ‘It’s too late. It will be dark soon. Tomorrow.’

Freddie shivered, suddenly aware of how cold he was. The cut on his forehead had started to ache. He felt very tired, bone-weary.

‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’