The journey down to the south of France that took the Drummonds several days in that summer of 1952 can be done today in closer to ten hours. Modern autoroutes and more efficient cars have vastly reduced the time – or, at least, that is the case for most of the year. Not, though, at the beginning of August when the roads are jam-packed with Parisians, Dutch and Germans all heading in that direction for the traditional month-long break. The traffic jams then – aptly calledbouchons (corks) by the French – can stretch for miles, providing plenty of time for those so inclined to contemplate the Drummonds’ terrible end and wonder at what secrets lie in the beautiful and rugged countryside of Provence even now, yet come to light almost three-quarters of a century later?

There are still a few pilgrims who go to visit the graves of the victims. The funerals for all three were conducted two days after their bodies were discovered. They had been taken some 10 km away to the local hospital in Forcalquier, a small town of less than 3,000 people that had been Provence’s capital in medieval times. After the post-mortems were complete, the bodies rested in the hospital chapel until a Protestant priest was located to conduct the service. The chapel was tiny, only just big enough for a few mourners. Jack’s godson and a couple of his colleagues from Nottingham were able to make the trip. The Marrians, the friends the Drummonds had met in Villefranche, were also there, as was the Consul General from Marseilles.

Jack, Anne and Elizabeth made their final journey together by horse-drawn hearse to Forcalquier’s beautiful yew-lined cemetery with spectacular hillside views of the Provençal landscape. It was another stiflingly hot day. The locals followed the cortege in their Sunday best, accompanied by holidaymakers in bright summer attire. The outrage at the crime was still raw and many locals were in tears. Flowers were piled outside the chapel and strewn along the route by local children. Then the three simple plain oak coffins, each adorned with a wreath (‘To Elizabeth from Grannie’ read the one for the little girl, touching in its simplicity), were lowered into the ground. Elizabeth lay in between her parents. Some peace for the child, it is to be hoped, after the appalling tumult. But there is something not quite right about the scene. A detail out of place that points to the chaotic circumstances that have seen them laid to rest here. The family name on each of the headstones has been misspelt. Just the one ‘m’ where there should be two: ‘Drumond’.

There are remnants of the tragedy on the road where it occurred too. The mulberry tree near the site of the killings is still there and you can see the pockmarks on a stone wall where some of the bullets ricocheted. At the spot where Elizabeth fell is a homemade wooden shrine, well tended to this day, adorned with ribbons and surrounded by teddy bears. Totems of the violence and innocence that collided here. But in France, those who still remember the crimes do not speak of the Drummond murders. To them, they are routinelyl’affaire Dominici. To those of us looking back on the events from a historical distance, this is troubling. It is too often that the names of victims are treated as secondary to those of the perpetrators of monstrous crimes. It is why almost everyone has heard of Jack the Ripper but only a few of us could name any of his victims. But in the case ofl’affaire Dominici, the erasure of the victims is even stranger. Jack the Ripper’s victims were not public figures, unlike Jack Drummond. Sir Jack Drummond, let us not forget. His was a name that was known up and down the land. Yet at the moment of his slaughter and that of his family, his famous name was superseded by that of another. If Jack’s relegation is puzzling, even more ou