The solitary statue of the virgin Mary gazed down over the tiny French village. It was rumoured she had kept the town safe from the ravages of the Great War. Generations later the current inhabitants naively believed she would protect them again. In the smothered daylight they ventured from the relative safety of their homes into the gravelled lanes and cobbled roads. On bended knee they bowed their heads in solemn prayer pleading they would not be the next to meet misfortune.

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The residents of the château had an entirely different focus. A game of celebrity charades was in full swing. Much like the band playing on the rapidly sinking Titanic, they were in for the long haul and committed to making it a memorable ride. The ornately carved liquor cabinet was swiftly being drained while ensuing laughter increased. Anything to take their minds off the cold cellar below, where nestled alongside the dusty racks of sparkling wine that bears the region's name were the bodies of five artists, carefully wrapped in antique linen sheets. 

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