“But I just pointed out to the inspector that the fraternity of artists here is just that—they do not include women in their intimate chats. My only meetings with Reynold Bryce were at such formal occasions as the ambassador’s garden parties. Of his personal life I knew nothing.” She turned to the inspector. “I am a very private person, Inspector. I do not frequent the cafés or dance halls. I do not listen to gossip. I am sorry that I cannot help you. I wish very much for the truth of Monsieur Bryce’s murder to be revealed. It is a terrible thing that such a respected member of our community should die a violent and senseless death.”

The inspector looked as if he might have been ready to give up and leave when Celeste appeared with a carafe of wine and three glasses.

“It’s very good. I bought several cases last time I was in Bordeaux,” Mary said. “One thing I have learned during my long stay in France is to appreciate good wine.”

The inspector sat down again rapidly and accepted the glass she held out to him. I decided I had to make the most of this opportunity. “So tell me, Inspector. When I was at Monsieur Bryce’s house your men were looking for fingerprints. Did that search not produce any…” I didn’t know the word for clues. It was frustrating that my French was limited to the vocabulary of a schoolgirl. “Clues, Mary?” I turned to her for help.

He smiled. “Ah, yes. The lady detective. I had forgotten that. There were fingerprints on the knife, madame, but as yet we have not identified them. But we will. Rest assured we will.”

“Only one set of fingerprints?” I asked.

He gave me a suspicious look, his head tilted a little. “You believe there was more than one killer?”

“No. I wondered… if someone is stabbed he does not always die instantly. He would try to grasp the knife and remove it. His own prints would be on it.”

He nodded approval. “Bien sûr, madame. You are right. His own fingerprints were on the knife, as well as those of several other persons.”

“Several?” I said.

“It was a common kitchen knife as found in any good kitchen or restaurant in Paris.”

“From his own kitchen, perhaps?”

“His housekeeper says certainly not. None of her knives is missing. But she does not seem to me like a particularly neat and tidy person, and she was rather hostile when we tried to question her.”

“Interesting,” I said. I was actually wondering why the housekeeper mistrusted the police, but I knew little of police interrogation tactics in Paris. Maybe she did not enjoy being bullied or threatened.

He looked up sharply. “What do you imply by that, madame?”