“Only that the sort of men who were Mr. Bryce’s social equals had probably never been in a kitchen in their lives and wouldn’t know where to find the knives,” I replied, moving away from my thoughts on the housekeeper.

“That is true, if the killer was indeed Mr. Bryce’s social equal,” he said. “He was a patron of many poor artists, was he not? And the killer was not necessarily a man. The knife was good and sharp. A healthy woman could have plunged it in.”

“Mercy me,” Mary Cassatt said in English, and took a hasty sip of her wine.

“And if the killer was not a person Mr. Bryce knew but perhaps a Jewish man, angry at his anti-Jewish sentiments, as has been suggested?”

“He was alone in the house, madame. He was hard at work, painting, and did not like to be disturbed. I do not think he would have admitted such a person, if he even bothered to answer the front door himself while his housekeeper was away.”

“The person could have forced his way in,” Mary suggested.

“Then Mr. Bryce would not have been sitting down,” I said before the inspector could answer. “The intruder would have stabbed him in his foyer, not been brought through all the way to his studio.”

“Alas, there was the window,” the inspector said. “Mr. Bryce always kept a window open because of the smell of paint and turpentine. The window was high enough above the street to make entry difficult, but an agile person could have managed it, entered when Mr. Bryce left the room, and waited for the right moment to strike.”

Mary shuddered again. “Too horrible to contemplate,” she said.

The inspector smiled. “You do not seem to have the strong stomach of your relative here,” he said. “But then she was once a detective, was she not?”

I could tell from his tone that he hadn’t quite accepted my story. He was not sure who I was and was suspicious about why I was here and whether I had anything to do with Mr. Bryce’s death. I realized I had to tread carefully or I might find myself cast in the role of prime suspect.

“But surely anyone attempting to climb in would have been seen,” I said. “The Rue François Premier is quite busy.”

“You forget those houses have small gardens facing the street. One could hide among the shrubs for the right moment.”

“Dangerous, surely,” I said. “Anyone going over to the window would spot the person immediately.”

“Criminals often enjoy risks, madame, as you, being a detective, should know. So tell me, where was this detective agency of yours?”

“In New York,” I said. “I closed it when I married. Now I am only a wife and mother and enjoy the leisure to visit family and friends.”

“Your husband is generous to allow you to travel without him.”