“He was upset, madame, I can tell you that much. He stormed in, waving something at the master.”

“Something?”

“A piece of paper, madame. Maybe a letter?” She frowned, trying to remember. “And Monsieur Bryce told me to get on with my work. I asked if Monsieur Walcott would be staying for lunch and Monsieur Bryce said a firm ‘No.’ So I went but I overheard the young man saying ‘You’ve let me down. You’re a liar.’” She looked up at me now.

“Did he say why?”

“They spoke English, madame. After eighteen years of the master shouting at me in his native tongue I can understand a lot, but not when American people speak quickly together. Anyway shortly afterward the young man went.”

“And did not return again? You never saw him after that moment?”

“I did not. But I told you, after that is all a blur. One horrible nightmare. I can’t bear to think about it. Seeing my poor master there, and that fiend standing over him. I might have been killed too if I hadn’t run out, screaming for help.”

“Did you describe the man you saw standing over him to the police?”

“That’s just the problem. All I saw was the knife in Mr. Bryce’s chest and all that blood and his poor face, his eyes imploring for help. A slim young man, rather dandified. That’s all I could say.”

She looked around the room. “I should be getting on with my work.”

“I’ll help you,” I said. I opened the wardrobe and began to hand her down his jackets and suits. “Do you want them with tissue paper between them?”

She hesitated, not wanting me to get involved but glad to have someone helping her. “Yes, that would be a good idea.”

“So to return to that terrible day, madame,” I said, looking up as I lay a black smoking jacket into the trunk. “Was this model Shosette not there when he was killed? Wasn’t he working on the painting of her at that very moment?”

“She had walked out that morning,” the housekeeper replied. “They had some kind of altercation. I heard raised voices. I heard the front door slam. When I came to the studio to see what was wrong Monsieur Bryce was standing there alone at his easel. He said to me, ‘Silly girl. She’ll be back if she knows what’s good for her.’”

“And did she come back?”

“Not as far as I know. He ate lunch alone and then I had to go to the market to get the meat for his dinner. He was alone when I left him. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Presumably the police have questioned this girl?”

“They tell me nothing, madame. All I know is she was not the one who plunged the knife into him. That’s all that matters.”