I had obviously hit a nerve. He flushed. “Sorry, miss. Just had to pop to the nearest police station to relieve the call of nature.”

I almost said, “Well, don’t let it happen again.” My look implied it as I made a majestic descent, worthy of my great-grandmother, down the staircase.

I hurried back to Belinda’s, let myself in, and tried to sleep. I wasn’t any more successful than I had been before. The police had the note I had left for Binky. They had presumably felt the wet patch on his floor and might well have decided that he had soaked his clothing in trying to drown the victim. And another thought crept into my mind: the murderer hadn’t just wanted to kill de Mauxville. He had wanted to punish us as well.

At last I suppose I must have drifted off to sleep because I shot awake at the sound of a door closing. Belinda was making a poor attempt to tiptoe quietly across the parquet floor. She looked across at me and noticed my eyes were open.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she said. “Sorry. There’s no way to close that door quietly.” She came across and perched on the sofa beside me. “God, what a night. I swear every new cocktail is more lethal than the one before. They were making something called Black Stallions—I don’t know what was in them but, God, did they pack a punch. I’m going to have a frightful hangover in the morning.”

“Do you want me to help you make some black coffee now?” I asked, having no clue how one made black coffee.

“No, thank you. Bed is what I need. Bed alone, I mean. I was offered plenty of the accompanied kind, but turned them all down. I didn’t want you to wake up all alone.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “Almost beyond the call of duty.”

“To be honest, they weren’t that desirable,” she admitted with a grin. “I could tell they were going to be the ‘fancy a spot of the old rumpy-pumpy?’ kind. You know, a quick poke and over in five seconds. Honestly, public schools are doing Englishmen a great disservice by not providing elementary lessons in lovemaking. If I were in charge, I’d have employed a school prostitute, preferably French, to teach the boys how to do it properly.”

“Belinda, you are terrible.” I couldn’t help laughing. “And what about a male equivalent for the girls’ schools?”

“We had it, darling. Those delicious ski instructors we used to meet at the inn.”

“They didn’t, did they? All I got was a quick kiss behind the woodshed. Not even so much as a grope.”

“Primrose Asquey d’Asquey reputedly used to have it on a regular basis with Stefan. Remember the big blond one?”

“The same Primrose who was wearing white for her wedding the other day?”