“The gardeners do not live on the premises. I have the address at which they can be found, if you will wait. They usually start early then go home after lunch. And the chauffeur has a small apartment over the garage. I think he was also given the afternoon off, as Sir Toby planned to be on his yacht and this young man was given the car.”

“And what is your capacity in this household?” Johnson was asked.

“He is—he was Sir Toby’s manservant, valet,” Coco translated. “He also acted as secretary when necessary and helped Sir Toby with his correspondence.”

“Why was he not attending on his master, leaving him in the house alone?” the policeman asked.

“Sir Toby went off on his yacht about midday,” Johnson said, addressing the answer to Coco rather than the gendarme. “I was told to take his car and go into Nice, where I had various commissions to carry out. I had to send a telegram to England, to have his shoes resoled, to obtain more of his favorite cigars and to mail letters. He told me that I need not hurry back as he thought he might sail to Monte Carlo and probably dine there. Therefore I took the liberty of having a cup of coffee in a café and of strolling around, observing the people. This is my first trip abroad, so it’s all a novelty to me.”

“And you returned when?”

“A few moments ago, as I told you. The driveway was blocked by your car, so I went to Madame’s villa next door to find out what was wrong.”

As this question-and-answer session continued, I found my gaze drifting to the glass-topped table in which the queen’s snuffbox reposed. If only they would all go out to the pool, I might have a chance to lift the lid and take it. My heart was racing. This was not in my character, having been brought up with strong Scottish virtues and the Ten Commandments rammed down my throat by my nanny. But was it stealing to retrieve what had been stolen by someone else? Probably not. The point was that it would be seen as stealing if I were caught, and I wasn’t sure that the queen would want me to reveal her little scheme to the French police.

“It will be simple to verify your movements in town today,” the gendarme said, “if you will write for us the names of the establishments you visited.”

“Certainly.” Johnson went across to a bureau and opened it, taking out a sheet of paper. He wrote swiftly, then handed the paper to the policeman.

I edged closer to the table. They were watching Johnson. I eased the lid up a little. My hand slid inside—