The inspector laughed. “You English. I shall never understand your snobbery.”

“Your own French aristocrats are just as bad,” Vera said.

“Even more snobbish.”

The inspector nodded as if he had to agree this was true. He stepped back into the house, looking around the room. “This man was very rich, I think. He had a lot of fine things,” he said. “Antiques, paintings. I believe I recognize a Matisse, no?”

“Van Gogh,” Vera said.

“Ah, yes, of course. They all look the same, don’t they? Me, I do not appreciate this ugly modern art, but I understand it is worth a lot of money,” Lafite said. “But these old things”—he ran his hand over a sideboard topped with some lovely silver—“they are very nice. Worth a lot to a thief. Like these silver candlesticks, for example.” He pointed at one of them. “Heavy silver. This murder was committed during a robbery, I assure you. And Lafite is rarely wrong. Sir Toby swims in his pool. The thief does not know anyone is home. Sir Toby surprises him, and the thief, he hits him over the head with something like this candlestick.”

He lifted his arm up triumphantly but his finger was somehow stuck in the candlestick. It came flying up with his hand. He looked at the dangling object in surprise, then scowled as we grinned. “They had narrow candles in those days,” he said and tried to shake it loose. The candlestick went flying across the room, struck the little glass-topped table and shattered the glass, which went flying everywhere.

“Sacre bleu,” he muttered.

“I think you have rather disturbed the crime scene,” Vera said with a note of triumph in her voice. “Let’s hope you haven’t done any damage to the priceless contents of the table.”

Johnson gave a cry of horror and moved toward the table, but I got there first. The candlestick was now lying amid the shards of glass on top of the snuffboxes.

“I think you’re in luck,” I said, lifting it out carefully and handing it to Johnson, who put it back in its place with a look of disgust at Lafite. I was not going to let a perfect opportunity slip away. The snuffboxes lay there, exposed, covered in shards of glass. “The objects in here all seem to be metal, not porcelain or glass. No real damage done.” I started to pick out shards of glass and then the snuffboxes, one by one, dusting them off, then replacing them, with a show of great concern. The queen’s box was next. My fingers moved toward it, wishing I had a pocket in my skirt—