“But you said telegrams were expensive. You paid by the word, you said.”

She laughed. “Dear child, I am not exactly penniless. Besides, it’s Max’s money—at least for the moment.”

“What do you mean?”

“I received a letter from him this morning saying how much he missed me and how he wanted me to return home to him. It was phrased as a request, but it sounded to me like an order.”

“Oh, golly. Will you go?”

She shrugged. “I don’t like being bossed. I’m writing back to tell him that my daughter needs me. And while I’m here I may look for someone to fill his shoes, so to speak. Since you’ve snagged the marquis, I’ll have to cast my net farther afield.”

“Mummy, you are terrible.” I couldn’t help laughing.

“Ah, but you have to admit I do have fun.” Her face clouded suddenly. “Oh, God—you know what just struck me? If that silly little French inspector decides to delve into our connections with Sir Toby, he’ll find out that Max and he had a blazing row over Sir Toby trying to steal his designs. Lafite would make hay with that, wouldn’t he?”

“At least you have an alibi for the time he was killed,” I said. “I don’t. I think I’m going to visit that gardener this morning and confront him about what he actually saw. That way I’ll know whether someone was paying him to say that he saw me. But I can’t think why they’d choose me as their scapegoat. I had never even met the man until the night before.”

Coco leaned forward to stub out her cigarette. “It is all very strange,” she said. “My money is on Olga. Her type is hot-blooded and does not forgive easily. I would bet that she hired a thug to do the deed for her.”

I nodded. “She certainly threatened him when she walked out. She told him he’d be sorry. But apparently the gardener didn’t notice a big, burly thug creeping into the garden, just someone who looked like me.”

“Breakfast on the way,” Vera announced as she returned to join us. “And I gather that the Duke of Westminster’s yacht has returned to Nice, which is comforting to know. At the very least we could whisk you away—”

“With the Prince of Wales on board?” I said. “Pursued by French gunboats? I don’t think that would go down well at Buckingham Palace. Besides, Mrs. Simpson would try to push me back overboard. She loathes me.”

“She loathes everyone who isn’t useful to her, darling,” Mummy said, “but she especially loathes you because you’re one of them and she will never be. She sees you as standing in the way of her grand design.”