He looked up, amused. “From you? Why on earth would the police suspect you?”

“Haven’t you heard?” I said. “I’m suspect number one. In fact, they arrested me last night on the charge of murder. I’m only out on bail.”

“Good Lord,” he said. “Because you went out on his yacht yesterday? That’s absurd.”

“Not only that,” I said. “One of the gardeners claimed he saw me creeping into the house around the time Sir Toby was murdered.”

“You didn’t come here yesterday afternoon, did you?”

“Of course not. It’s utter rubbish, of course. I never came near the place, so I’m thinking that maybe the intruder was someone who looked a lot like me. Several people have thought they’d seen me around town when I was nowhere in the area. So either I have a double or the gardener is being paid to incriminate me.”

“One of our gardeners?” Johnson looked surprised. “But they don’t work in the afternoon.”

“He saw it was going to rain and came back to get a tool, I gather. I rather think I’m going to pay him a visit and try to get the truth out of him.”

Johnson frowned. “Be careful, my lady.” He lowered his voice, looking around to see if anyone else was within hearing distance. “If someone is paying this man, he may well be in league with some kind of gangsters. There are plenty of them on the Riviera, so I hear, including the mafia.” He paused, considering. “But don’t you have an alibi for yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes, I do. I was at the villa of the Marquis de Ronchard and then he drove me home, where the servants saw me.”

“There you are, then.” He gave me a relieved smile.

“I told the inspector that, but it doesn’t seem good enough for him.”

“He doesn’t seem too bright to me,” Johnson said. “I’ll let him know about Schumann and the threats. Although I find it so hard to get through to him, what with me speaking no French and his awful English. He may end up thinking I’m trying to confess myself.”

He gave me a grin as he carried the bedsheets toward the back of the house. I stood watching him, wondering if I had an ally.

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

January 27, 1933
A hectic day on the Côte d’Azur.

As we came out of the villa, Mummy slipped her arms through Coco’s and Vera’s, marching them up the driveway like a brisk governess with two reluctant schoolgirls. “God, how terribly dreary, wasn’t she? I suppose one should feel sorry for her—”

“Sorry for her? But no,” Coco said. “She is rid of a bad husband and she has plenty of money to enjoy life.”