“Why did you come into the harbor here instead of sailing back to the villa?” I asked.

The young crewman shrugged. “Who knows? He was the boss. He said ‘sail into Nice’ and so we did. He told us to take the afternoon off and that he’d take a taxi home later and we were to await instructions. That’s all I can tell you.”

“And you told the police that?”

“We did.”

“He didn’t say where he was going or whom he planned to meet?”

“People like Sir Toby don’t have to tell their crew anything. We were paid well to keep quiet and say nothing.”

“I presume Sir Toby entertained other young ladies on his yacht. Do you remember another young lady who resembled me?”

“No, miss. I can’t say that I do.” His face was so impassive that I couldn’t tell if he was lying or not.

“So you couldn’t tell me whether any other young lady might have had a reason to want Sir Toby dead?”

“No, miss. I couldn’t tell you.”

“And you also told them that I’d been on the yacht that morning and left rather abruptly?”

He looked uncomfortable now. “We had to, miss. He asked who else had been on the yacht. We didn’t say anything to incriminate you, miss. We knew what Sir Toby was like, and I can’t say I blame you for jumping overboard to your friend’s speedboat. Although I have to say it took guts. Not many young ladies would have jumped into the water like that. . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The inspector has still put two and two together and come up with a motive for murder, so the sooner this is solved, the better.”

I started to make my way back to the gangplank.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, miss,” he said. “But frankly there’s nothing else to say.”

I walked slowly back to the motorcar. So either Sir Toby had an assignation in town and had taken a taxi home after his meeting, or mooring in town had been a smoke screen so that he could take a taxi home for a meeting that nobody else would know about. I could hardly question every taxi driver in Nice, could I?

We drove home. I stared out the window, not really seeing the spectacular scene below me—the white boats bobbing on blue water, the pastel villas perched on the hillsides. All I felt was frustration, and a hint of fear. What if they found my fingerprints on that little table, for example— even on the objects inside that table? Would that add to the weight of evidence against me?