We had left the town behind and the road became a narrow strip of asphalt cut into the side of the cliff. Above us was scrub and rocks. Below us the land fell sheer away to the sea far below, dotted with white yachts. The whole scene was glowing gold in the winter sunset. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Any other time I’d have loved to stop and enjoy it.

“So why do they think you shot someone?” Johnson asked.

“I was alone in the room with her. I think someone shot her through the open window.”

“Alone with whom?”

“A young Frenchwoman.” I couldn’t bring myself to say “my sister.” “She was the one who impersonated me, who went to the villa that afternoon. I thought she killed Sir Toby but she swears she didn’t.” I paused. I hadn’t had much time for thought recently. “Or I suppose she might have seen his killer. She might be the one witness. I never thought of that.”

“So she didn’t tell you that she’d witnessed the murder of Sir Toby?”

“No. But we’d only just started talking. She confessed she was at the house.”

The tires screeched as we negotiated yet another hairpin bend, a little too fast for my comfort. I looked back.

“You can slow down now,” I said. “I don’t believe we’re being followed.”

“You can’t be too careful,” Johnson said, speeding up if anything. “Besides, how often do I get the chance to drive fast? Only when one of you lot lets me. Take chances while you can. That’s my motto.”

Something was stirring at the back of my consciousness. Love of motorcars. One of the few things I inherited from my father. He’d have approved of the way this handles. Of course he would, because he designed the engine for it. I gripped the armrest harder as we swung around the next bend. The engine that Toby Groper stole and claimed as his own. Johann Schermann. A German Jew. Johann—the German word for John. And this was Johnson: John’s son. He had been waving his identity in Sir Toby’s face and Sir Toby had been too blind to see. We’d all been too blind until now. Because nobody pays attention to servants. They do their job. They are just there, in the background, and they don’t matter.

“Where are we really going?” I asked, trying to sound calm and interested.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “You’ve been kind to me and you’ve treated me like a person, which is more than the rest of your lot. But you’re my insurance, I’m afraid.”

“So where are we going?” I repeated.