“Absolutely right, Queenie.” I got up laughing. It was still early and the sea looked like polished pearl with wisps of haze hanging over it. I dressed and went out to walk in the gardens. The air was crisp but not cold. I came out onto a lower lawn area and found I could look down at Sir Toby’s swimming pool. The French doors of his villa were still firmly shut. But even as I watched, one of the doors opened. A young man came out and stood on the terrace. For a moment I thought it was Bobby and he had placated his father after all. But then I saw that this young man was less boyish looking, less English looking, with slicked-back hair and the face of a Romantic poet—a Roman nose and a sallow complexion. He stood outside the French doors, staring out at the swimming pool. For a long while he didn’t move, just standing and staring, then he untied the terry robe he was wearing and let it fall to his feet. I was shocked to see that he had nothing on under that robe. I knew I shouldn’t look, but frankly I was fascinated. I’d never had a chance to observe a naked man at my leisure before. Actually, I’d never had a chance to observe a naked man at all. And this one was rather well built too, like the statue of Michelangelo’s David, which I had studied earnestly with my friends on a school trip to Florence.

Then my chance for observation was cut short. There were broad steps at that end of the pool. He stepped onto the top one and stood, ankle-deep in water, looking around for a moment before he dove gracefully into the pool, cutting through the water with strong, effortless strokes. The visit to Sir Toby took on a more appealing aspect—I would be introduced to his guest and express delight that we were next-door neighbors. Maybe he was an Italian count, or another French marquis. Suddenly it seemed I was turning into a man-chasing flirt—quite unlike me. Well, why not? I asked myself. Now that there wasn’t one particular chap in my life, then the more the merrier. And who knows, maybe I’d finally do what was expected of me and marry well.

I made my way back up through the gardens and arrived on the terrace to find a council of war going on at the breakfast table.

“We’ll have to do something,” Vera was saying. “We can’t sit back and leave it to that pompous little twit. He’ll be worse than useless. You’ll have to call your friend in the Sûreté, Coco. Persuade him to come down and take over the case.”