I let go of the party-planner, shaking my fingers fastidiously. Heracleides fell headlong into some dirty straw, though of course I had not pushed him. I squared up to the chef. Not having his big carver with him, his bravado crumbled.

I extracted the facts fast. Yes, Nymphidias stole the cameo. He had found it in one of the small rooms down the corridor where I got lost earlier in the evening. In the room had been a narrow bed, a man’s spare clothes, and a luggage pack. The jewel was in the pack, wrapped carefully in cloth. Everything else there had looked masculine.

I described the Melitans. The chef knew who I meant. They had both come into the kitchen at one point, asking for a meal. Nymphidias said it was a cheek—not in the party contract and they had demanded double portions too—but he prepared some food in a slack moment, which he personally took to their quarters as an excuse to look around. They were in the room where I saw them sitting, not the same as where he found the cameo.

It started to look as if all kinds of agents slept at the spy’s house, on occasions. He must be running a kind of runners’ dormitory.

‘You see anyone else apart from the two who were hungry?’

‘No.’

‘Nobody who stayed in the single room, where you found the jewel?’

‘No.’

I did not believe it. ‘There was someone else—I saw him myself.’

‘Party guests came to use the washroom. So did the musicians. That singer was hanging about like a spare part—we run into him at a lot of dos.’

‘He’s called Scorpus,’ Heracleides put in, trying to seem helpful. ‘Always takes an interest in how much money the hosts have, who their wives are sleeping with, and so on. Very persistent. It’s all wrong; in our business you have to be discreet. These clients are high-status; they expect complete discretion.’

‘So unprofessional,’ I sympathised. ‘He sings appallingly too. Whose nark is he? Who pays him?’

‘You’ll have to ask him.’ Heracleides looked jealous, as though he thought Scorpus might receive more for information than he did.

‘And who do you spy for?’

‘No comment.’

‘Oh him! I’ve met that shy boy “no comment” before! There are ways to make him less bashful—and they are not pleasant.’

I returned my attention to the chef. He said the spy’s household staff had kept to themselves all evening, annoyed that outsiders had been hired. Apparently that was common. When Heracleides ran functions, he told his staff to make sure the house slaves did not spike drinks or spoil dishes. Anacrites dressed his slaves in green (how sickly; he would!); when they did wander about, they were easy to identify.

‘So,’ I enquired of Nymphidias, ‘from its position and appearance, what did you think when you found this jewel?’