Daisy felt useless after the nurse arrived and took over. She wished they were all back in England. The nurse was middle-aged and appeared efficient but could not speak a word of English. Daisy felt so far from home, lost in an alien land. She began to wonder whether God was punishing her for having slept with Becket. What if Becket should decide not to marry her? Daisy had remained a virgin until her affair with Becket, having heard too many stories of girls being seduced and then abandoned.

At nine in the morning, Harry walked along to the duchess’s suite to tell her about Rose’s illness. The doors were all standing open and he could see hotel servants inside, clearing and cleaning.

‘Where is Madame la Duchesse?’ he asked.

When he was told she had left early that morning, he muttered, ‘Selfish old toad.’

He went down to see the manager and explained that he would need a lady of reputable standing to act as a chaperone. The manager appeared to find his request as simple as if he had ordered flowers.

Later that afternoon, he introduced Harry to a lady called Madame Bailloux. Madame Bailloux was a small, dainty Frenchwoman in her fifties with small sparkling black eyes. She said she had previously been employed as a companion to the Marquise de Graimont, who had recently died. She had excellent references. Harry told her all about Rose’s situation and said that madame would be expected to travel with them to London.

‘I know London well,’ she said in prettily accented English.

‘Lady Rose does have a companion, a Miss Levine, but Miss Levine is young and I need someone older to act as chaperone,’ said Harry.

‘I will do my best. I remember seeing Dolores Duval driving her carriage in the Bois,’ said Madame Bailloux. ‘Could she not have been the victim of some enraged lover?’

‘Then why murder Madame de Peurey?’

‘Because Madame de Peurey may have known the identity of this murderer. A time ago, I remember, Dolores Duval was under the protection of a certain Monsieur Thierry Clement. He manufactures cardboard boxes and things. Very rich. I am sure this hotel can furnish you with his direction. Hotels are a mine of information.’

Harry made a note of the name, thanked her and said he would arrange accommodation at the hotel for her if she could move in as soon as possible.

He obtained the name of Monsieur Clement’s factory and went off with Becket, driving out through the outskirts of Paris towards Roissey. He realized as Becket drove up to the factory that possibly someone as rich as this Monsieur Clement might very well not visit his own factory but leave it all to a manager. So he was pleasantly surprised to be told that Monsieur Clement was in his office.

A small, portly man rose to meet him. ‘A private investigator,’ he said in French.

‘I am investigating the death of Dolores Duval,’ began Harry. He told him the whole story and said he was searching into Dolores’s background to try to find out who might have wished to kill her.