‘Hello Nikos,’ she purred. ‘I saw how early you left this morning and thought you would be too exhausted to cook. This is my speciality Moroccan chicken with dates and aubergines. Even if I do say it myself, it is rather delicious.’

From the balcony above came the distinct sound of muffled laughter.

Marigold looked upstairs suspiciously as the giggling became louder. Penny, buffeted by worry about her husband and overwhelmed with relief that Nikos had told her he loved her, had found the vision of Marigold bearing casseroles too ridiculous to resist.

‘I see,’ Marigold said, tight-lipped. ‘You seem to have company already.’ And she turned stiffly away, revealing from behind that she had forgotten to put on her underwear, still clutching the casserole like some kind of protective talisman which could save her from the awful humiliation of the situation which, being Marigold, she utterly refused to accept.

Nell sat in the silence of the garden next to the cafe, glued to her phone. ‘Goodness,’ she suddenly said to no one in particular, ‘I hope that’s a good idea!’

‘What’s a good idea?’ Moira asked, intrigued.

‘It’s Willow. She’s done a whole blog on Kyri.’

‘Surely that has to be a good thing, doesn’t it? We’ve already had three bookings because of her. Surely we ought to be grateful?’

‘You don’t know what she’s blogged about now. It’s headed “Hunt for Greek Island’s Own Venus de Milo!” It’s all here: finding the hand in the olive grove, the mysterious scent of myrtle, even the drawing of the statue you found in that old book! She must have taken a photo of it when she was here. I must admit, she writes wonderfully well. It all sounds like a Miss Marple. She even mentions the eminent Cambridge professor who’s come to investigate.’

‘Karl will be flattered. How many people read this thing?’

‘She has thousands of followers,’ Nell replied proudly. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it, the modern world, how an ordinary person can earn a living just because of technology?’

Moira, who hated technology with a vengeance, looked doubtful.

‘Of course, she usually does it on interior design, or babies.’

‘I’m sure no one will take any notice, then,’ Moira commented hopefully.

‘I don’t know . . . It’s just the sort of thing newspapers get interested in on a slow day,’ said Nell. ‘They do ring her up sometimes wanting to follow up things she’s done. Maybe we ought to warn Dora and Karl.’

‘And I think I’d better go back to Santorini and see what’s under that tarpaulin,’ Moira sighed, not sounding at all enthusiastic.