Angus frowned. ‘But I thought that you found your teacup in here – after we had gone in next door to pinch it back.’

Domenica waved a hand airily. ‘Well, another one did indeed turn up. But I’m not sure that it was the same as the one that went missing. I still think it’s likely that the one I saw in Antonia’s flat was mine. After all, she had no other blue Spode – not a scrap. And you don’t have single teacups – you usually have a set.’

‘Well, whatever that was all about, we shall have to watch Antonia very carefully.’

Domenica thought this good advice. ‘And you, Angus, are just going to have to refuse to share a room with her. Be direct. Tell her to her face.’

Angus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘There must be a more tactful way of dealing with her. Perhaps we could write to one of those social advice columns and ask how to deal with a situation like this.’

‘Those columns are certainly useful,’ she said. ‘I suspect that they would advise you to come up with some reason for wanting to sleep alone. Perhaps you could say that you’re a terrible snorer and nobody could possibly sleep in the same room as you. They’re very good with answers like that, those columns.’

‘I could tell her I was a somnambulist,’ said Angus brightly. ‘I could say that I pose some – not a great deal, but some – danger to those around me when I’m asleep.’

Domenica thought this a very good idea. ‘And perhaps you could pretend to sleepwalk while we’re in the villa. That would confirm what you said.’

‘Cyril suffers from somnambulism,’ said Angus. ‘Not very often, but from time to time.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. He gets up out of his bed and wags his tail. Then he walks off to the cupboard where I keep his lead and he sits outside it. I’ve seen him do it several times. I just gently lead him back to his basket and he lies down again. The vet says that it’s nothing to worry about.’

Domenica glanced at Cyril, who looked back at her and smiled, his gold tooth flashing in a ray of sun. ‘Somnambulism raises some very interesting issues,’ she said. ‘I read somewhere about an experiment which some sleep researchers had conducted in Montreal. They had a woman who suffered from nocturnal somnambulistic snacking.’

‘What?’

‘She sleepwalked at night and raided the refrigerator. She was putting on an awful lot of weight as a result. But she had another problem – she had a phobia for snakes – ophidiophobia, I believe it’s called. So they told her to drape a large rubber snake over the fridge before she went to bed at night.’

‘And that worked? No more nocturnal snacking?’