Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

have no idea of their contents.”
    Lady Groper moved forward into the drawing room, looking around her with distaste. “He’s acquired even more things since I was here last, and most of them as ugly as sin,” she said. “Why would anyone want a painting of an old chair? Or that one with all the scribbles and ink blots? Surely he didn’t pay good money for something like that.”
    “I believe it’s a Matisse, my lady,” Johnson said. “He’s a local painter who has gained quite a reputation.”
    “I wouldn’t give you tuppence for it,” Lady Groper said. “But I see he’s brought out a lot of my family’s good silver. That will have to go back home where it belongs. Find me some suitable boxes and I’ll tell you which things I want packed and shipped.”
    Johnson looked embarrassed. “I don’t think I should do that yet, my lady.”
    “Why not?” she snapped.
    “The police might not be through with them.”
    “What would the French police want with my silver?” she demanded. “Are they trying to insinuate that my husband received stolen goods or that it wasn’t his? The impudence.”
    “No, my lady. It’s more looking for fingerprints on them—that sort of thing, to try to work out who might have been here and whether they’d tried to take anything.”
    “Oh, very well,” Lady Groper snapped. “I suppose this means I’d better stay at the villa so that some grubby little French policeman doesn’t walk off with any of the family heirlooms. You can make a bed up for me in the blue bedroom, young man.” She paused, eyeing him critically. “What was your name again?”
    “Johnson, my lady,” he said.
    “And for whom were you in service last?”
    “An American gentleman, my lady. I spent the last year living in Los Angeles.”
    “And why did you leave him?”
    “America was not to my taste, my lady.” Johnson held her gaze. “But since I am obviously no longer employed by your husband, I think my past history is no longer of any relevance.”
    “Impudent pup,” Lady Groper said. “Go about your duties, boy.”
    He gave the slightest hint of a bow and left the room. As they spoke, I had been eyeing the broken glass-topped table with the queen’s snuffbox in it. Now I was in a quandary—it was possible that the police had made an inventory of Sir Toby’s things. And if they decided to search my room and found the snuffbox in my possession, it would be one more piece of incriminating evidence. I moved away again. Now that Lady Groper had announced her intention to stay in the villa for a few days, I would wait for a suitable moment and then tell her the truth—well, maybe part of the truth—that Her Majesty maybe lent the snuffbox to Sir Toby for a special display . . . ? And at the very worst, I’d tell Johnson the truth and have him acquire it for me.
    Lady Groper made her way out through the French doors and stood looking at the pool. “So it was here,” she said. “He lay here, bleeding to death, poor stupid man.”
    And surprisingly she started to weep. While the others were comforting her, I went in search of Johnson. He was standing at a linen cupboard, taking out sheets. He looked up at me.
    “That’s the last thing I need right now,” he said in a low voice. “Her bossing me around. I only went into Sir Toby’s employ because I knew he wasn’t one of those toffee-nosed snobs. But she’s the worst.” He leaned closer to me. “I’d like to walk out and take the next train back to England, but then that might look suspicious, mightn’t it?”
    “Definitely,” I said. “But at least you’ve got nothing to worry about. You can prove you were in town when he was killed.”
    “Why would I want to kill him?” Johnson shook his head. “That’s the same as killing the goose that laid the golden egg, isn’t it? He was paying me well. He was a baronet—a step up in the world for me. Now I’m back to looking for a new position, like everyone else.”
    I watched him as he took out matching pillow slips then closed the cupboard. “If you don’t mind my asking, Johnson,” I said, “you sound as if you’ve had an education. Why are you in service?”
    He turned back to me, eyeing me critically for a moment before saying angrily, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there is a depression going on. There are no jobs for people like me—grammar school boys with no family connections behind them. Domestic service gives me a roof over my head,