Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

three good meals a day and a decent wage, if you’re lucky enough to latch onto someone like Sir Toby. That’s why I’m so angry he’s been killed. I’d like to throttle the person who did it.”
    I moved closer. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?” I asked. “You’ve been close to him recently. You must have some suspicions.”
    He was silent for a while. “I’ve thought about it. Believe me, I’ve wondered. Sir Toby wasn’t the best-liked man in the world. And I know some of his business dealings were—what would you say—shady?”
    “When I was here yesterday morning and Sir Toby was in the bath—he said something about ‘that slimy little toad’ and some German-sounding name. And he said he’d be sorry. What was that about?”
    Johnson closed the cupboard door, holding the sheets draped carefully over one arm. “I’m not quite sure. Some business Sir Toby was doing with an art dealer. He claimed Sir Toby had cheated him.”
    “Any chance that the art dealer came here yesterday afternoon?”
    “Possible, I suppose. Frankly anyone could have come here and we’d never know, would we? The place was deserted. We don’t even know what Sir Toby was doing back here.”
    “I’m just wondering,” I said, as the thought formed in my head. “What if Sir Toby had arranged a secret meeting with somebody? He sent you away, he gave the other servants the afternoon off and he left his yacht very visibly moored in Nice. Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”
    Johnson frowned. “Now that you mention it, it does.” “Then I think you should suggest it to the police, and mention this German fellow too,” I said. “At least it would remove the suspicion from me and from you.”
    He looked up, amused. “From you? Why on earth would the police suspect you?”
    “Haven’t you heard?” I said. “I’m suspect number one. In fact, they arrested me last night on the charge of murder. I’m only out on bail.”
    “Good Lord,” he said. “Because you went out on his yacht yesterday? That’s absurd.”
    “Not only that,” I said. “One of the gardeners claimed he saw me creeping into the house around the time Sir Toby was murdered.”
    “You didn’t come here yesterday afternoon, did you?”
    “Of course not. It’s utter rubbish, of course. I never came near the place, so I’m thinking that maybe the intruder was someone who looked a lot like me. Several people have thought they’d seen me around town when I was nowhere in the area. So either I have a double or the gardener is being paid to incriminate me.”
    “One of our gardeners?” Johnson looked surprised. “But they don’t work in the afternoon.”
    “He saw it was going to rain and came back to get a tool, I gather. I rather think I’m going to pay him a visit and try to get the truth out of him.”
    Johnson frowned. “Be careful, my lady.” He lowered his voice, looking around to see if anyone else was within hearing distance. “If someone is paying this man, he may well be in league with some kind of gangsters. There are plenty of them on the Riviera, so I hear, including the mafia.” He paused, considering. “But don’t you have an alibi for yesterday afternoon?”
    “Yes, I do. I was at the villa of the Marquis de Ronchard and then he drove me home, where the servants saw me.”
    “There you are, then.” He gave me a relieved smile.
    “I told the inspector that, but it doesn’t seem good enough for him.”
    “He doesn’t seem too bright to me,” Johnson said. “I’ll let him know about Schumann and the threats. Although I find it so hard to get through to him, what with me speaking no French and his awful English. He may end up thinking I’m trying to confess myself.”
    He gave me a grin as he carried the bedsheets toward the back of the house. I stood watching him, wondering if I had an ally.

 
    Chapter 26
     
    January 27, 1933
A hectic day on the Côte d’Azur.
     
    As we came out of the villa, Mummy slipped her arms through Coco’s and Vera’s, marching them up the driveway like a brisk governess with two reluctant schoolgirls. “God, how terribly dreary, wasn’t she? I suppose one should feel sorry for her—”
    “Sorry for her? But no,” Coco said. “She is rid of a bad husband and she has plenty of money to enjoy life.”
    And she doesn’t have to go through an ugly divorce case, either, I thought but didn’t say out loud. If only there was a sensible policeman I could