Page 12 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Right-ho. I’ll get on the phone and book two rooms.’ Fraser sprang to his feet, then turned round before leaving. ‘It’s not my place to say this, Mr Pünd, but I’m ever so glad you’ve decided to take this case. You really haven’t been quite yourself these last few weeks, and although I know the book is terribly important and all that, I think you’ll be much happier sniffing out a crime. That’s what you do best!’

The door closed as Fraser headed off towards his own small office next door. Atticus Pünd stayed where he was, his work forgotten, the letter in front of him. Had he made the right decision? He had no doubt of it. The thought of what lay ahead had awoken something in him. Already, for the first time in a long time, he felt alive. And there was something about the letter that alarmed him – even more than the words themselves. Lady Chalfont was in danger. He was certain of it. He was leaving as quickly as he could. He would ask Fraser to start packing straight away.

Still, he wondered if he would arrive too late.

THREE

The sun was rising on another perfect day in the South of France – but then, when was the French Riviera anything but perfect? Swiftly, the shadows were pushed away. The sea glittered. The palms and olive trees seemed to wake up and stretch out their arms. The first fishing boats appeared, skimming across the surface as they returned to the harbour, and the seagulls hung expectantly in the air, hoping there had been a good catch.

The Chateau Belmar had been constructed on a promontory overlooking the Bay of Villefranche, a front seat in this glorious natural theatre. It was a splendid building, designed in the belle époque style with the emphasis on geometry and elegance. It was painted in that deep yellow which can only be truly appreciated in tropical climates, with white shutters and porticos and a terracotta roof that extended over two wings connected to the main body of the house. It was surrounded by nine acres of gardens designed by the great Achille Duchêne so that the view from every bedroom would have at least one unique feature: a fountain, a statue, a gazebo, the swimming pool or the beehives.

It was not a huge chateau, nowhere near the size of its near neighbour, the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild (also created by Duchêne). But with its seven bedrooms spread over threefloors, its twosalons, its banquet-sized dining room, the patios and terraces, it was certainly spacious enough. It had been bought by Henry Chalfont, who had been born rich and had multiplied his fortune by creating the private bank that carried his name. He had expressed the hope that the chateau would remain in the family for generations to come.

Tucked away in a small bedroom on the top floor, Béatrice Laurent was woken by the sound of hammering at the door.

It happened often and she knew even before she opened her eyes that it was only a dream. As always, she had heard the cars arrive, the shouting in German, then the men pouring into the house, a series of confused images that made no sense to her nineteen-year-old eyes. At the time, she had been a kitchen maid working for a wealthy family in Paris – the Steiners. It was 16 July 1942, the first day of the mass arrests that came to be known as the Vel d’Hiv after the sports arena where the prisoners would be held. Béatrice had seen Monsieur and Madame Steiner and their three children taken away. It was something she would never forget. She had liked the family. They had always been kind to her.

The soldiers had told her to pack her bags and leave, along with the other servants. The house on the Boulevard Haussmann was to be requisitioned, but already it was being emptied. The last thing Béatrice witnessed was the family’s silver being swept off the sideboards and the painting – a vase of red tulips on a table – that had always hung over the fireplace in the living room being lowered from the wall …

Now, thirteen years later, Béatrice shook off the memories that sleep had brought and forced herself to get out of bed. Her room was small, built into the roof of the chateau, witha slanting ceiling and a skylight that offered no view. There was a shower and toilet on the other side of the corridor and once she had washed, she dressed in the grey and white uniform of thefemme de ménage. A service staircase, invisible to the rest of the house, led all the way to the kitchen and she made her way down as quietly as she could, the stairs creaking beneath her feet.

Béatrice had a morning routine, starting with the dining room. The supper had already been cleared away, the plates and dishes washed, but often the family would stay drinking port and Cointreau until late and there would be glasses and ashtrays (all four men liked cigars) to deal with. Then she went into thepetit salon, where the family would take breakfast overlooking the rose garden and the steps down to the sea. The baker’s van would arrive soon with fresh croissants and brioches still warm from the oven, and in the meantime, Béatrice would lay the table, then cut up and squeeze oranges in the kitchen, filling a jug that would go into the fridge. Finally, she would make coffee for Lady Chalfont. Madame Claudel, the cook, did not live in the chateau and would not be in until ten.

She heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel and knew that the boy had arrived on his bicycle with the morning newspapers. He would never have rung the doorbell at this early hour, but she was standing outside the front door as he pulled in and took them from him.

The newspapers had come from London, Zurich and New York and their stories might be several days late, but what did time matter in a house where nothing ever seemed to change? People died, politicians argued, the queen of England didthis, the weather did that. None of it seemed at all relevant in the Côte d’Azur. The newspapers went onto the big table in thegrand salon. Béatrice arranged them neatly, then fetched the dustpan and brush to clean the grate. It was the first week of June and the days were warm and sunny, but the evenings could be cool, so Lady Chalfont had asked for a fire to be lit. The cinders were still warm as Béatrice swept them into a metal bucket, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on her work. She had to be careful not to look up. Never once did she allow herself to glance at the chimney breast.

Monsieur Waysmith had hung the new picture there three weeks ago. It would eventually be put on sale in his gallery in Nice, but he often liked to display the art in his own home first. He was particularly pleased with this new acquisition,Spring Flowers, by Paul Cézanne.

Béatrice could not look at it. Turning her back on the brightly coloured tulips in their Delft pottery vase, she walked out of the room.

*

Lady Chalfont had the largest bedroom in the house, a magnificent suite that her second husband had once called the Lounge of Nations on account of its Venetian marble floor, its Chinese silk curtains, its French mirrors and furniture and its collection of German porcelain. To this, she had imported an English walnut bed manufactured by Waring & Gillow. It had belonged to her mother and gave her comfort, perhaps in the thought that the two of them would soon be reunited.

She never drew the curtains. Three slender archways stretching from the floor to the ceiling led out onto a white marble balcony. From here it was possible to see the entire garden and the sand-coloured path leading down to the magnificent Hippodamia fountain – a riot of centaurs, soldiers and wedding guests, with a naked woman (the bride) being stolen away, water exploding all around her. It was, in part, a copy of a work by Michelangelo and of uncertain provenance.

The sun had not risen fully and Lady Chalfont shivered slightly in the cool morning air, even though she was well protected by two thick blankets and a hot-water bottle still generating a little heat behind her neck. Propping herself up on the pillows, she looked out to sea, enjoying the sound of splashing water and the warbling ofles chardonnerets– the goldfinches – which had built their nest under a loose tile in the roof. Every year, she had watched the father flying in and out with grubs for the newly born chicks. She had scolded Bruno, the gardener, when he had suggested removing the nest and mending the roof. Nothing gave her greater pleasure, she told him, and it was true. Very soon, she would see the whole family take flight.

For the last time. She had to face up to the fact that she would not be here for another spring. She was unlikely to live even until the winter. Looking past the colonnades, she gazed at the flowers bursting into colour: deep red poppies, white peonies, Spanish broom in clumps of brilliant yellow and a great carpet of mauve lavender. All of life continuing without her.

There was a knock at the door, interrupting LadyChalfont’s train of thought, and Béatrice came in carrying a tray with a steaming cup of ginger and lemon tea, as she did every day.

‘Bonjour, madame,’ she said, laying the tray down on the side of the bed.

‘Bonjour, Beátrice. Comment ça va?’ Lady Chalfont spoke a little French, but she did so in the manner of an English aristocrat, with little interest in accent, rhythm or even sense.

‘Très bien, merci, madame.J’ai votre thé – et un télégramme est arrivé hier.’

‘Why did you not give this to me yesterday?’ Lady Chalfont demanded. She was too annoyed to continue in a language that was not her own.

‘I am sorry, madame. I did not see it. Someone had placed it with the newspapers…’

The housekeeper fluffed up the pillows and removed the lukewarm hot-water bottle, then left as quickly as she could. The moment the door closed, Lady Chalfont reached for the telegram, ignoring the tea. She picked up the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

DEAR LADY CHALFONT. ARRIVING FRIDAY3JUNE ON LE TRAIN BLEU. HAVE BOOKED ROOMS AT GRAND-HôTEL. WILL CALL AT YOUR CONVENIENCE. ATTICUS PüND

At her convenience? What time would that be? Lady Chalfont had taken Le Train Bleu often enough to know that it would have left Paris, Gare de Lyon, at eight o’clock in the evening, travelling through the night to arrive early morningin Marseille. It might be there now. Then it would continue along the coast, through Toulon and Saint-Raphaël to Cannes and on to Nice, the nearest station to Cap Ferrat. Mr Pünd would be at his hotel by lunchtime. Why had he chosen not to stay at the Chateau Belmar? That wasn’t important. All that mattered was that he had come.

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