Page 134 of Marble Hall Murders

‘You son blames you for the death of the mother he loved,’ Pünd said. ‘She took her own life and he believes this was because of you. You told us that she suffered from a condition known as “housewife syndrome”. I have read of this. The symptoms are said to be fatigue and unhappiness, but there are psychiatrists who are now suggesting that this may tell only half the story. A great many men see their wife as their property, someone who can do nothing without their approval. These women are shown no respect. Their self-confidence is destroyed. Is that how your mother was, Robert?’

‘Yes!’ When Robert looked up, there was something almost childlike about him; the child he had once been. ‘She did everything for him. She lived for him … but only because she wasn’t allowed any life without him. And in the end, it became too much for her. She killed herself because of him.’

‘That’s not true!’ Elmer rasped.

‘You didn’t even come home when you heard the news, Pa! You were too busy in Geneva selling the paintings that you got cut-price from the Nazis!’

‘That’s a lie!’

‘You know it’s true.’ Robert pointed at Harlan Scott. ‘He knows everything!’

Pünd turned once again to the art historian. ‘You spoke to Robert Waysmith at the gallery,’ he said. ‘He then invitedyou to the Chateau Belmar to meet his father. Were you surprised?’

‘I was very surprised, Mr Pünd. I never thought he’d invite me into the house. But he insisted on his father’s innocence and wanted me to see the Cézanne for myself, to show that they had nothing to hide.’ He glanced at Elmer. ‘I must say, his father was much less pleased to have me here.’

‘You met in thegrand salon. Can you recall if the windows were open?’

‘They were closed when I arrived. Robert opened them to allow me to smoke.’

Pünd smiled. ‘He opened the windows for the same reason that he invited you to the house. Always the manipulator! He knew that his father would argue with you. He knew that Lady Chalfont, on the terrace above, would hear everything that was said. He was creating a motive – a reason for his father to murder her.’

‘And that was why she changed her will!’ Jean Lambert had been listening to all this in horrified silence, but he couldn’t wait any longer.

Pünd sighed. ‘When we first spoke, you told me that Lady Chalfont was under a great deal of strain when she made that call. You said she did not sound well.’

‘That’s right. She had a chill, I think. A sore throat …’

‘I do not believe it was Lady Chalfont at all. We have an actress amongst us. It was when she was playing Mata Hari that Lola Chalfont met her husband-to-be. Jeffrey Chalfont told us that she captured both the look and the voice of the famous spy. I am sure it would be a matter of no difficulty forher to impersonate Lady Chalfont, particularly if she feigned a sore throat.’

‘I did what I was told!’ Lola hadn’t even tried to deny it. ‘I never wanted any part in it! I didn’t …’ She buried her face in her hands.

‘You must tell me about Mademoiselle Alice,’ Lambert said. ‘Did she really tell him what Lady Chalfont had written in her will?’

‘I am afraid so. Poor Alice was an innocent, a country girl who dreamed of perhaps one day living in London or Paris. But she was also a Catholic who went every week to the church of Saint Isidore. There is, I am sure, no way she would have considered marrying a man who was divorced and it was not Harry Lyttleton who had beguiled her.’

‘It was Robert.’ Jean Lambert stared at him with something close to hatred.

‘Handsome, ambitious, wealthy … and single! It could be no-one else. It was he, of course, who impersonated his father in the pharmacy. He had, after all, his father’s looks. I do not know how he persuaded Miss Carling to help him. Perhaps he told her that he was playing a joke. But once she realised what she had done, she was finished.’

‘But what about the photograph?’ Lambert asked. ‘You said she was carrying a picture of Harry Lyttleton!’

‘Why do you not answer, Monsieur Lyttleton? You know it is all over. You have nothing more to lose.’

Harry had been sitting like a dead man. His face was grey, his eyes empty. He gestured at Robert. ‘He made me give him a photograph of myself – and he pressed it against her lips tomake it look like I was the one she had been seeing. He said we didn’t have any choice.’

‘It is an irony, is it not, that Robert hated his father because of his controlling nature – but he was exactly the same. He controlled all of you and talked you into this wicked scheme. It was a diversion! Harry Lyttleton was indeed at a lecture and then at a dinner where he would have been seen by many people at the time when Alice was killed. Robert committed the murder. But Harry had the alibi. They exchanged places.’

‘I’m so sorry …’ Harry was holding his wife’s hand as if for the last time.

‘What will happen now?’ Jeffrey asked.

Frédéric Voltaire took over. ‘Robert Waysmith – you will be charged with the murders of Lady Margaret Chalfont and Alice Carling … murders with premeditation. Jeffrey Chalfont, Lola Chalfont, Harry Lyttleton and Judith Lyttleton, you will be charged as accessories to murder and quite possibly for the attempted murder of Elmer Waysmith. As it turns out, Mr Waysmith himself is the only innocent man in the room – at least in so far as these deaths are concerned. But the Sûreté will be working with Monsieur Scott to discover the truth behind your repulsive trade in stolen art.’

Robert Waysmith looked up, suddenly defiant. ‘Oh … I can give you lots of evidence, Mr Voltaire. I’m going to make sure Pa gets what’s coming to him. At least I’ll die with a smile.’

Voltaire shook his head slowly. He was disgusted.

‘There are cars waiting for you outside. You will not take anything with you. You are all of you to leave with me … at once.’

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