Page 15 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Where’s Jeffrey?’ Elmer demanded, noting his absence for the first time.

‘He’s not up yet,’ Lola said. ‘He was out late.’

‘Out where?’ Elmer demanded scornfully. ‘Beaulieu, Monte Carlo or Le Palais?’ He had named three casinos.

‘You know perfectly well. Jeffrey works very hard when he’s in England.’ Lola might not approve of her husband’s gambling habits, but there was no way she was going to let her stepfather-in-law criticise him in front of the family, particularly with Cedric at the table. ‘He’s on holiday now. He’s allowed to let his hair down.’

‘If he lets his hair down, how does he see?’ Cedric asked.

‘That’s not what it means, Cedric,’ Lola explained. ‘It just means he’s enjoying himself.’

‘Can I go with him?’

‘No. You’re too young.’ Lola glanced out of the window. ‘It looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous day. Why don’t we all go to the beach for a picnic?’

‘I hate the beach,’ Cedric announced. ‘Sand in the sandwiches and melted ice cream.’

‘I’m going into the gallery later on,’ Elmer muttered. He turned to Robert. ‘Is the Sisley being delivered today?’

‘Yes, Pa. I thought I’d take it myself. You know what Dorfman is like.’

Alfred Sisley was an Impressionist painter who, although British by birth, had lived in France until his death at the end of the nineteenth century. Dorfman was an avid collector with a handsome villa in Antibes, further down the coast. Hewould appreciate the personal attention and it might be an opportunity to talk about further purchases.

‘Good idea.’ Elmer didn’t smile. He only offered praise reluctantly. ‘Just don’t forget we’re meeting at the gallery at half past twelve. Don’t be late.’

‘I’m never late.’ It was true. Elmer Waysmith hated unpunctuality and in all their years working together, Robert had learned to keep a careful eye on the clock.

‘I say, Elmer. I was wondering if you might have time for a quick chat.’ Harry Lyttleton sounded nervous.

‘What about?’

‘Well …’ He hadn’t wanted to have the conversation here, not in front of everyone else, but realised he had no choice. ‘Actually, it’s about the hotel …’

‘I don’t want to talk to you about the hotel. How often do I have to tell you that? I warned you at the time that it would never come to anything. A bad business plan, bad associates and a bad idea. Anyway …’ Elmer turned back to his newspaper. ‘I don’t discuss business at the breakfast table.’

‘Why do you have to be so unpleasant?’ For the first time, Judith lifted her eyes from her book and fixed them on her stepfather. ‘Harry was only asking to talk to you. He wasn’t asking for money.’

‘Although there are still a few investment packages available, if you’re interested,’ Harry added, hastily.

Judith pretended she hadn’t heard him. ‘Ever since you married our mother, nothing has been the same,’ she said. ‘And quite soon she won’t be here any more either. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

Elmer scowled at her. ‘I love your mother,’ he said. ‘I would do anything for her, and that includes protecting her from all of you.’ He’d had enough. He folded the newspaper shut and got to his feet. As he left the room, he glanced briefly at Robert. ‘Twelve thirty,’ he reminded him, then walked out of the room.

‘Eurgh! A seagull just did its business on the window!’ Cedric exclaimed, half repulsed, half amused. Lola looked at him disapprovingly, although it occurred to her that in some respects what he’d said was an appropriate comment on everything that had passed.

*

After he had left thepetit salon, Elmer Waysmith climbed the stairs to the first floor. He had a suite at the front of the house: a bedroom, a bathroom and a study where he was putting together a new catalogue of Impressionist paintings. It was his habit to work here every morning until eleven o’clock, when he would drive into Nice and visit his gallery tucked away beneath the arches in the Place Masséna.

First, however, he turned the other way and knocked twice on the door of his wife’s bedroom. There was no answer. Thinking she might be asleep, he opened the door gently and saw at once that the bed was empty, the tray with her breakfast untouched. He continued into the room and found her sitting outside on the balcony, wearing the crêpe de Chine dressing gown he had bought her in Paris. She did not seem to have heard him. Her eyes were fixed on the garden and, inparticular, the fountain with the water splashing around its throng of stone figures.

‘Margaret?’ he called out.

She turned and smiled. ‘Elmer. Come and sit by me.’

She gestured to the empty seat beside her. There had been a time when they shared the bedroom and they had often sat together on the balcony, particularly at night, when they would each have a glass of cognac and Elmer would smoke a cigar, listening to the dying fall of the cicadas and watching the stars.

Margaret Chalfont had first met Elmer when he had been invited to Chalfont Hall in Norfolk to advise on the family’s extensive art collection. Many of the paintings had hung on the walls for more than a century and he had identified the artists, researched the history of the works and, most importantly, provided valuations. The two of them had quickly become friends and it was hardly surprising that, after the death of Margaret’s husband, this should have developed into a romance. They were similarly aged and both had lost their first partners in tragic circumstances.

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