Page 19 of Marble Hall Murders

At four o’clock that afternoon, Margaret Chalfont went downstairs for tea in the garden. It was her favourite time of the day. Some of the heat would have gone out of the sun, but for the past six hours the chateau and its grounds had been bathed in its warmth and the air would be thick with the smell of roses, lavender and pine.

The gazebo was tucked away from the main house, on the edge of an ornamental lake. It was circular, with eight Corinthian pillars holding up a limestone cupola faced with marble and decorated with semi-precious stones that took the form of a garland of flowers, continuing all the way round. Lady Chalfont loved it here. There was a small island in the middle of the lake and she had left instructions that she would like to be buried here if she died in France. It was strange, but as she made her way, fully dressed, along the corridor that led to the stairs, she had a premonition that the end might be coming very soon. It wasn’t that she felt ill. In fact, the week in Cap Ferrat had done her a power of good, just as Elmer had said. But she was having bad dreams. She had not yet heard from Atticus Pünd, although she was sure he must have arrived. She wished she had seen him today and wondered when he would come.

As she reached the staircase, she heard the sound oftyping coming from her husband’s study. She thought of knocking on the door and asking if he might not change his mind and join her for tea, but quickly decided against it. She knew he was trying to finish the catalogue for his next exhibition. He would hate to be disturbed.

Instead, she followed the stairs down to thegrand salon, a space that stretched from the hall and main entrance all the way to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened onto the garden. A line of pillars separated the house from the grounds: they supported the balcony in front of her bedroom where she sat for much of the day.

Lady Chalfont felt almost lost as she crossed the room, making her way outside. It wasn’t just its size; it was also filled with so many gorgeous things – antique tables and sofas, a desk, a grand piano, a gaming table with a chessboard said to have belonged to Victor Hugo (although Elmer insisted it had been crafted at least fifty years too late), pedestals and pictures. Much of this had been bought by the 5th Earl Chalfont, her late husband’s father, but Henry and then Elmer had also added to the collection to the extent that she sometimes felt as if she was living in a museum or a very high-class bric-a-brac market.

She was about halfway across when Béatrice appeared as if out of nowhere. The housekeeper had an extraordinary ability to hear any movement in the house and to make herself available like a genie out of the lamp.

‘Good afternoon, madame. You take tea?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Béatrice. I’m joining Harry and my daughter at the gazebo.’

‘You would like me to walk with you?’

‘No. I can manage on my own, thank you. Will you bring out the tea?’

‘I make it now.’ Béatrice stopped to tidy the magazines on an ornamental table, then walked back towards the kitchen.

Lady Chalfont continued out into the garden, following the path that led past the fountain and then on to the lake and the gazebo. Harry was already waiting for her, but there was no sign of Judith. Instead, he had been joined by Jeffrey. Cedric was also visible in the distance, prowling around the herb garden. Margaret worried about her grandson sometimes. He spent too much time on his own and he wasn’t like any other children she had ever met. What was he doing now, for example? Cedric had recently developed an unhealthy interest in poisons. Only the week before he had brought a clump ofAtropa belladonnato the dining-room table. Deadly nightshade. Béatrice had removed both the plant and the boy from the room, only allowing Cedric to return after he had thoroughly washed his hands.

The two men stood up as she approached. Jeffrey greeted her with an embrace and a kiss on both cheeks.

‘Hello, Mama. How have you been today?’ he enquired.

‘Much the same as usual, Jeffrey dear.’ She accepted the kisses with a certain stoicism. Since her illness had been diagnosed, she had come to dislike close contact such as this. ‘Where’s Judith?’ she asked.

‘You know what she’s like,’ Harry replied. ‘It’s these wretched lines in the Peruvian desert. She won’t leave them alone. She sent her apologies and I came instead.’

A table had been laid in the centre of the gazebo with china cups and plates and an ornamental stand, three tiershigh, laden with sandwiches and madeleines. ‘Is Cedric going to join us?’ Lady Chalfont asked as she took her place.

‘I have no idea, Mama.’ Jeffrey sat next to her. ‘That boy lives in a world of his own.’

‘The same could be said about you,’ Lady Chalfont remarked caustically. ‘Couldn’t Lola look after him?’

‘She’s learning her lines.’

‘Do you think she’s going to get this part in the play?’

‘It’s a musical – and she hasn’t been cast yet. She’s hoping to meet the producers soon, and meanwhile she’s working on her Italian accent. And singing! She won’t stop singing. Right now, it’s like living with Maria What’s-her-name. You know. That opera woman.’

‘Callas.’ Jeffrey’s father had loved classical music and opera. Lady Chalfont often wondered how their only son could have grown up so uninterested.

‘I’m starving,’ Harry said, delicately pinching a sandwich between his forefinger and thumb. He hadn’t thought to offer Lady Chalfont one, but he knew she would have no appetite. ‘Where’s Béatrice with the tea?’ he asked.

At that moment, Béatrice was pouring milk into a porcelain jug, which she then placed on a tray. She went over to the sideboard where she had set out two teapots: one with Fortnum & Mason’s Royal Blend, the other with lemon and ginger, which Lady Chalfont preferred. As she drew nearer, she stopped, puzzled.

She was quite sure that she had left the lids on both teapots. It was her usual practice. She made the tea and then she left it to brew for exactly three minutes, the way Lady Chalfont liked it. But although the larger teapot withthe Royal Blend was still closed, the lid of Lady Chalfont’s pot was lying on the counter. Béatrice was certain she had replaced it after she had poured in the boiling water. Could someone have come into the kitchen while she had been in thegrand salon? But why would anyone want to touch the tea things?

Béatrice dismissed the thought. She replaced the lid, then loaded the pots onto a tray along with the jug of milk, a dish with some neatly arranged lemon slices and a bowl of sugar.

Looking around her and checking that everything was as it should be, Béatrice carried the tea out into the garden.

*

Twenty minutes later, a grey Citroën Traction Avant pulled up in front of the house. There was a man sitting in the front, in the passenger seat. He was in his fifties, bald and unsmiling, dressed in a dark suit and black tie – and this, along with the colour of the car, gave him something of the appearance of an undertaker. His name was Jean Lambert and he was a solicitor – or anavocat, as it is called in France. He worked for both Lady Chalfont and her husband and had also advised Harry Lyttleton on many occasions as he had continued in his struggles to build his hotel.

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