Page 20 of Marble Hall Murders

Monsieur Lambert could not drive. It was his secretary who was behind the wheel, a young, quite plain woman with her hair tightly drawn in a bun, wearing a cropped jacket and a smart dress. Alice Carling had an English father and a French mother, both in their sixties. Her parents had moved into a small house in a village close to Saint-Paul-de-Venceafter they married and had been there ever since. Tom Carling, a former mechanic who had met his wife in a French field hospital, had never learned a word of French, but his daughter was bilingual. Monsieur Lambert’s office was inside the town and she had been with him for four years.

Monsieur Lambert was the first out of the car, picking up his briefcase, which had been resting on the back seat. Now that he was on his feet, it could be seen that he was several inches shorter than his assistant. They made an odd couple as they made their way to the front door without speaking.

Alice rang the bell, then stepped aside so that Monsieur Lambert could introduce them. It took a long while for anyone to arrive, but just as she was about to ring again, the door opened and Béatrice stood in front of them, a look of puzzlement on her face. It was possible that she did not remember who Monsieur Lambert was – she had only met him a couple of times. Either that or she knew who he was but had no idea why he was here.

‘Good afternoon,’ Lambert said, in French. ‘I have an appointment with Lady Chalfont.’ He gestured with his watch as if it was proof of both his punctuality and his permission to enter. ‘She asked me to call on her at half past four.’

‘Lady Chalfont is having tea, monsieur.’

‘Excellent. Then we will be happy to join her.’

‘You are …?’

‘We have met before. I am Maître Lambert. My assistant, Mademoiselle Carling. We have spoken with Lady Chalfont in this house many times and she has invited us today to discuss some important business.’

Béatrice seemed unsure what to do but came to a decision.‘You can follow me, monsieur,’ she said. ‘I will take you through to the garden.’

Lambert and his secretary exchanged glances and entered the house, the solicitor walking ahead. They went through thegrand salonand out the other side, and it was only as they passed underneath the balcony that they heard shouting and saw a man in a blazer and cravat running towards them, his long fair hair flying in disarray. As he drew nearer, they recognised Harry Lyttleton. His cheeks were flushed red, but it was the look of terror on his face that struck them most. His eyes were wide and staring, as if he was being pursued by something terrible. Which, in a way, he was.

‘You have to call a doctor. And the police!’ His voice was high-pitched.

‘What has happened?’

‘Lady Chalfont …! It’s ghastly! I can’t believe it. It happened in front of my eyes.’

‘Is she unwell?’

‘No. No.’ Harry had reached them as if he had just made it to the wicket with the cricket ball inches behind him, closing on the stumps. He doubled over, his palms resting on his thighs, gasping for breath. It took him a few moments to recover. ‘She’s not ill,’ he wailed. ‘She’s dead!’

SIX

Atticus Pünd woke up late the following morning and it took him a moment to remember where he was. He was lying in bed in a large room with a window opening onto a private balcony and views of the hotel grounds. The carpet, pink and patterned, might not be to his taste and the wallpaper was certainly far too busy, but the bed was unquestionably comfortable, piled up with more pillows than he could possibly need. Lying there, he thought about the journey he had just made. It had exercised him more than he would have believed.

It had all begun well. The sea had been calm on the crossing to Calais and the famous Blue Train had been waiting for him at the platform, swathed in a cloud of white steam, the famous LX Wagons-Lits assembled one after another, a wall of sapphire blue scored by a single gold line. Smartly uniformed porters carried the luggage and more of them stood at the doors, waiting to greet the passengers on what was intended to be not just a journey but the experience of a lifetime.

Pünd had been astonished by the almost absurd luxury of the enterprise. It was as if the designers had taken the world’s greatest restaurants, cocktail bars, hotels, theatres and gentlemen’s clubs and stretched them until they wereimpossibly long and narrow but still afforded every comfort to those lucky enough to be on board. His oak-panelled sleeping compartment – there were only ten in each carriage – was a perfect home in miniature. The sofa folded into a comfortable bed. There was a table, an upholstered chair, even a small sink in the corner. James Fraser had been beside himself with excitement.

‘They serve a five-course meal in the dining car,’ he said. ‘The food is said to be sensational. Would you like me to reserve a table?’

‘No, thank you, James.’ Pünd was already beginning to have his doubts about the journey. ‘I think I shall retire early to my bed, once we have left Paris. Perhaps, after all, it would have been simpler to have taken the plane.’

It was true. There were five hundred and sixty miles between Calais and Nice, and twelve hours later, Pünd was beginning to feel the strain of the journey. All the comfort in the world could not diminish the rattling of the wheels, the noise of the engine, the smell of cinders and steam, the sense of captivity. His head began to ache and the pills given to him by Dr Benson seemed unable to combat the seemingly deliberate attacks on what was left of his health. Much to his assistant’s dismay, he ate only a few slices of dry toast and drank nothing more than tea. Soon, he was forced to travel with the blinds drawn, not even enjoying the view, and by the time they arrived at their destination, he was sure that the entire trip had been a terrible mistake.

This was the reason he had not visited Lady Chalfont on the Friday, when he had arrived. He had not even felt capableof telephoning her. He was sure she would forgive this brief delay. He would see her over the weekend.

There was no question that he was already feeling much better. He got out of bed and pulled open the shutters, allowing the sunshine and the Mediterranean air to flood into the room. He stood there for a few minutes, feeling his strength returning. All in all, he decided, an airplane would have been just as exhausting but in a different way. The important thing was that he had arrived.

An hour later, dressed in a lightweight summer suit, he joined James Fraser at the breakfast table in the vast dining room with its soaring columns and windows opening onto the terrace that ran along the back of the hotel. There must have been at least seventy people eating breakfast, spread over the various tables, and yet apart from the occasional clatter of a knife or fork against a plate, the room was almost religiously quiet.

James was less formally dressed in a polo shirt and V-neck pullover. He stood up as Pünd took his place, then handed him a menu.

‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked. ‘I have to say, you were looking a bit done in when we got the taxi at the station.’

‘It was a long journey,’ Pünd agreed.

‘Well, this place is marvellous. It’s almost lunchtime, but they’re still serving breakfast. Which one are you going to have?’

‘I’m sorry?’

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