Page 21 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Breakfast or lunch?’

‘Breakfast, I think.’

‘Right.’ James studied the menu. ‘Would you like some eggs? I can’t remember ifbrouillésis scrambled or boiled.’

‘No, no, James. I think a croissant and a coffee will be enough for me.’

‘You don’t mind if I dig in, do you?’

‘Not at all. You can have whatever you wish.’

Ten minutes later, Pünd was enjoying his croissant, a glass of orange juice andun grand crème, while his assistant had gone for boiled eggs, ham, cheese, a length of baguette and a silver jug filled with hot chocolate.

‘So when are we off to the Chateau Belmar?’ James asked.

‘I will telephone Lady Chalfont as soon as we have finished breakfast,’ Pünd replied. ‘You must arrange a taxi for us.’

‘Maybe she’ll send a car.’

‘That is indeed a possibility.’

They were interrupted by the approach of a waiter, who looked not just apologetic but indignant, as if something unprecedented had occurred. He was being followed by a man in his thirties or forties: it was hard to be sure. The visitor was dressed in a dark, crumpled suit that did not fit him well. The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie was loose. His choice of wardrobe would in itself have been inappropriate in the dining room of a luxury hotel, but it was not the reason why the guests greeted him with brief looks of surprise and dismay as he passed their tables. One of his eyes was covered with a black patch and the entire side of his face was a mass of scar tissue. He was clasping his right arm with his left hand as if he was in constant pain. Or perhaps the entire limb was a prosthetic. He mightonce have been handsome. It was very hard to see past his disfigurement.

The waiter stopped at Pünd’s table. ‘I apologise for the interruption, monsieur—’ he began.

But the new arrival did not wait for him to continue. He stepped forward. ‘Herr Pünd?’ he said.

Pünd nodded.

The man turned to the waiter. ‘You may leave us.’

The waiter managed to reach another level of indignation but didn’t argue. He bowed briefly and walked away.

‘My name is Frédéric Voltaire,’ the man introduced himself. ‘I am with the Sûreté. Do you mind if I join you?’ Without waiting for an answer, he drew up an extra seat and took his place at the table.

‘You have travelled down from Paris?’ Pünd asked.

‘I took the overnight train.’ Voltaire spoke excellent English, although with the formality and accent of a student at the Sorbonne.

‘For what purpose?’

By way of an answer, Voltaire reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a piece of paper and laid it on the table. It was a telegram. Pünd glanced at the words and recognised the message he had sent to Lady Chalfont.

‘Where is Lady Chalfont?’ Pünd asked, although he already feared the answer.

‘Lady Chalfont is dead.’ Voltaire made no attempt to soften the blow.

‘What? Are you saying she’s been killed?’ James Fraser stared at the man from the Sûreté.

Voltaire turned, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Doyou think I would have come all the way from Paris if she had been run over by a bus?’

‘What were the circumstances of her death?’ Pünd asked.

‘She was having tea yesterday afternoon in the gazebo which stands in the garden of her chateau here in Cap Ferrat. There were two members of her family with her: her son, Jeffrey Chalfont, and her son-in-law, Harry Lyttleton. She became ill and died very suddenly.’

‘You are aware, Monsieur Voltaire, that Lady Chalfont was seriously unwell. She had a heart condition. According to her doctor, she might have been brought down at any time.’

‘The doctor told you this?’

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