Page 27 of Marble Hall Murders

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In fact, Judith Lyttleton had company. When Pünd knocked and entered, he found himself not in a bedroom as he had expected, but in a comfortable living room with a sofa andthree armchairs and a highly ornate, gilded cassone to one side. An archway opened into a second space with a four-poster bed, only partly visible.

One corner of the room was taken up by an antique globe, spun round so that South America was uppermost, next to a monumental desk piled high with books and black-and-white photographs. Glancing at them, Pünd saw a desert landscape with symmetrical lines and shapes dug into the sand. There were also representations of different animals: a condor, a monkey and a spider. He realised that he was looking at the Nazca Lines, which Dr Lyttleton seemed to have made her life’s work. They were certainly spectacular.

Lola Chalfont was sitting with her. The two women had been deep in conversation when they were interrupted. Lola appeared entirely composed, sitting with her legs crossed, a cigarette in one hand, a cocktail glass cradled in the other. But Judith was still in shock, her face haggard, her eyes empty. The shutters were half closed but the early-afternoon light was still streaming in, giving the room the feel of a church or a sanitorium.

Once again, Voltaire introduced the two arrivals. Lola had not met Pünd, but Judith recognised him and started, as if he was the last person she had hoped to see. Pünd noticed this, but said nothing as he took his place on the sofa. Voltaire and Fraser remained standing.

‘May I offer you my condolences on the death of your mother,’ Pünd began. ‘I met her many years ago and we were friends.’

‘Yes. She told me.’ Judith could barely manage the four monosyllables.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Lola weighed in. ‘As if it isn’t bad enough having Monsieur Voltaire from the Sûreté, now we have a private detective from England? Margaret was not murdered, and forgive me, Judith, but Harry was an idiot to call the police in the first place.’

‘It was Lady Chalfont herself who invited me to come here,’ Pünd replied. He glanced at Judith. ‘You were present when we spoke.’

Judith nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘You will recall that she wished to consult with me on a matter of the greatest urgency. Those were her words, and she asked me for my card so that she could write to me.’

‘It’s true.’ The words came out breathlessly, as if forced. Judith turned to her sister-in-law, apologetic. ‘I should have said,’ she muttered miserably.

‘I am a little surprised that you do not seem to have mentioned our meeting to your husband or to anyone in the family,’ Pünd continued.

‘I … I didn’t think it was important.’

‘When a woman approaches a well-known detective and asks for him to investigate and then, just a few days later, is found murdered, of course it’s important,’ Voltaire said. Unlike Pünd, he had not even tried to be kind.

‘She was just asking for his advice!’ Judith took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘Of course it was important. In the taxi on the way to the airport I asked her several times what she was going on about, but she waved me away and I didn’t think any more about it. I know it sounds awful now, but I had other things on my mind.’

‘Your work.’

‘Yes. I’m making a study of the Nazca Lines. They really are one of the wonders of the southern hemisphere, Mr Voltaire. They are mathematically precise drawings in the desert that cover an area of almost one hundred and ninety square miles, but they’ve been calculated to the nearest inch. Nobody understands why they were put there or how. They can only be seen by air. But the worst thing is that the wretched Peruvian government is refusing to look after them. They’ve already built a highway across the desert—’

She stopped herself, realising that she had allowed her enthusiasm to get the better of her. A moment before she had been mourning her mother. Now she had forgotten her.

‘You say she was murdered,’ Lola stepped in, as if to defend her sister-in-law. ‘But that’s ridiculous. You don’t kill a woman who is already so very ill. And all this intrusion … the very idea that there might have been poison in her tea! It’s nonsense. It’s only making everything worse.’

‘You believe I’m intruding, madame?’ Voltaire growled. ‘You should be grateful that the Sûreté took this matter seriously enough to send me here.’

‘We will find out soon enough if there is a need for you to be here, Monsieur Voltaire.’ Pünd was trying to be conciliatory. ‘The tea that Lady Chalfont drank is being analysed even as we speak,’ he explained. ‘But until the results are known, there are still questions to be asked.’ He turned back to Judith Lyttleton. ‘Your mother wrote to me of a conversation she had overheard. In her letter, she suggested that she had come upon something criminal and that it might be a matter for the police. She never discussed it with you?’

‘What sort of crime are you talking about?’ Lola was scornful. ‘What do you take us for, Mr Pünd? My husband is the seventh Earl Chalfont, in case you hadn’t noticed. This is a respectable family. Do we look like thieves or murderers to you?’

‘It is astonishing how many thieves and murderers do not resemble thieves and murderers,’ Pünd replied.

‘That’s true!’ Fraser agreed.

‘I didn’t know she’d written to you,’ Judith said. ‘She must have posted the letter without telling us.’

‘Where is the nearest postbox?’ Pünd asked.

‘It’s in the port,’ Lola replied. ‘But she wouldn’t have needed to walk there. If anyone wants to send a letter, they just leave it on the table beside the front door. Béatrice takes the mail in every morning to catch the midday post.’

‘There is still the possibility that somebody in the house might have seen my name on the envelope.’

‘And recognised it?’ Lola raised an eyebrow. ‘Until Monsieur Voltaire introduced you, I didn’t have the faintest idea who you were.’

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