Page 129 of Marble Hall Murders

THE LAST CHAPTER

Atticus Pünd had requested them all to assemble in thegrand salon, the same room where the will had been read, only this time it was Pünd and Voltaire who had taken their places behind the card table. The entire family was present with the single exception of an angry Cedric, who had been told that children had no place here and had been banished to his room.

‘But I want to be a suspect,’ he had complained.

‘No, dear,’ his mother had cajoled him. ‘That’s the last thing you want to be, and anyway, you’re much too young.’

‘But I didn’t like Grandma. I didn’t like having to come here all summer. And I knew lots about poisonous plants.’

‘Just go to your room, Cedric. And if you talk about killing anyone ever again, you won’t have ice cream for tea.’

Jeffrey and Lola Chalfont had taken their places as soon as their son had left the room. They were joined by Harry and Judith Lyttleton, the two couples mirroring each other on opposite sofas. As always, Elmer Waysmith was on his own, dressed as if he was about to leave for a picnic in a blue blazer and white summer trousers. Robert Waysmith, who had chosen to distance himself from his father, was on the other side of the room. Three other witnesses who were not part of the family had been invited. James Fraser wasnever far away from Pünd, although he had tucked himself into a corner, trying not to be noticed, his notepad resting on his knee. Jean Lambert, the family solicitor, was next to him, diminished somehow, not just missing Alice Carling but blaming himself for her death. The last arrival had taken everyone by surprise. Pünd had invited Harlan Scott to the house. The art-historian-turned-detective was sitting, legs crossed, in an armchair that almost devoured him, smoking a cigar, his eyes fixed on the new painting that now hung above the fireplace. It was a very ordinary piece of work, but it was as if he were looking through it, still seeing the Cézanne it had replaced. Neither Robert nor Elmer had spoken to him and, like the rest of the family, they clearly resented having him there.

‘I hope you’re not going to keep us too long.’ Jeffrey Chalfont had looked impatient from the moment he had entered the room. ‘I have a lunch appointment at one o’clock.’

‘You have no interest in the identity of the person who killed you mother?’ Pünd asked.

‘I know I didn’t kill her, and nor did my wife. That’s all that matters to me. If you just tell us who it was, we can all get on with our lives.’

‘You will remain here and listen to what Monsieur Pünd has to say,’ Voltaire said, pinning Jeffrey down with his one good eye. ‘Your lunch is of no interest to me and you will leave only when I say you can.’

‘I want to know the truth,’ Robert Waysmith said. ‘This whole business has been horrible. Let’s get it over with.’

Pünd glanced at Voltaire, who nodded. It was his invitation to begin.

‘It was Lady Chalfont who invited me here,’ Pünd said. ‘She wrote to me a letter in which she stressed the urgency of her situation and hoped that I would arrive before it was too late. Unfortunately, due to my health and the strain of the journey, I disappointed her. By the time I was able to come to the Chateau Belmar, accompanied by my friend Monsieur Voltaire, she had been deliberately poisoned with aconitine and it was too late. I had met Lady Margaret before and thought her a generous and intelligent woman. It will always be to my regret that I was unable to help her in her hour of need.

‘For reasons that I do not need to share with you, this will be my last case and it is some consolation that it has provided such an unexpected challenge. Although on the face of it, the crime is a most straightforward one, the solution is nothing of the sort. The deaths of Margaret Chalfont and, indeed, of Alice Carling will provide a valuable appendage toThe Landscape of Criminal Investigation, a work I have spent many years constructing.

‘Let us look first at the facts as they presented themselves. Lady Margaret Chalfont knew that she had little time left to live. She had also made an extraordinary will in which she had left the control of her estate not to her family but to her second husband. You all know the reason for this. It was because she did not believe her children had the wisdom or the judgement to manage a considerable sum of money without guidance.’

‘Only because that was what Elmer told her,’ Harry Lyttleton muttered.

‘No, no, Mr Lyttleton. She was aware, for example, of theconstruction of your hotel, the losses that you have sustained, and perhaps she also knew that you were consorting with businessmen of a dubious nature. Her son, Jeffrey, was gambling. She had a daughter-in-law wishing to put money into the theatre, a sure way to lose it. At the same time, she believed she could trust Elmer Waysmith, who was already wealthy as a result of his art business and had no need of the money himself.’

‘My father inherited plenty of money from his first marriage,’ Robert said. ‘He had no need of yours.’

‘Exactly.’ Pünd nodded in agreement. ‘But in the weeks before the death of Lady Chalfont, an event of great significance occurred – and one which must surely have influenced everything that followed. In her letter, she wrote to me how she had overheard a conversation that had shattered her faith in her husband. Later, we learned this conversation concerned a painting that once hung in this very room and which was entitledSpring Flowers, by the artist Paul Cézanne. May I ask where it is now, Mr Waysmith?’

It was Robert Waysmith to whom Pünd had addressed the question and he replied: ‘It’s at the gallery. We’re looking for a buyer.’

‘Well, it is the reason why I have invited Mr Harlan Scott to this meeting. He met Elmer Waysmith and his son in this very room.’

‘I want to get one thing straight,’ Elmer cut in. ‘I do not accept any of the accusations you make regarding that painting, its provenance or its past history. It was purchased by my partner and no owners have ever come forward to suggest otherwise.’

‘That’s because the owners are dead,’ Harlan Scott growled. He was not a powerful man. With his thinning hair and glasses, he was more like a teacher than a detective. But his anger was palpable, cutting through the room. ‘Their whole family was wiped out in the war. You and your business partner know that and it’s disgusting that you should have uttered those words.’

‘I’m not arguing with you, Mr Scott,’ Elmer retorted. ‘I know a lot of bad things happened in the war. All I’m saying is that I was unaware the painting had been stolen and, as I told you at the time we met, if you could prove otherwise, I would have been happy to talk to the true owners.’

‘Talk to them or give it back to them?’

Elmer fell silent.

‘It was a hot day. The windows were open. And Lady Chalfont heard what was said. Because she was travelling to London the next day, she immediately telephoned the family solicitor, Monsieur Lambert, and told him that she wished to speak to him about her will.’ He turned to Lambert. ‘That is correct?’

‘Oui, monsieur.She did not say that she wished to change it, but she asked me to bring a copy. There is no doubt in my mind that she was having second thoughts.’

‘When a very wealthy person decides to alter her will, it is often a motive for murder,’ Pünd continued. ‘And it cannot be a coincidence that Lady Chalfont was killed before the meeting could occur. She had maybe only weeks left to live on account of her illness, but that was not soon enough for the person who wished her dead. He had to strike immediately and that is what he did.’

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