Page 22 of Marble Hall Murders

‘He did. I spoke to him shortly after he had examined her.’

‘This was when you met Lady Chalfont?’

Pünd considered. There was something quietly aggressive about the way the man from the Sûreté was interrogating him, a sense of something unsaid. It was almost as if he suspected Pünd might be involved in the way Lady Chalfont had died. ‘I was at the clinic for a routine examination,’ he explained. ‘Lady Chalfont and I had a brief conversation in the waiting room. She was with her daughter, Judith Lyttleton.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She wanted to consult with me on a matter of urgency and shortly afterwards she sent me a letter asking me to come to France. I will of course make it available to you, as I am sure you will wish to see it, Monsieur Voltaire, but once again it impressed upon me the urgency of my attendance.’

‘She was afraid?’

‘She had overheard a conversation that almost certainlyrelated to her husband, Elmer Waysmith. It had clearly upset her, but, as you will see, she did not describe exactly what was said. Nor did she state at any time that she felt herself to be in danger. So I would be interested to know what reason you have to believe that there may be suspicious circumstances surrounding her death.’

‘You are the main reason,’ Voltaire replied. ‘A very wealthy member of the British aristocracy summons a world-famous detective to her house. Almost immediately, she dies. You do not see a connection?’

‘Many clients have called me to their houses. Not all of them have been murdered.’

‘There is something else. Just before she died, Lady Chalfont remarked that her tea had a strange taste. She had drunk about half the cup when she complained of a burning sensation in her throat. She became short of breath. Then she died.’ Voltaire paused. ‘This does not sound like a heart attack to me, Herr Pünd.’

‘I am inclined to agree, Monsieur Voltaire. I will ask my assistant to retrieve the letter from my room. I assume you are returning to the Chateau Belmar?’

‘That is my intention.’

‘Then perhaps you will allow me to accompany you. Lady Chalfont was not a client – at least, not formally. But we had met before and I would say we were friends. As you can see from the telegram, I was intending to meet her yesterday, but I was not well enough to make the journey to the chateau. If it turns out that you are correct and that she was indeed the victim of foul play, I will not be able to forgive myself. I have let her down.’

‘You were in no shape to go anywhere,’ James muttered from the other side of the table.

‘Even so, I feel a duty towards her and would be happy to help you with this investigation.’

Frédéric Voltaire was sitting very straight in his chair and the look on his face suggested that this was the last thing he wanted. However, finally he nodded. ‘I will be honest, Herr Pünd. I would prefer to work alone. I do not think I need your assistance and I find it frankly offensive that you should suggest otherwise. However, the matter has been taken out of my hands.

‘When I reported to my superiors that you were here in Cap Ferrat and that Lady Chalfont had communicated with you, I was given the direct order to involve you in the case. The Commissaire wishes this matter to be dealt with as quickly as possible. Do not think for a minute that this has anything to do with Lady Chalfont or her family – or, for that matter, yourself. The Côte d’Azur is becoming increasingly important to the economy of the whole country. We need tourists, and not just that. Wealthy tourists. We already have enough problems with Corsican drug gangs, as well as corruption and vice. If people with wealth and influence think they cannot come here without being murdered in their own homes, it could place the entire area in jeopardy.

‘In short, my hands are tied. The Commissaire sends his compliments and formally asks for your help in this matter. If you have eaten your breakfast, I have a car outside. Despite my own considerations, you will be given complete freedom to pursue the investigation as you see fit.’

‘You are very direct, Monsieur Voltaire.’

‘Would you wish me to be otherwise, Herr Pünd?’

Pünd examined the other man curiously, wondering about his injuries, the manner in which the detective had approached them, and what it was that made him so hostile. But this was far from the right time to start asking questions.

‘I’ll get the letter,’ Fraser said.

‘Thank you, James.’ Pünd smiled at the Frenchman. ‘I shall finish my coffee and then we shall go.’

SEVEN

There was a police driver waiting outside the hotel for Frédéric Voltaire, who grabbed the front seat, leaving Pünd and Fraser to squeeze together in the back. The Frenchman had not spoken a word since they left and sat in hostile silence as they drove along a narrow lane, following the coastline towards the port of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.

James Fraser alone seemed relaxed, his face pressed against the window, enjoying the brief glimpses of dazzling blue water in the gaps between the ancient villas and the abundance of foliage and trees. The lane climbed upwards, taking them above the port, and now he saw dinghies and sailing boats dotted haphazardly around the jetty. Everywhere he looked, there were signs of new building – cranes, scaffolding, cement mixers and clusters of workmen – as the sleepy village was rapidly transformed into a holiday resort that would attract millionaires and celebrities from all over the world.

‘What a lovely place!’ he exclaimed, as much to himself as anyone in the car.

Pünd smiled at him. In the front of the car, Voltaire and the driver behaved as if he wasn’t even there.

They took another road that crossed over to the western edge of the promontory, surrounded by sea on three sides.After a short drive, they came to a driveway that ran between two rows of poplar trees with a handsome pair of gates at the end. It was only as they slowed down that James realised they had arrived at the Chateau Belmar. The gates were open. They drove through and parked on the gravel drive next to a pair of Renault 4CVs painted black and white, with only the single wordPOLICE, written in small letters, revealing to whom they belonged.

The driver turned off the engine.

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