Page 36 of Marble Hall Murders

There was a brief silence as Pünd considered what had just been said. Lambert had told him something that did not make complete sense. ‘When exactly did Lady Chalfont call you?’ he asked.

‘I can’t recall exactly. It was the middle of last week.’

‘It was the Wednesday,’ Alice said. ‘She rang at half past one in the afternoon. I took the call and transferred it to Maître Lambert.’

Lambert smiled for the first time. ‘You see how lucky I am to have Mademoiselle Carling as my assistant. I will miss her.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Fraser asked.

‘I’m getting married.’

‘How marvellous. Who’s the lucky man?’

Alice looked away, blushing. ‘His name is Charles Saint-Pierre. He is a doctor in Grasse.’

‘He is a very lucky man,’ Lambert said. ‘And for me, I will need not just a new secretary but a driver. Perhaps it is also time for me to consider retirement. I am fifty-eight years old. My wife has said to me that we should be spending more time together.’

He stood up, signalling that the meeting was over.

‘You will be present tomorrow?’

‘We’ll be there,’ Voltaire assured him.

The three men left the office and walked back down through the town and out to the car park where their driver was waiting. A second police officer had also arrived on a motorbike. As Voltaire approached, he saluted and handed him a folded slip of paper. Voltaire opened it and read. He dismissed the policeman with a flick of the wrist.

‘Lady Chalfont did not die of a heart attack,’ he said, turning to Pünd. ‘The analysis from Marseille shows that at least two grams of the poison aconitine had been added to her tea. More than enough to kill her.’

He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

‘It is exactly as I told you this morning when we met. This was not a natural death. Lady Chalfont was murdered.’

ELEVEN

The following morning, Pünd and Fraser were joined once more at the breakfast table by Frédéric Voltaire, but this time, having commanded the waiter to draw up a chair, he sat down with them. Pünd had slept well, although he had risen early to work on the next chapter of his book. Fraser was fresh from the swimming pool, his hair still damp. Neither of them particularly welcomed the intrusion.

For his part, Voltaire was making it clear that he had not joined them by choice. He was even more stiffly formal than he had been the day before, as if his injuries had impaired his personality as well as his movement. He had already ordered a hot chocolate, which arrived in a silver pot with a bowl of sugar cubes and a porcelain cup. He used his left hand to pour the steaming liquid for himself.

‘We do not need to be at the house until eleven o’clock,’ he explained. ‘That is when the will is being read.’

It was revealing that he had spoken only of the business at hand, without even so much as a ‘Bonjour’ or an enquiry after Pünd’s health. He knew, after all, that Pünd had been unwell. It was not unusual for police officers to feel threatened by the detective who had been sent to undermine them, but this was something different. Pünd felt certain that Voltaire’shostility stemmed from something unconnected with the investigation. It was more personal.

‘Are you staying nearby, Monsieur Voltaire?’ Fraser asked, trying to break through the cold atmosphere at the table.

‘I am in a small hotel in Nice,’ Voltaire replied. ‘The Sûreté would consider an establishment such as this to be too extravagant for its officers.’ He poured himself some more hot chocolate. ‘I am perfectly comfortable,’ he added hastily. ‘And I do not expect to remain here long.’

‘You believe the investigation will be over soon?’ Pünd asked.

‘I have already informed my superiors that I expect to be back in Paris early next week.’

Pünd showed his surprise. ‘I wish I shared your confidence, Monsieur Voltaire. You really think that the murder of Lady Chalfont is so straightforward?’

‘Where there’s a will, Herr Pünd, there is often a motive for murder – and if there is one thing that we have learned, it is that this is a family in need of money. The son, Jeffrey, gambles and loses. His wife, Lola, hopes to launch her career by investing in a stage production. The son-in-law, Harry, supported by his wife, Judith, tries to build a hotel and does not choose his associates wisely. And then there is the husband, Elmer Waysmith. Lady Chalfont suspected him of deceiving her, of being involved in a crime that he may deny but which nonetheless prompted her to seek advice from you.

‘We know also that she had summoned heravocat, Maître Lambert, to come to the house on the very day that she died. She had spoken to him about her will, and as night followsday it seems clear to me that she was thinking to change it. This is the oldest story in the world and does not merit the attendance of a second detective, in particular one who is working in an unofficial capacity.’

Pünd was unperturbed. ‘I accept your analysis, Monsieur Voltaire,’ he began. ‘On the face of it, this crime does seem to be unremarkable. An elderly lady with a great deal of money has spoken to her solicitor about her will. She is killed before she can meet with the solicitor to inform him of her intentions. Her family hopes to inherit. Straightforward, yes – but even so, there are details which seem strange to me.’

‘Such as?’

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