Page 65 of Marble Hall Murders

‘I am leaving now. You may join me if you wish.’

Voltaire was back in control. He led the way out to the car and sat with his arms crossed and a half-smile on his facefor the entire journey. They drove into Nice and, perhaps deliberately, crossed the Place Masséna, passing the gallery before entering a maze of backstreets and alleyways further away from the seafront. Finally, they arrived at a sunless street that might have been forgotten by the rest of the city, lacking anything that would attract a tourist or visitor. There was a uniformed gendarme standing outside the Pharmacie Lafayette, which had been closed for the day.

They went in.

Pünd could see at once why a killer might have chosen this place rather than any other. It was twenty years out of date, with bottles and boxes stretching out along wooden shelves that had warped with age, a pair of scales that was positively antique and an ugly-looking cash register that took up far too much space on the counter. The pharmacist himself was in his sixties, nervous and sullen, with bad eyesight. He had not yet spoken a word and seemed to have no intention of doing so, afraid that he would only get himself into more trouble.

Voltaire took charge of the interrogation, speaking in French. Fraser did his best to provide a translation, although part of him was still wondering if Pünd might not actually speak the language better than he did.

‘You are Hector Brunelle,’ Voltaire began.

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘And you recall selling aconitine to a customer three days ago?’

It was the same day that Lady Chalfont had died.

‘Yes, monsieur. He told me he was a doctor. I had already noticed that he had the smell of surgical spirit on his clothes. He showed me his licence.’

‘And how carefully did you examine it?’ Voltaire lifted a hand. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

Brunelle squinted, but it was obvious he couldn’t see that far. ‘I need my spectacles,’ he admitted.

‘And were you wearing your spectacles when this customer came in?’ Voltaire asked.

‘I don’t remember,’ Brunelle replied miserably.

‘Can you describe him for us?’ Pünd asked in English, then waited for Fraser to translate. ‘Was he French?’

‘No, monsieur. He spoke in French but with an accent … English or maybe American.’

‘What of his appearance?’

‘It was not easy to see him. He was wearing sunglasses and a hat made of straw with a band. I noticed that he kept his head down, as if he was afraid of being recognised. When another customer came into the shop, he looked away. He was not young. He had white hair and an ebony walking stick. He told me that he had a patient who was suffering from the gout. Aconitine is a well-known antidote for this condition if used in small doses and I sold him only two grams.’

‘What else was he wearing?’ Voltaire asked.

‘I cannot remember exactly, monsieur. I think it was a linen suit, either blue or grey. I seem to recall that it did not fit him well.’

‘Do you have any idea what time he came into your establishment?’

‘I can tell you that exactly. The other customer was a lady and she was in a hurry. She asked the time and he told her: twelve fifteen.’

‘That was all?’

‘“Je suis un peu pressée. As-tu l’heure?”’

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. What time is it?’ Fraser translated.

‘Those were her exact words?’ Pünd asked.

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘What did this lady purchase?’ Voltaire demanded.

‘She did not purchase anything. She asked for a certain shampoo, but we did not have it. She left.’

‘And the man?’

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