Page 72 of Marble Hall Murders

‘By “one thing and another”, you mean the death of your stepmother.’

‘Yes.’

‘I am surprised he could think of anything else at a time like this.’

‘Then you don’t know him, Monsieur Voltaire.’ Robert weighed his words carefully. ‘Pa is incredibly single-minded. Buying and selling art is his life and it always has been. It’s not just the money. It’s the sense of being ahead, of knowing the game, of sniffing out the new talent. That doesn’t make him cold-hearted. Quite the opposite. But it puts everything else into second place. Margaret, my mother, me! When Ma killed herself, he was in Geneva, meeting with his partner, Erich Werner. He told you he was too upset to travel back to New York, but that wasn’t really true. He was in the middle of a sale and there was no way he would have got on a plane until the deal had gone through.’

‘What are your feelings about your father?’ Pünd asked.

‘I think he’s a great man – but that doesn’t mean he’s an easy one. He’s not afraid to speak his mind. When I was young, all I wanted to be was an artist. It’s hardly surprising. From the moment I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by great art. There was an Edgar Degas ballet dancer – a pastel – hanging in my nursery! All through my teens and into my twenties I was painting. It was all I ever wanted to do. I’d have been happy selling my work on the railings of Hyde Park – I didn’t need to be rich or famous. But it was Pa who persuaded me to give it up. He said that I didn’t have the talent for it and that I was wasting my time. He may have been right, but I’m not sure I wanted to hear it.

‘On the other hand, look at me now! It’s thanks to him that I’m working here and he’s training me. I’m learning from the very best. One day, maybe, I’ll be running this businessand it won’t matter what’s happened in the past. So I’ve got plenty of feelings about my Pa, but the main one is gratitude.’

The telephone rang, diverting Robert’s attention. ‘That might be him now,’ he said and picked up the receiver. There was a brief pause as Robert listened to Madame Dubois, who had called from her desk in the front room. ‘Yes. Put him through.’

Another long silence. Then Robert spoke again. ‘Can you wait one moment, Maître Lambert.’ He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at Voltaire. ‘It’s Jean Lambert, our solicitor,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you should speak to him. It seems that his assistant, Alice Carling, has disappeared.’

FIFTEEN

Voltaire had summoned a police driver to collect them from the Galerie Werner-Waysmith, but it was still the best part of an hour before they reached Saint-Paul-de-Vence and parked once again outside the main gate. Pünd had been deep in thought throughout the journey, but as he climbed out of the car, he looked anguished. ‘I hope with all my heart that the young lady has returned and all is well,’ he said. ‘I should have prepared for this. I should have known what might happen. This is my fault.’

‘What on earth makes you think that?’ Fraser asked.

‘Did you not see her face when we came here the first time and told her that Lady Chalfont had been murdered?’

‘She was shocked.’

‘To have been shocked would be normal, understandable. But no, James, she was afraid. More than that … she was terrified.’

‘I saw that too,’ Voltaire said. ‘I guessed at once that she knew something she was keeping from us and I should have questioned her there and then. But fool that I was, I decided to interview her later. If anything has happened to her, I’m the one who is to blame.’

‘Perhaps everything will be all right,’ Fraser said. ‘Maybe she’ll be waiting for us in Monsieur Lambert’s office.’

But they knew as soon as they entered the small office that Alice Carling had not come into work. The front room was unoccupied, the desk completely empty. The door to the communicating office was open and Jean Lambert came out as soon as he heard them arrive. As always, his wardrobe and appearance were half a century out of date, as if he were play-acting the role of the provincialavocat, but the concern in his face and in the way he spoke couldn’t have been anything but genuine.

‘Perhaps I have overreacted by calling you,’ he began, before his guests had even sat down. ‘But Mademoiselle Carling has worked with me for four years and she is the soul of punctuality. Never once has she been late and she knew that I was extremely busy today, so she would most certainly have called me if there was something wrong. In the end, I called her parents. They are as worried as I am!’

‘Please begin at the beginning, Maître Lambert,’ Voltaire said. ‘What time does Mademoiselle Carling usually arrive?’

‘She comes to the office every morning at nine o’clock sharp. I usually arrive thirty minutes later, by which time she has made the coffee, opened the post and generally arranged my affairs for the day. Mademoiselle Carling is extremely efficient and completely reliable.

‘This morning, I arrived at half past nine to discover that the office was still locked. I was extremely puzzled and a little alarmed. She has not been herself the last few days.’

‘In what way?’

‘She has seemed nervous, unhappy. Only the other day, I returned to the office unexpectedly. I had forgotten my keys. I found her sitting at her desk and I was quite sure that shehad been in tears, although she assured me that it was a room of something …’

Fraser had been translating for Pünd.

‘Rhume des foins,’ Voltaire explained. ‘Hay fever.’

‘I blame this announcement of hers, that she was intending to be married. I think it is true to say that she has not been the same since then.’

‘When did she tell you?’ Pünd asked.

‘Three weeks ago.’

‘Was that before or after Lady Chalfont and her family arrived at Cap Ferrat?’

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