Page 78 of Marble Hall Murders

‘No. He wasn’t Elmer Waysmith.’ Voltaire rested his glass in the palm of his hand, contemplating the dark, golden liquid. ‘But whoever the fiancé was, his luck has finally deserted him. He has made two mistakes.’

Pünd and Fraser waited for him to explain.

‘First of all, we spoke to the local telephone operator, as you suggested, Monsieur Pünd, and we have learned that the call Mademoiselle Carling received on the morning of her death came from the Chateau Belmar. In fact, she had received several calls from that number.’

‘Anyone in the house could have made those calls,’ Fraser said doubtfully.

‘Maybe, Monsieur Fraser. However, Mademoiselle Carling had her handbag with her when she was attacked next to the river, and that was the second mistake. Her killer should have taken it with him, or at the very least examined the contents.’ Voltaire emptied his glass. ‘He must have been in a hurry to leave. He was careless.’

‘What did you find in the bag?’ Pünd asked.

Voltaire removed a black-and-white photograph, about three inches square, and placed it on the table. It showed a young man with circular wire-framed glasses, wearing a pale blazer and a straw hat. There were faded red lipstick marks on one corner of the image, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Fraser realised that Alice must have kissed it. At the same time, he recognised the man in the picture.

‘It’s Harry Lyttleton,’ he exclaimed.

‘That is exactly right,’ Voltaire agreed. ‘Harry Lyttleton who is married to Judith Lyttleton, the daughter of Lady Chalfont, and who visited the office of Maître Lambert many times. He would have known Alice well.’ He picked up the photograph with a look of obvious disgust. ‘Knew her, took advantage and killed her. Or so it would seem.

‘Tomorrow, we will discover the truth.’

EIGHTEEN

‘Idon’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry Lyttleton said.

He was sitting at the head of the polished rosewood table in thepetit salon, the place usually taken by Elmer Waysmith. His wife, Judith, was next to him. It was early morning, but the breakfast things had already been cleared, the surface wiped down and the last crumbs swept away by an anxious Béatrice. Harry, wearing a short-sleeved shirt, his hair perfectly groomed, looked to all intents and purposes as if the Chateau Belmar belonged to him and he had invited Pünd and Voltaire to join him for coffee.

The two detectives were next to each other a little further down the table, with James Fraser at the far end, as ever taking notes.

It was strange how the Chateau Belmar had changed. The fountain still played, the sun still shone, but there was an emptiness about the place, as if the death of Lady Chalfont had been the first symptom of a much larger death and everything – the rooms, the furniture, the decorations, the very bricks – was fading away. The house no longer belonged to the people who lived there and it was letting them know it.

Pünd and Voltaire had been shown into the room by Béatrice, who had managed to avoid meeting their eyes. Voltaire had sent a message ahead of them and HarryLyttleton had been waiting for them with Judith. Everything was very quiet. It was quite possible that the other members of the family were in their rooms, but it was revealing that not one of them had shown up to support the man who had become Voltaire’s principal suspect.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Voltaire said, responding to Harry Lyttleton. ‘How well did you know Alice Carling?’

‘I had several meetings with Jean Lambert, who was supposed to be helping me with a hotel I’m constructing down here in Cap Ferrat, not that he was very much use, if you want the truth. She was always there, fussing around him, doing the paperwork and that sort of thing. When I telephoned Lambert, she usually answered. That was about the extent of it. Why are you even asking me?’

Voltaire caught Pünd’s eye and he took over. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Miss Carling was found dead last night.’

Sitting in the chair next to her husband, Judith Lyttleton started. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasped. ‘Are you saying …?’

‘She was murdered.’ As always, Voltaire went straight to the point.

‘But why …? Who …?’ All sorts of different thoughts seemed to be fighting for a place in Judith’s head, but finally she arrived at the very worst. ‘You can’t think my husband has anything to do with it!’

Voltaire ignored her. ‘You would not describe yourself as her friend?’

‘No!’ Harry Lyttleton protested.

‘Or did you have a relationship that was even closer?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry Lyttletonsnapped. ‘You’re disgusting. I’m a very happily married man and my relationship with Miss Carling was entirely professional.’

‘Then perhaps you can explain this, Mr Lyttleton …’

Voltaire had taken out the photograph, which he laid on the table. He had deliberately positioned it so that both the husband and the wife could see it. If Judith had been shocked by the news of Alice’s death, the picture completely horrified her. ‘Where did you get this?’ she demanded.

‘Miss Carling had it with her when she died,’ Voltaire told her.

‘But …’ She tore her eyes away from the image and turned to her husband, demanding an explanation.

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