Page 10 of Marble Hall Murders

Dr Benson considered. ‘Well, as it’s you, Mr Pünd, I can’t see any harm in telling you, in confidence, that Lady Chalfont is suffering from mitral stenosis. This is a narrowing of the mitral valve which controls the flow of blood to the heart, and regrettably I have had to inform her that, given her advanced age, I do not believe surgery is worth the risk. I’m afraid she has limited time.’

‘How limited?’

‘Hard to say. But months rather than years.’

Pünd nodded. It had been typical of Lady Chalfont to be so defiant, scornful of doctors and modern medicine, having been told there was nothing they could do for her. ‘Thank you, Dr Benson.’

He got to his feet.

‘Has she asked you to join her in the South of France?’ the doctor asked.

‘She did not go so far.’

‘That’s a pity. I understand she has a very beautiful house on the coast at Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. I would have said it would do you good, a week in the Mediterranean sun. This blasted weather here in England makes even the healthiest and fittest of us feel run-down.’ He looked at his window and the water buffeting the glass. ‘I’ve never seen so much rain. Perhaps you should think about it anyway!’

Pünd considered what Dr Benson had said. It had never occurred to him that he might travel again, at least not further than the south-west of England, where his most recent case had taken him. But why not? It was not just a question of feeling the warm sunshine on his skin one last time. There was something else.

He remembered the way the mother and the daughter had looked at each other just before they left. Lady Chalfont had already spoken of urgency, the need for help, but it was Judith Lyttleton who had attracted Pünd’s attention.

From the moment she had heard his name and understood who he was, Judith had wanted to get her mother out of the room and away from him. She had heard Lady Chalfont asking him for help, but she had made no comment herself, as if it had nothing to do with her.

The doctor of ethnology hadn’t just been uncomfortable about the meeting.

She had been afraid.

TWO

Four days had passed since Atticus Pünd had visited the clinic in Harley Street and he was up bright and early in his office in Clerkenwell Square, working through the most recent pages of his book, which James Fraser had typed for him.The Landscape of Criminal Investigationhad become the main priority in his life and, given the slow progress of his illness, he was beginning to think there was a chance he could finish it, even if he might not have the time to correct all his assistant’s typing errors and spelling mistakes. Well, a publisher would see to all that. It was the content that mattered.

He drew a page towards him and began to read. He knew that he had to be careful. If he worked non-stop, after a couple of hours the typescript would give him a headache that would knock him off his feet. He had to measure himself. Thirty minutes of concentration, then either a walk in the fresh air or a cup of tea, perhaps with a piece by Brahms or Schubert on the gramophone. But the section he had just completed was a fascinating one. It was in a chapter called ‘The Killer Tells All’.

He read:

Just as a poker player has what is called a ‘tell’, so the murderer will give himself away by involuntarybehaviour, particularly when he is under pressure. I have named this phenomenon ‘The Tell-All’ and it once manifested itself in two quite different ways during the same investigation. I have already discussed the case of Eileen Marino, a very attractive and intelligent woman with two children and a career in journalism. She had attempted to persuade me that she very much loved her husband, Paul, a successful lawyer, even though, as it later became clear, she had stabbed him to death on their return from the theatre.

I was interviewing her in the sitting room of their Chiswick home and for thirty minutes she had been completely relaxed. During our conversation, her pet dog pushed open the door and came into the room and it was from that moment that I noticed a marked difference in her attitude. She was nervous and ill at ease. This was her first ‘tell’. What was it that had made the difference? For a long time, I assumed that it must be something to do with the animal (which had curled up in front of the fire). Could it be that the dog had been a silent witness to the crime? There was, incidentally, nothing outside the door – not that I could see.

The answer only became apparent to me when I placed myself in her position and realised that, because of the angles, when she looked into the mirror that was in front of her, she was confronted by a full-length portrait of her husband, hanging onthe wall of the corridor outside. When the door was closed, it had been out of sight, but when she was forced to look at him, she had been overcome by guilt and shame.

Mrs Marino later admitted that she and her husband had argued over the family’s savings, most of which she had spent. She still insisted she had had nothing to do with his murder, but it was now that her second ‘tell’ came into play. Why did she repeatedly dab at her eye as if she were on the edge of tears? It was always the left eye, I noticed, as if she had some strange medical condition that allowed her to weep only on one side of her face.

After I had re-examined the photographs taken at the scene of the crime, the solution to this curious behaviour became quickly apparent. When Mrs Marino had stabbed her husband to death, a few drops of his blood had splattered into her left eye, and it was not remorse I had been witnessing but disgust. Recalling what she had done, in the manner of a modern-day Lady Macbeth she was trying to wipe away the memory of her crime.

Pünd turned the page and was about to continue reading when the door opened and James Fraser came in, carrying a tray with a cup of tea, a folded copy ofThe Timesand about half a dozen cards and letters. He had dressed optimistically in cotton trousers, a white shirt and a V-neck sweater, as if the summer had finally arrived. It was truethat no clients ever called at the office now and Pünd had agreed that a jacket and tie were unnecessary, but it still seemed to him that his assistant was taking informality a touch too far.

‘Good morning, Mr Pünd.’ Fraser was as cheerful as ever, as if he was determined not to acknowledge Pünd’s illness. ‘How are you today?’

‘I am well, thank you, James.’

‘I see you have the new pages.’

‘I think they read very well,’ Pünd said. ‘I’m hoping to complete the chapter before the end of the day.’

‘Well, I’ve brought your tea, the newspaper and the morning post.’ Fraser carefully set the tray down on Pünd’s desk. ‘A couple of bills. I’ll sort those out. A note from Detective Inspector Chubb wondering if you’d care for lunch next week.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘That’s what I thought. I’ll send your apologies. An invitation from the Police Orphans Fund asking you to be the guest speaker at their autumn conference. Again, I’ll tell them no. Oh – and you’ve had a letter from France.’ Fraser smiled, pleased with himself. ‘I can tell from the stamp.’

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